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Chapter Text

It had been by accident that Jon found the glade. 

At three and ten, he’d gone hunting with Rob and Theon in the woods outside of Winterfell. He still remembered the crisp scent of the trees they passed through, falling snow muffling the other riders as he left the path, and then there it was; two weirwoods and their branches curled into a shape not unlike a doorway. He had dismounted his horse and stepped closer, feeling a thrill at the prospect of telling the rest of the Starks about this place.  

When he passed under the bough of the intertwined weirwoods, however, all thought of that had halted. Jon shuddered, a chill pressing into his skin as he looked back and found his horse gone. Breath catching in his throat, he searched for his tracks out of the glade, back toward the familiar parts of the forest—but there were none. 

The boy was seized by panic, and he rushed from the weirwoods without ensuring he remembered his way back. Eight years later, Jon still cursed this decision. 

He had escaped the woods, and he had found a keep, but it hadn’t been his home. No one in Riften had ever heard of Winterfell. Not even up in Winterhold; the name similar enough that he’d made the desperate trip north just to make sure people weren’t simply mistaken. 

Over half a decade after that strange morning in the woods, Jon Snow knew better. This place wasn’t in Westeros but somewhere far, far away, a land filled with monsters and magic out of Old Nan’s stories. 

And he had become accustomed to it, he mused one morning, as he stared out over the canyon. Dawn was breaking, scattering fragments of light across the trees. He wasn’t the only one awake; he heard the door creak and then footsteps as they came to a stop behind him.

“I see you’re up here brooding again.”

“I’m not brooding,” Jon said, not turning to greet the visitor. “I’m thinking.”

A snort. “It’s the same thing with you.”

“Is there something you wanted?”

“There’s been an attack in Morthal,” Isran stated. “Bodies drained, people missing. I’d send Durak, but he’s already away on a job.”

Jon exhaled and turned to face the man. “It’s been quiet for a while.”

“It’s never forever,” Isran told him grimly, “you know that.”

“Aye,” Jon said simply. “I do.”

There was silence for a beat. “Why don’t you take the leech with you—”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you,” Jon countered, “It’d be getting her out of your fort.”

The man scowled. “Out with it, Snow. What’s wrong?”

Jon smothered his laughter at the man’s bluntness, though the feeling faded as he thought about how to answer. “I’ve been thinking about home. I was just a boy when I came here. My family—we were all so young then.”

“You never talk about your family.” The man’s voice was tinged with suspicion.

“Because it hurts, not because they’re vampires,” Jon said, exasperated. He was fast remembering why he rarely returned to Fort Dawnguard.

“That’s not what I meant,” Isran said and paused. “Most of us haven’t seen our families in years either."

That was because most of them were dead, Jon knew, though speaking the truth out loud would be tasteless. 

“It’s hard, grieving, but I’ve always found a good fight is enough to knock sense into even the most stubborn hunter,” Isran continued, and the mystery of his words was solved—it was a statement meant to encourage Jon to accept the job. Though the realization irked him, it wasn’t as though Jon would ignore the people of Morthal’s plight out of spite. 

“I’ll head out in a few hours.”

“Good man,” said Isran as he began back toward the staircase. He paused at the door. “Take her with you. I don’t like her skulking about in my keep.”

“Skulking—” Jon bit back the retort. “Fine.” 

For all that the man complained about the vampire, Isran had yet to permanently banish her from Fort Dawnguard since her father’s death. Still, if he wanted Serana gone for a few weeks, Jon would oblige him. 

“The only good thing about this place is how rarely the sun shines.”

Her voice was tinged with distaste, though it only served to make Jon chuckle. “Aye.”

From atop her horse, Serana pulled at her hood, revealing glossy dark hair held in a braid. When they traveled together, most thought them to be travelers hailing from Cyrodiil. 

“I don’t smell them yet,” she said, tilting her nose to the sky. “All the usual things for this swamp; the dead decomposing underwater, wood burning to chase the cold away—there’s a smell of some kind of dark magic, but I believe it’s those necromancers in that fort on the hill again.”

Jon sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Perhaps it isn’t a vampire attack then but those fools taking victims for their experiments.”

“They didn’t seem interested in the recently dead the last time we visited.”

“No, they did not,” Jon muttered, thinking of the skeletons that had risen to fight them. “We’ll ask the Jarl when we arrive what she believes is hunting her city.”

Jarl Idgrod was entertaining a mob when they arrived in Morthal. Jon and Serana dismounted from their horses and left them in the stables to walk toward Highmoon Hall. From the heated voices rising from the crowd, it was clear that something had the people up in arms.

“She cannot ignore this any longer,” a man shouted as his fist pounded the air. “My niece was taken just last night, and my cousin, Jorn, just the week before. Morthal is under attack by a dark power!”

“I thought she had visions,” another man cried. “Why doesn’t she see what is happening to us? Why doesn’t she do something?”

“Jarl Idgord is doing everything she can. Return to your homes. It is dangerous to be out in the dark,” a guard said firmly. 

Jon could tell that only the threat of the coming night had the group disbanding, though the muttering from the people suggested that it was temporary. 

They approached the hall. “I’m here to speak to the Jarl,” Jon called, and when the guard didn’t react he added, “I’m with the Dawnguard. I believe she sent for us.”

The relief on the man’s face was evident as he led them inside. Though it was late, Idgrod still sat upon her throne.

“Ah, yes, I was beginning to wonder when you’d arrive,” she said, leaning forward when they entered her sight. 

“Jarl Idgrod,” Jon said with a tilt of his head. “I understand you have a situation in your city that needs taking care of.”

She didn’t reply immediately, staring at him with an inscrutable expression. “You know we’ve met once, Jon Snow, very briefly.”

“I must admit I do not remember.”

Amusement pulled at her features. “It was during Elenwen’s party years ago. I did not think much of you then, but you were doing your best to remain unnoticeable, weren’t you?”

Jon winced. “I see.” 

“But never mind all that,” the Jarl said, waving her hand away. “I have a problem in Morthal that needs to be settled through the Dawnguard’s expertise.” 

“I was told it is vampires.”

She nodded slowly. “I believed otherwise at first. Did you pass by Hroggar’s house on your ride here? It burned down to nearly nothing a few years ago with his wife and daughter inside. My people believed it to be a curse, but they are a superstitious bunch. At the time I believed it to be nothing more than a cruel accident, or perhaps the selfish actions of a single man, but the events in recent months have changed my mind. That’s why I called for you.”

“I remember the event.” He had passed through Morthal several years before on his way to Solitude. It had been months after it had burned but the inn was still alive with rumors about it. 

“Good,” she said. “Then you might know that Hroggar immediately moved in with a woman named Alva only days after the death of his family. That had gotten people talking, but I had no proof that he had done it, and neither did anyone else. For a time, things were quiet again despite my people’s suspicions, but then the wife of a man said to have run off to the rebellion returned. She was…hungry.” 

“She was a vampire.”

“Indeed,” Idgrod confirmed. “Her husband Thonnir was found dead the next morning. He had been overjoyed at her return but evidently Laelette’s new instincts overtook any love she had left for him. She was still inside the house asleep for the day, so my men slayed her before she could hurt anyone else. I wish I could say that was the end of it, but it wasn’t.”

It was a story he had heard many times while in the Dawnguard. “What happened?” 

“Alva and Hroggar disappeared soon after,” she continued grimly. “It was only in the wake of their disappearance that I realized how bewitched many of this city had become with Alva. Many of my people refused to believe she could have any involvement in the deaths despite mounting evidence and her connection to Laelette’s initial disappearance. Now they are disappearing one by one, Jon Snow. I do not know what the vampires are doing to them, whether they are being turned or abducted to become thralls, and I do not care. I want this situation to end and I want my people safe again. Can you do that?” 

“It shall be done,” Jon said resolutely. He started back toward the doors. “In the meantime, please be careful.”

“I’ll be fine,” the Jarl said, waving him away. “Good hunting, Dragonborn.”

Outside, the brisk air nipped at his skin. They walked a little ways away and were suitably alone when he turned his attention to Serana. “What do you think?”

“I think we have an actual coven on our hands.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” he muttered under his breath. “It doesn’t sound like Alva has been a vampire long enough to be acting on her own, so there must be a master vampire above her.”

“Would you rather it be necromancers?”

“At least with the necromancers we’d know where they are,” Jon said with an attempt at humor. He exhaled, looking up at where he knew the graveyard to rest. “We’ll start up there,” he said, sticking his thumb in its direction. “I doubt there’s any asleep up there but you never know with newly turned.”

“I am aware,” Serana said dryly, though she followed when he began the trek up to the cemetery. Their arrival was marked by the sun beginning to fall behind the trees. Deathbells sprouted up around the stones, though nothing appeared to be recently dug up. 

“I don’t sense anything here. Do you?”

“No,” Serana confirmed, hand trailing over one of the stones. “There is something about this story that feels off to me.”

“In what way?”

“If we agree that Alva was under the direction of a more powerful vampire, what was she supposed to be doing here? She made the people of this city more lax in their suspicion, yes, but burning a house down with her thrall’s family inside? Turning a man’s wife? It’s sloppy work.”

“But the fact that they are able to make people continuously disappear suggests otherwise,” Jon continued. 

She nodded. “Right. If I had to guess they wanted to enthrall this entire town. It’s the only reason Alva would have stayed after Hroggar’s house burnt down. Sometimes covens get silly ideas like that—creating their own paradise. Laelette likely missed her husband but she wasn’t mature enough to resist her desire to feed and Alva was forced to leave before all eyes turned back to her.” 

“Surely they knew that they would be hunted down after attracting this much attention,” said Jon, thinking out loud. “They must feel confident. Do you think—”

“That it’s a vampire lord?” Serana finished, cutting him off. “No. But you know as well as I do that an ancient vampire is a danger in and of itself. With my clan no longer holding dominion over Skyrim some of them have become rather bold.”

Jon sighed. Vampire politics exhausted him. “They must be close enough to Morthal to come and go with their victims in tow.”

“Let’s start hunting then,” Serana decided. “Out toward Solitude it’s mostly flat, so I suspect we should begin our search toward the mountain range.”

Jon agreed, though by the time they reached the opposite side of the city it had grown dark. He unsheathed Dawnbreaker, casting the surrounding area in a bright glow. Before he had been rewarded with the sword, he would have had to use a torch; he had yet to find the time to learn Alteration magic on top of everything else. 

“I really do hate that sword,” Serana said, eyeing it in his grasp. “When you start swinging it around keep it away from me.”

It was a familiar argument. The sword of Meridia didn’t discriminate between his enemies and his allies—Serana burned as all undead did. “You know I will.” 

She muttered something unsavory under her breath and then her eyes gleamed in a way Jon didn’t like. “Who’s Elenwen?”

“Must we do this now?”

“Must we wander around in the dark in complete silence?”

Jon knew the vampire simply wanted to hear another tale of him embarrassing himself. “She’s the ambassador of the Thalmor in Skyrim.”

“And you went to her party?”

“I was—snooping,” Jon decided. “Undercover,” he added because he knew the detail would amuse her. 

Serana clucked her tongue. “I bet that went spectacularly.”

Jon shrugged his shoulders. She wasn’t wrong. That night was the reason encountering Thalmor on the road meant half the time there would be bloodshed. Before he could continue, however, something in the air made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

“Do you feel that?” Serana said, halting beside him.

“Aye,” Jon said, his voice turning grim. He held up the sword to spread the light farther and found a cave upon turning. 

Inside there were massive cobwebs covering the walls. In unspoken agreement, they killed the two frostbite spiders and continued down a narrow tunnel carved out of the stone. Jon stopped before the exit, finding a man sitting at a small table humming a nonsensical tune. Beyond him was a tunnel that would take them further inside to where the vampires no doubt resided. 

It was nearly impossible to tell a loyal man from a thrall. Serana was already behind him, slitting the man’s throat before Jon could blink. The vampire lingered at her kill as Jon passed by her. “When was the last time you fed?” He murmured. 

Serana ripped her gaze away. “It’s fine,” she said shortly. “Let’s keep going.”

Beyond the second tunnel was a series of ramps leading into a cavern with a large table arranged for a macabre meal. There were three vampires already seated and two more up a ramp further in. At the head of the table sat a man with pale features and the kind of presence that made it clear that he was the master vampire. 

Jon and Serana crept back down the ramp until they were far enough away not to be overheard. 

“There were other tunnels leading around,” he whispered as he pointed back to the area with the dead thrall. “Let’s pick off as many as we can. I don’t like our odds fighting him, the other vampires, and their thralls all at once.”

“Agreed.” 

There was a chamber filled with corpses piled upon corpses, stripped of any of their valuables. Many of them were likely Morthal’s missing citizens. Jon slipped a sword through a thrall’s back and then a vampire they found halfway down a tunnel. They continued into another chamber with beds, finding a vampire asleep in one of them, while another sat on a rickety chair cleaning a knife. Neither Jon nor Serana had a way inside without alerting them. The vampire would hear the sound of a bowstring being drawn and Jon wouldn’t be able to kill them with a single arrow—he wasn’t that good of a shot. 

His companion caught his eye and when he nodded she disappeared back down the tunnel. A shuffling sound returned with her as a corpse stumbled to a halt beside him. He held his breath as she silently commanded the corpse to stumble inside the chamber, groaning as if it were in pain. The sound made his fingers clench; he hated necromancy even when she used it. 

The vampire sprung up from her seat immediately, letting out a sound of disgust. “Gods, can’t they practice somewhere else?” She turned away to kick the corpse, sending it tumbling down one of the other tunnels. Jon didn’t hesitate to dive forward, slicing off her head with a single blow—but the sword hit the side of the stone wall with a dull clang. Serana leaped toward the occupied bed but they were already waking, eyes burning yellow. The vampire hissed as Serana’s dagger went cleanly through her heart, cutting the sound short. 

“Look at what she’s wearing.” Unlike the rest of the vampires they had come across, she was wearing something closer to tavern clothes and not the armor most vampires chose to wear. 

“She was young,” Serana stated, cleaning the blood off her knife with one of the furs on the bed. “Perhaps it was Alva.” 

It was a relief if it was; the Jarl would be pleased to hear she was no longer a threat. 

They killed another vampire and two thralls before they looped back to the opening into the main chamber. “Three left,” Jon said grimly. From the looks of things, they were well-fed. “I’ll call the master’s attention to me so you can kill the other two.”

He unsheathed Dawnbreaker, having used another sword to ensure the glow would not alert their enemies. That no longer mattered, and Jon welcomed the power the sword would bring to a fight with the undead. 

Serana was to the table in a flash, lightning flickering from her palms. Before the master vampire could engage in the fight, Jon cut him off with a swing of his blade. The vampire laughed. 

“I see,” he said, his grin flashing blood-coated teeth. “This will be a fight to remember!”

One of the realities of hunting vampires was that often the hunter would eventually become a vampire themselves. One slip was all it took—maybe not immediately, maybe they would even kill the vampire who infected them, but if they had no way of curing themselves quickly, they would wake up a few days later hungry.  

As Jon fought the vampire, it was clear that this was likely what had happened. Most vampires, even the older ones, tended to use blood magic. This man had been a fighter in life and he was even stronger in death. 

“You’ve very good,” the vampire called as Jon narrowly missed his attack. The man was without a blade, but he didn’t need one—a single hit would shatter his bones instantly. 

“You must have considered becoming one of us. You are, after all, allied with a vampire yourself,” the vampire continued and then chuckled. “We would be unstoppable together.”

“Not interested,” Jon said curtly, ducking away from a punch and then sending Dawnbreaker piercing through the vampire’s abdomen. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would slow him down. 

Serana had dispatched one of the other vampires already and was working on the second, but Jon couldn’t afford to be distracted. The older the vampire was, the faster it became and this master vampire was no exception. But Jon had experience, Dawnbreaker, and one other advantage. “Rii-Vaaz-Zol!” 

The shout hit the vampire square in the chest, causing him to stumble. His expression abruptly twisted from one of sly humor to shock. “Dragonbor—!”

Dawnbreaker was already halfway through the vampire’s chest and he fell silent as his body toppled over. 

Across the cavern, Serana let out a dry laugh, her own fight already over. “You know, if he had been just slightly more wounded, you would have your very own newly reanimated corpse.”

Jon merely grunted, rubbing at his neck with his free hand. She wandered toward him, eyes lingering over the uneaten meal still set on the tables. “Usually you use that fire breath shout.”

“It wouldn’t have been enough,” Jon said. He stared down at the vampire’s body. “He was a good fighter.” When he looked up again, her eyes were still caught upon the table. Jon sighed. “Just drink it. Now it’s just going to go to waste.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Serana—” Jon said in exasperation. “I don’t mind. We’ve spent weeks on the road and unless you’ve snuck off to bleed a bandit, you haven’t fed once.”

“How is that any of your business? Are you worried I’ll snap on the trip back and attack you?”

“I’m worried about you.” 

“Don’t be.”

“Fine.”

A moment later, Serana exhaled loudly. “You’re infuriating sometimes.”

“I’d say the same to you,” Jon said flatly. 

She punched him in the arm and Jon fell back in jest, familiar with her silent apologies. “Let’s just get back to Morthal to tell the good Jarl her vampire menace is at its end.”

Jarl Idgrod paid them handsomely. They could have stayed in the inn that night, but a celebration had already begun in the streets upon the announcement. Even after years, Jon still felt uncomfortable hearing them sing his name and Serana preferred to travel at night anyway. They stopped by an inn just before dawn near the road to Whiterun from Hjaalmarch, and Jon caught up on sleep for a few hours before they continued their travels. 

It was unusually quiet when they reached Whiterun’s tundras a few days later. They quickly uncovered the source, however, when a great roar shook the tundra as they were crossing. Jon reached for his sword, but the dragon only circled once before continuing its journey north. 

“I must say it’s nice having them no longer attack us on sight,” Serana remarked as they watched it go. Slowly the tension left Jon’s muscles, and he shook his head. “Not all of them.” With Alduin’s death and Paarthurnax’s involvement, many of the resurrected dragons no longer had a reason to fight, but some enjoyed the hunt too much to stop. Still, it was better than it had been. Jon beckoned his horse forward and they continued down the road in mostly silence. 

“I don’t hate being a vampire.”

“I know,” he said. 

“It can be difficult, though, reconciling what I am with the people I consort with.”

“Do you not want to go on hunts like this?”

“That’s not it and you know better than to voice it,” Serana replied, sending him an annoyed look. “The vampires we hunt are hurting the innocent. They aren’t feeding to survive, they’re killing because they enjoy it. It’s the same as when you get sent to take out a group of bandits.”

Jon exhaled. “That’s rarely as simple as they make it out either. Most of them are just trying to survive in this war-torn land.”

“The point I’m trying to make here, Jon,” continued Serana as though he hadn’t spoken, “is that you don’t need to worry about me. This is just a period of me figuring things out, but I’ll be fine. I’m not going to starve myself out of some moral self-righteousness. That’s more your style.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jon said, ignoring her dig. He looked across the tundra up to where Whiterun stood. It would still be hours before they arrived. “Would you like to stop at Whiterun?”

“No, let’s just get back. My mother sent me a letter telling me to return to the castle when I had time, so I’ll likely be leaving afterward.”

Jon looked at her pointedly. “We’re heading in the opposite direction.”

“I’m putting it off,” she admitted. “You know how it is with her and me.”

“Things are tense?”

“How could they not?”

“But you do wish to still try,” Jon said slowly, and the vampire groaned.

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Serana said accusingly, and then her voice puttered out and she sighed. 

“I can go with you,” Jon offered. “It’s not as though Isran needs me back immediately.”

She shook her head. “No, I need to face her on my own.” She closed her eyes for a moment, as though rallying herself. 

They were on the road that would take her straight to Dragon Bridge and then up into the mountains that would eventually lead to the coast. Jon chuckled.

“I’ll tell Isran that you send your apologies for not returning.”

“It would be your greatest gift to that man,” she replied dryly. Her gaze lingered on him before Serana turned her horse. “I’ll check back in a few weeks. Goodbye, Jon.”

Her departure was abrupt, though at this point it seemed to be a habit. “Goodbye, Serana.” 

The two split apart as his horse plodded up the road toward the city, and hers down the path they had already traveled. Their relationship had always been a series of comings and goings. It was no different now. 

Jon stayed the night at Whiterun before setting out again. Besides the occasional wolf sighting or lone bandit, his journey back to the Rift was uneventful, but he was relieved when he reached the hold. Riften was a corrupt mess of a city, but it had been the first city in Skyrim he had known. It was his mess. 

It was beautiful too, he thought, as his horse moved through the wood. It was nearing the end of Frost Fall, and the changing leaves had turned the forest gold. His attention wandered as he took in the sights. 

They weren’t far from Fort Dawnguard when it began to snow. His horse shook its head in irritation as it began to gather atop its body. “We’ll be out of it soon,” Jon murmured, patting the horse’s neck. “Just a few more hours and…”

But his voice trailed off. They had reached a clearing without him noticing, and there was something familiar about it. 

“Oh,” Jon said quietly, as he took in the two weirwood trees, their leaves a vibrant red. He hadn’t seen one in nearly a decade and he suddenly felt that absence keenly as he took them in. 

His horse snorted wearily and began to shuffle out of the clearing. His heart felt as though it had leaped into his throat.

“Woah,” Jon ordered and then dismounted when his horse came to a halt. He took a step forward, and then another until he stood in front of the intertwined weirwoods. It had been so long, but something like hope was fluttering in his chest. 

He almost crushed it. What would happen if it did work? It had been nearly ten years. He had made a life here—but he couldn’t help it. His legs carried him through the doorway before he could stop himself. 

His horse was gone when he turned back. 

Chapter Text

He did not know his way home. 

The glade grew smaller behind him as Jon searched for any recognizable landmark that would lead him back to Winterfell. His memories of the time he had spent among these woods as a child were hazy, and it had been summer then. Now snow and ice cloaked the landscape in a sea of white.

What awaited him there was a mystery. Rob would be a man grown, likely with a wife and children, and Sansa and Arya possibly married and living elsewhere. Perhaps Bran and Rickon would remain if they had not been fostered, but Jon wondered if they had any memories of him left. They had all been so young when he disappeared and likely thought him dead for years. Jon worried about whether even Lord Stark would recognize him.

He had been content in Skyrim. Perhaps he should have stayed. 

His jaw clenched at the thought; he was being unfair to them. It was also too late for such ideas, Jon had walked through that doorway of his own free will. It was more than that—he had ridden through the Rift on that same path many times over and had never found the glade. That it appeared before him now must have meant it was time for him to return home. 

Slowly the trees began to thin. Far in the distance, a large keep stood tall against the landscape. The sight caused his heart to ache. Nearly a decade ago Jon had stumbled out of an unfamiliar wood only to find the city of Riften. Everything he had known then had suddenly meant nothing. He had grown into a man and learned to accept his role there, but he was finally going home.

It took time to reach Winterfell’s gates. As he drew closer, his faint memories of the castle stood in contrast to what lay before him. Of course it would have changed, Jon hastened to tell himself, but he couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease. Something was different about it—and then it hit him. The banners flying from the ramparts were not of wolves but of flayed men. 

Before he could truly process the implications, a voice called out from above him. “What’s your business here?”

“I—” Jon’s thoughts spun for something believable and came up empty. “I’ve come to—help.” He cringed at his response; it was a terrible lie. 

Fortunately, the man didn’t seem to notice as he snickered, “Aye, but it’s too late for that lad. They’ve already gone off to crush Stannis Baratheon's army. Oi—come here, Prestan, look at this. He says he wants to help the war efforts.”

Another man came to look down at him from the ramparts. “And how many have you brought to support our lord—just you?” The two laughed.

“Oh come now, if the lad wants to fight I say we let him in. I’m sure there’s a use for him somewhere, cleaning out the kennels mayhap?”

It set them off again, as though the suggestion was uproariously funny. “You do have a northern look about you,” the other man added, his voice thoughtful. “What’s your name?”

“Jaremy Snow,” Jon said tightly. 

“I bet you came here seeking glory, bastard,” the man said, mirth still clear in his voice. “Ah well, Ramsay will at least find you entertaining when he returns. Open the gates!” 

The gates opened excruciatingly slow, as though they were playing with him. When Jon stepped inside, a man immediately cut him off from moving any further. “We’re in the middle of a war, so one wrong move, and I’ll have your head.”

There was no one familiar left in the keep; none of the servant's faces or the men of arms stood out as he passed by them. Banners of flayed men were everywhere. Parts of the castle were in ruins or in the process of being repaired. It was like a parody of the home he’d find in a nightmare. 

“Ever been to Winterfell, bastard?”

“No,” Jon replied, answering only because the man would expect one. “It’s large.”

He chuckled. “Aye. I’d never been in such a size of a keep before coming here. You know how to use those swords strapped to your back?”

“A little.”

“A little he says,” the man mocked, shaking his head. “You should be thankful you arrived late then. Any earlier and you would have been out of those gates with the rest of the men. We may outnumber Baratheon’s army, but that doesn’t mean we’d all make it back. Count yourself lucky.”

Jon vaguely remembered that a Baratheon had sat on the throne so it likely meant it was one of his brothers. Bolton’s man seemed confident in him losing, but why would the brother of the king fight at a disadvantage to take back Winterfell? Jon didn’t have nearly enough information to understand what had happened, but he needed to find out quickly. The majority of the men were away fighting, and it left him with a narrow opportunity while they were gone.  

Jon didn’t know where the man was bringing him but it didn’t matter. Down a narrow path with an absence of any onlookers, he grabbed the man by his hair and rammed him into the side of the stone wall, knocking him unconscious—or dead. Hurriedly he shucked off the outer layer of furs he had been wearing for travel and replaced them with the leather armor the guard was wearing. He needed to get inside the castle without getting caught. He blended in now, but he was still an unfamiliar face during wartime and eventually someone would notice the guard missing. He wouldn’t be able to stick around for long. 

Jon reached the end of the alley when someone ducked inside abruptly, slamming into his shoulder. They were cloaked in black with a hood hiding their face, making their presence just as dubious, but Jon couldn’t leave loose ends. He managed to catch them by their wrist as they darted past him and quickly realized they must have been a woman or child judging by the width. Then the figure turned and their hood rose up for a moment, allowing Jon to catch a glimpse of their face. He dropped his hand as though he had been burned. “Sansa.”

For a moment, Jon thought he had made a mistake. The woman had already made a motion to leave, but she stopped at the sound of his voice. She turned back toward him slowly. Her expression, a kind of brittle determination, transformed as though she had seen a ghost. “You? It can’t be. Not now.”

Jon had a hundred questions threatening to burst from his lips and not enough time. “What happened here? Where’s—where is everyone?” 

She stared at him as though not quite believing he was there. Then her features spasmed, and something close to fury settled there instead. “Where is everyone? I don’t remember you being so cruel as to make such jokes, but if you’re here that means you’re with Ramsay. You came crawling back when you heard Winterfell had been taken, is that it?”

“No,” Jon said emphatically, his voice shaken. “Gods no. I’ve just—Sansa, I’ve been gone. I don’t know what’s happening here, I don’t know who Ramsay is. Why are the Bolton’s holding Winterfell?”

“Stop lying,” she said coldly, her fingers curled into fists. “You must know, there’s not a place in Westeros—”

“I wasn’t in Westeros,” Jon interrupted, and she fell silent. “I know this sounds impossible to believe, but I really don’t know anything. Where is everyone, please.”

But in his heart, he already knew before she had even spoken the words. “They’re dead. Everyone’s dead.”

His breath escaped him. His legs felt numb, and he barely managed to resist sinking to the ground. He looked down at his gloves, splattered with flecks of old blood from his ride through the Rift, and felt ill. It couldn’t be.  

“Oh,” Sansa said very quietly. “You really are here. And you—you didn’t know.”

“I should have,” Jon said numbly. “I should have been here, I should have—”

He went silent as her fingers suddenly dug into his arm, quieting him. “It would have changed nothing,” she said urgently, “but if you still care about me at all, help me escape. This is my only chance and then—” She bit off her words, shaking her head. “I’d rather die than continue on this way.”

“But this is…” Your home, he didn’t say, because he knew better than to think it was anymore. “What was your plan for getting out?”

Sansa sucked in a breath. “I don’t know,” she said plaintively. “But this is my best chance with most of the men away. Once Ramsay’s back, there won’t be anywhere to go.”

The rest of his family was dead, but Sansa was standing in front of him, alive, and she needed help. It was the only thing he would allow himself to think about. 

He nodded once. “Which of the gates is the least defended?”

“The hunter’s gate, near the kennels.” She was still looking at him as though he were a trick of light.

“We need a distraction,” Jon decided. They wouldn’t have time to go to the stables, and it would only attract attention. They would have to go on foot. “Let’s go.”

She hesitated, then pulled the hood back over to cover her face and started back down the alley, Jon following after her. They kept their heads down as they passed through the courtyard, keeping to its edges. He was glad now that Winterfell was as empty as he had ever seen it, it made it possible for them to reach the other side of the keep unspotted. 

He stopped in front of the kennels and Sansa slowed to a stop ahead of him. She didn’t come any closer. “What are you doing?”

“We need a distraction.”

“No,” she said firmly, an undercurrent of fear running through her voice. “They only listen to Ramsay.” 

“I have a plan,” Jon said and headed inside. It was dark and there was a distinct metallic smell like something had bled recently. He heard the dogs first, a warning growl off to his left in one of the locked cells. They watched him, not as the hounds he remembered from his youth, but as the wolves did in Skyrim.  

“Jon,” Sansa’s voice called from the entrance. “If you let them out they’ll kill you.”

“I know,” Jon said grimly. He took a few steps back toward the light, ensuring he would have maximum coverage. “I’m going to let the dogs out but they won’t attack you. We’ll need to hide while they create a distraction, and then we’ll head for the gate.” There wasn’t a reply, but Jon wasn’t surprised by it. They did not know each other well enough anymore for her to trust in his words—and his words, had they not come from experience, would make him sound like a fool. 

He took a deep breath. He could feel the power charged in his throat but there was no way of knowing if it would truly work until he tried it. “Raan-Mir-Tah.”

He didn’t use the shout to make animals obey him often, but there had rarely been a need. Now, as the shout hit the kennel and the dogs looked up, no longer staring at him as though he were a potential meal, he was glad he had trekked up that mountain for the final word. 

He exited the kennels with them in tow. Sansa was nowhere in sight, but he knew she would likely be close. 

“Why would you shout like that when anyone could hear?” A voice whispered from above him, and Jon found Sansa staring down at him from the second floor. “Why are they…they are listening to you. How are you doing that?” Again, a flicker of mistrust passed over her features. 

“It’s alright, but we need to go now,” Jon said urgently. “It won’t last forever.”

Her eyes flickered over the dogs and she recoiled. “Fine,” she bit out as she started toward the stairs. “What are you planning?”

“The dogs will lure away some of the guards.” Their way there was made in silence, though he could feel her eyes on his back. He wondered if this all didn’t feel quite real to her the same way it did for him. Even in his darkest moments in Skyrim, he had never imagined the Starks to be dead.

Just before reaching the hunting gate, Jon ordered the dogs away. They took off barking madly and shouting shortly followed. They had no time to waste; he reached the ramparts over the gate and cut down the two men left guarding it. He went for the mechanism to lift the gate next but never made it. There was a woman holding Sansa still with a noticed arrow aimed at her chest. Behind her was a cowering man dressed in rags. He didn’t seem to have a weapon, but the threat of the arrow was enough. Jon couldn’t shout without the risk of hitting Sansa. If he could get close enough, though, he had a decent chance at disarming her. He took a step outside and the woman’s gaze found him at once. 

“Whose this?” She said, her voice mocking. “Some poor boy you tricked into helping you? Yet another life you’ve condemned."

Behind her, the man in rags raised his head, but Jon was unable to see his face, hidden under a mat of stringy hair. He whispered something, and the woman’s eyes moved briefly to her servant before returning to rest on him. 

“I won’t go back,” Sansa said, and while her voice was quiet, it was unyielding. Jon continued to move carefully toward them. “I’d rather die here.”

“We don’t need all of you, Sansa, but we do need you,” the woman retorted, her lip curling. The bow moved to aim toward her legs. It was clear she loathed his half-sister, but Jon was so close. He just needed a few more seconds—

Several things happened at once. The man behind the woman suddenly lunged forward, sending the woman flying to the ground as the arrow shot harmlessly into the mud. Sansa had jolted backward in shock, and Jon reached her in time to keep her upright, and then past her, knocking the woman’s head into the ground with the blunt end of his sword. Whether she was dead or unconscious, Jon didn’t know, and he didn’t much care to know either. 

“Let’s go,” he said urgently, but Sansa’s eyes lingered on the man, and she didn’t move.

“Is that really you, Jon?” A voice trembled, and it took him a moment to realize who it came from. Jon turned back toward the mystery figure.  

“Who are you?” 

“It’s Theon,” Sansa interrupted, her voice tight. “We don’t have time to explain. Come with us, Theon. Ramsay will kill you when he finds her like this.”

Theon, if Jon could believe it, shook his head rapidly. “He’ll kill me if I leave.”

“He’ll kill you if you stay,” she said, and there was something distressing in her voice that had Jon’s fists curling. “Ramsay doesn’t have the right, not yet, not here. He doesn’t get this.”

The man choked and then headed toward where the lifting mechanism was. “I’ll open the gates. I—I’ll do this for you.”

Jon had never met Ramsay, but he was already cultivating an extreme hatred for the man. Sansa was right that they had no time left, but he had so many questions. Jon exhaled and followed after them, dragging the woman’s body out of the open and leaving it behind a stairwell.  

The gate didn’t rise fast enough. Jon returned to the pulley himself and together they brought the gate up enough so that they could slip underneath it. Jon ordered Theon to go first with the ruse of checking if anyone was waiting for them on the other side, and when he called that it was clear, Sansa went next. Jon went last, and as he pulled himself under the gate, he heard a man shout behind him. They were truly out of time now. 

“Go!” Jon yelled, leaping to his feet, and the other two didn’t need any convincing. The wolfswood lay before them, and while reaching it wouldn’t make them safe, it would be a start. 

The sound of the gate being pulled open soon reached his ears, but they had nearly reached the woods. It wouldn’t be enough, Jon had known that, but looking back and finding riders already crossing the space between the keep and the woods sent a tremor down his spine. This wouldn’t be enough. He wasn’t enough. 

“Just a little further!” He urged the other two forward, but he could see the resignation on Sansa’s face. 

The worst was yet to come; just as they reached the first trees, he found the men’s shouting had alerted others, and now there was a trickle of new riders coming over the plains, with what must have been the head of the Bolton’s army returning from battle. 

“We won’t escape,” Sansa gasped, a rasp with every breath. “There’s no place to go.”

They needed horses, but that was out of the question. They needed time, but they were out of that too. What they needed, Jon thought grimly, was a distraction even an army couldn’t ignore. He opened his mouth and shouted with everything he had. ”Dur-Neh-Viir!”

For a moment nothing happened. Then there was a crack, like the foundations of a great house splitting under its weight. In front of the wolfswood something crawled out of a shadow that stretched across the snow-covered land, a massive, rotting head with horns, two torn wings following, a pock-marked body, and then a tail that narrowly missed them when it swung over their heads as the dragon gained his footing.

It felt like the world had gone silent. Jon found his voice again, but it was ragged and out of breath. He pointed toward the riders. “I need you to keep them occupied.”

The dragon bowed his head. “As you wish, Qahnaarin.” With a beat of his wings, Durnehviir rose into the air and reached the incoming riders in mere seconds. The sound of screaming horses and men followed.

Jon turned back, finding Theon shivering next to Sansa as she stared at him with something unfathomable. “Is that where you’ve been?” She said, her voice unsteady. “You’re a Targaryen.”

It took him a moment to remember who the Targaryens even were, dead before their time. “No,” said Jon, not knowing where to begin explaining what dragonborn meant. “It doesn’t matter. We need to keep going.”

Sansa didn’t move. “Of course it matters. It spoke. It came from nowhere. You did something earlier to the dogs too—are you—are you really who you say you are?”

“Yes,” he said steadily.

She took a deep breath, shutting her eyes tight for a moment. When she opened them again, there was something settled there. “We’re in the right direction to head for Bear Island. They wouldn’t send us away.” 

They still needed horses. Deeper into the forest, however, there was less of a chance of being found immediately, and that had to be their priority. Theon stumbled behind them, sometimes mumbling under his breath, and the sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be returning home, not fleeing it. 

Night was falling. Jon knew his companions wouldn’t be able to keep running forever. They would need to make camp and hope that the chaos of Durnehviir’s presence would keep the Boltons occupied long enough. 

They stopped when Sansa’s shivering became unbearable to watch. Jon risked a fire. It was difficult to ignore Theon’s whimpering as they huddled together. He didn’t exactly remember the Stark’s ward positively, but he never would have wished for this. He was a different man from the boy he had left behind, and that was nothing to say of Sansa. 

“How did this happen? What happened?”

Neither of them responded immediately. It was Sansa who spoke first. “There was war. They killed Father. They betrayed guest rights and killed Mother and Rob. Sewed his direwolf’s head to his own—paraded his body through the streets—” Her voice cracked. 

“Who did this? The Boltons?”

“The Lannisters started the war when they executed Father. The Freys—they were on our side, but Rob was so stupid, and he made them look like fools. They killed him and Mother.”

“Arya—”

“No one knows!” Sansa cried. “But of course you ask about her—she was your favorite.”

“Sansa,” Theon mumbled, then shrunk when she turned on him.

“Bran and Rickon are missing too,” Sansa continued bitterly, arms wrapping around herself as she looked into the flames. “Where have you been? Why weren’t you here? We thought you died. We mourned you.”

It was an impossible question, one he could hardly answer even if her previous words weren’t already ringing in his head. “I was brought somewhere else. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You were kidnapped?”

“In a matter of speaking.”

Sansa let out a raspy laugh. “You’re a terrible liar, Jon, and I’ve spent years around the best. Don’t lie to me. Don’t you dare, not about this.”

Jon was silent. “Do you still believe in the Seven?”

Sansa exhaled. “What does it matter?”

“The Northern Gods then,” he persisted. “The Old Gods. Do you believe in them?”

“I don’t know.”

“And Theon,” Jon said, turning to the man across the flames. “Do you believe in the Drowned God?”

The man didn’t answer, cringing further into his rags. 

“What’s the point of this?” Sansa asked bitterly. “Don’t tell me you had some crisis of faith—”

Jon shook his head. “There are many pantheons, some none of us have ever even heard of. Gods that can control things beyond our understanding, gods that can create doors between places that do not touch.”

She looked up then, eyes finding him warily. “I don’t understand what that means.”

He took a deep breath. “It means that eight years ago when I rode out with—Rob, and you, Theon, I found two weirwoods that had grown in the shape of a door. I didn’t think anything of it when I walked through them, but on the other side I found myself somewhere else.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sansa answered immediately. Something dark crossed over her features. “Why lie about something like that?”

Theon had lifted his head. “He’s got a dragon,” he whispered. 

Sansa’s eyes went cold. “Are you working with Daenerys Targaryen?”

“I have no idea who that is,” Jon said. It was understandable that they didn’t believe him. His story sounded impossible. 

“You must be lying—she’s the last of the Targaryens. They say she’ll soon sail to Westeros to retake the throne. Is that why you’re here? Did she send you here to take back Winterfell for her?”

“Of course not—”

“Then what?” Sansa shouted. “Why return?”

Jon found himself yelling too. “I wanted to see all of you again—I thought I never would!”

She laughed, a horrible, rattling thing. “Why didn’t you come sooner then? You could have stopped it from happening. You could have saved everyone. You could have saved me!”

Overhead, the trees shook violently, and a great beating of wings temporarily blotted out the moon. An enormous head with glowing pale eyes followed. “Qahnaarin,” the dragon rumbled as he came to land before them. “It is done. I sent the army scattering in all directions but this snow-covered forest.”

Jon took a moment to calm himself. He released a breath slowly, clouding in the cold. “Thank you, Durnehviir. It’s been many hours since I summoned you, however. How is it that you remain here?”

The dragon made a rumbling noise like a laugh. “The Ideal Masters have no power here. The Lah—the magicka in this world is unfamiliar, but it sustains me nonetheless.”

“It really speaks,” Sansa whispered. Jon turned to find her face had gone white. “I don’t understand.”

The undead dragon cocked his head, as though only having noticed her. Sansa fell back into the snow, her eyes wide. 

“I found myself in another place entirely,” Jon told her steadily, taking her shock as a chance. “A place where no one had ever heard of Winterfell or King’s Landing or the Targaryens. It was a place where magic hadn’t yet died.” Carefully he raised his hand. Her eyes followed, and with some effort, he willed for the spell. His hand abruptly caught flame, but it did not burn. 

It took her a moment to gather herself. Sansa did not look afraid. “You really didn’t know? About any of it?”

“I didn’t,” Jon said, his voice cracking. They were truly the only ones left of their family. An emptiness was beginning to grow where he had once hoped to find them happy and alive. “I would have done anything to return if I had.”

Sansa raised her head toward Durnehviir again. A fierceness took to her features. 

“This changes everything,” she said. 

Chapter Text

Jon wasn’t good with politics. He didn’t have the patience to play the game. 

Sansa took to it like a duck to water. It scared him a little, watching her smooth over the ruffled feathers that arriving with a dragon had created. He had contemplated whether to send Durnehviir away before they reached Bear Island, but Sansa had disagreed. “Let them see,” she had told him. “This is how we’ll win, Jon.”

Win what, Jon had wondered, though he quickly realized he hadn’t truly wanted her answer. When people whispered about him in the keep, it was not the name Snow that they gossiped about but Targaryen. Discouraging the rumors was impossible. Sansa was building him into another man for a purpose. 

Durnehviir was changing too. Gone was the raggedness of his wings and the rotting of his flesh. The dragon was growing in strength, feeding heavily on the game he found in the forests surrounding the Mormont’s seat. 

“I like this world you summoned me to,” he told Jon one morning. “I like this bitter cold. I can feel it when I take to the air. Ful nii los, you have resurrected me in full, an impossible boon. I am loyal to you now until the day you draw your last breath, Thuri.”

The dragon’s loyalty was as unsettling as Sansa’s ambitions. They were leaving soon to go south again to renew old house loyalties. Jon had become Sansa’s boon. Durnehviir breathed not fire, but a cold flame. He was the North’s dragon, an ice dragon of legend. She was as good at spinning tales as anyone in the Blue Palace, a place he had eluded at every opportunity. She was also his sister. He clung to that even when everything else about her confounded him. 

Theon kept his distance, even more so when Jon learned of what he had done during the war. His loyalty to Sansa kept him alive, but Jon didn’t want to see the man any more than he had to. It may not have been Bran or Rickon, but they had still been boys, and he had killed them. Jon had executed men in Skyrim for less. 

When they left Bear Island, some of the Mormonts followed. It was the same as they went further south. Sansa whipped the northern houses into a frenzy, parading Durnehviir out when it would have the most impact. The dragon seemed to find it amusing. Jon didn’t have quite the same reaction. “We need them,” Sansa told him fiercely when he expressed this one night. “Not just for taking back Winterfell, but afterward. Winter is coming and we need their loyalty. We won’t survive alone.”

“I know.” A fire crackled in the hearth in front of them. “They may not have been loyal to the Boltons but they stood there and did nothing—”

“We can have our retribution later,” Sansa interrupted bitterly, but she didn’t refute his words. “I need to tell you something.”

“Tell me,” Jon said, sensing a strange discomfort in her expression. 

“The current lord of the Vale,” she said and then halted.

“Who is he?” 

Sansa exhaled. “I thought I could trust him. He was…friends, he told me, with my mother. But that wasn’t quite true. He had been in love with her since they were young. He loves power more.” She let out a mirthless laugh. “I never told you what King’s Landing was like, did I? I thought it would be so wonderful. I would wear pretty dresses, meet all kinds of charming people, and marry the prince.”

Jon reached far back into his memory. “Joffery Baratheon,” he recalled.

Sansa nodded tightly. “He liked causing pain. After he had Father executed I was an easy target, though not the only one. I’m glad he died the way he did, but not what came after. I thought I could trust Littlefinger. He told me he was going to help me get home, and then he sold me to Ramsay.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jon told her. “I promise you that he will face justice.”

“He’s a threat.” Sansa took a deep breath. “He knew what Ramsay was like and he sent me off with a smile. He is no friend to our family, and he will come crawling back once we’ve retaken Winterfell. I need you to understand that—but I also want you to leave him to me.”

He held her gaze for a moment before nodding. The Starks had far fewer friends than when he had left. More than once he cursed whatever power had sent him to that grove and out of most of his family’s lives forever. As a child he had wondered how the gods could be so cruel. After meeting some of the Daedric Princes, the purpose was often as simple as mere entertainment. He would never get that time back. 

Sansa spoke again, her voice softer this time. “Tell me a story about Skyrim. Something nice.”

He looked up at her, away from the fire. “Let me think,” he said. “There’s this lake where I stayed nearby for a while, Lake Ilinalta…”

Jon had left Riften as soon as he had the coin to buy passage north. He had found the Northern lands of Skyrim to be as unfamiliar as the Rift had been, and harsher still to survive alone at three and ten. Jon fell in with the Vigil of Stendarr afterward, but destiny caught up with him eventually. In a town a half day’s ride from the border to Cyrodill, Alduin appeared. The dragon had razed it to ashes during the would-be execution of the Stormcloak’s leader, sparring his life. That had sparked rumors, but Jon had paid little attention to gossip then. When he had looked at Alduin then, and the dragon had looked back, something in him had stirred. Something that made his blood boil. Dragonborn.

Dragons meant something very different in Westeros. The only ones who had a connection to them were those with bloodlines hailing from Valyrian dragon riders. Durnehviir breathed ice, but the rumors persisted as they traveled closer to Winterfell. His parentage was discussed in whispers. Sansa didn’t discourage it. The rumors cemented her position in the north as the last Stark and left his in question. 

“Are you trying to get me killed?” He asked her, days before they were set to arrive. It was only barely in jest. “You seem so certain that Daenerys Targaryen will land in Westeros eventually. I doubt she’d be happy to hear about some Northern bastard with a dragon.”

“Of course not,” said Sansa. “Cersei is unlikely to last long against the Dragon Queen, but once that’s over there’s the matter of whether Daenerys will rule successfully, and for how long. They say that all Targaryens go mad eventually.” 

He was glad she wasn’t plotting his murder, but the alternative wasn’t much better. “I’m not going to be king,” he said flatly. “I’m never going to be king, and I refuse even if it’s beneficial for the North.”

Sansa merely hummed before her eyes found his. He found a hardness there. “She would force us to bend a knee. Burn us if we refuse.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s what she’s done in the years you’ve been away.” 

Jon sighed. 

“The alternative,” Sansa said matter-of-fact, “is that she does believe you have Targaryen blood, and she is no longer the last. I bet it's lonely. She might even accept a bastard for a half-brother or cousin, or whatever it is that people are saying you are these days.” Jon couldn’t help but laugh. It was completely absurd, his amusement at the thought only dampened by their proximity to the Boltons.

They received the raven the day after. 

“It could be a trap—it is a trap,” Sansa said calmly, but her expression betrayed her. “Ramsay knows he’s going to lose. He’s doing this to try to weaken us—it may even not be Rickon.”

But it likely was; Jon could see it in her eyes that she believed their brother lived. “But if it is—if that’s Ramsay’s plan he’ll kill Rickon in front of us as soon as we get close.”

Sansa swallowed. “It’s a game to him, Jon. There’s no winning when all he wants is to inflict pain. We cannot negotiate for our win or our brother. He’d rather die than accept it.”

“I’ll go alone then. I’ll get him out of there before the fighting begins.”

Sansa’s expression twisted. “That’s ridiculous. You’d just get yourself killed.”

“I wouldn’t,” Jon said. “I’ve done similar before—”

Sansa scoffed. “He knows we have a dragon.”

“Durnehviir will not be coming,” Jon told her. “I’ll ride out on horseback as close as I can make it—”

“How will you get through the gates? How will you find him before Ramsay cuts his throat?”

Jon paused, which gave her another chance to speak. “Don’t do this. I can’t lose you again,” she said and then swallowed. “You’re all that I have left.” 

“Rickon—”

“It may not be Rickon, don’t you see?” Sansa persisted. “He knows we have a dragon and so he knows his days are numbered. Pretending to have our brother is his only chance.”

“And you’re right, we’ve lost everyone else,” said Jon. “I won’t ignore the possibility that he’s alive. I can’t do that, Sansa.”

“I—” Sansa sagged in her seat. Her voice turned ragged. “I can’t do it either.”

Theon found them like that, shuffling inside from where he had been guarding the door. “I’ll go,” he told them. “I—I’ll rescue him. Rickon. It’s all my fault anyway.”

“No,” Sansa said swiftly. “He’ll kill you. Worse than that, Theon.”

“It’s what I deserve,” he mumbled. 

“It’s not,” said Jon steadily. “You might not come back.” 

Theon looked up at his words, a clearness taking to his voice. “It's the only way. Ramsay would never believe I would have the courage to go against him alone—or maybe he would, but it won’t matter. He’ll let me in.” He turned toward Sansa again. “I’ll go.”

Her expression twisted as though in knots. “He’ll hurt you again.”

“I know.”

She stilled at his words, and then, eyes squeezed shut, she nodded. “You’ll have to be careful.”

They planned long into the night. When it had been constructed in full, Theon bowed his head and left them. He had a long ride in the night ahead of him. Jon had given him several small potion vials that he hoped would help keep both him and Rickon alive until they reached them. He had precious few left, but Jon would have given all of them up if he thought it would make a difference.  Sansa shifted in her seat once he was gone, taking an unsteady breath. “I know you don’t understand why I’ve forgiven him,” she began hollowly. “He’s a shell of who he once was. He only got worse after you disappeared. Rob—they both got up to all kinds of trouble, but Ramsay carved away everything of who Theon had been and replaced it with Reek. It was horrible. I thought if Ramsay could do that to Theon, what could he do to—” Her words came to a halt. 

Jon looked into the flames. “There’s a kind of magic in Skyrim called enthralling. Depending on the caster it could be as though the victim was wiped clean of their own desires and loyalties, abandoning their entire lives to serve them. Or it could be as innocuous as a slow change of heart. People around you might not even notice.” 

“That’s awful.”

“Aye, but the worst of it happens afterward; when you kill the caster the victim wakes up as though out of a nightmare except it’s their life, it was real. The horrible things they had done under the spell still happened. They have all their memories, they can feel the blood on their hands—” Jon looked away. “I think Theon feels like he has to do this.”

“He shouldn’t have to,” Sansa said quietly. After a long moment, having gone still, she added, “Ramsay didn’t need magic.”

Jon exhaled. “I know.”

Later, when he had settled into his quarters for the night, Jon thought of Serana. She would’ve returned to the Dawnguard by now and heard Jon had never returned. He’d become yet another person to grieve in her long eternal life. He hated it. He hated that he was making another set of people grieve him. Jon had never gotten to say goodbye the first time and then had lost the chance to ever see his family again. He couldn’t bear to do it a second time. 

Jon found Durnehviir buried under several feet of snow. The dragon shook his large head when Jon came to a stop in front of him, clumps of snow large enough to bury him sliding off his scales. 

“What ails you, Thuri?”  

“I don’t wish to ask this of you, but I feel that I must. Is it possible for you to return to the Soul Cairn?”

The dragon held his gaze for a moment. “It is.”

Relief shot through him. “I would call you back after. I swear it, but I need you to give a message to Valerica. Relay to her that I’m alive, and to tell Serana that I went back home. That I…I miss her—no don’t tell her that. Say that I’m glad we were able to travel together. That I will cherish those memories to the end of my mortal life.”

“Mortals and their love.” 

“It’s not like that,” said Jon hurriedly. “Not between us. There’s just no point in prolonging the pain of our parting.”

“Ridiculous,” the dragon said, but the rest of his body rose through the compact snow. “I shall go and return upon your promise.”

“I’ll summon you again in a few hours,” he reaffirmed. 

Watching Durnehviir fade after appearing solid for so long unnerved him. He returned to the keep so he did not freeze in the cold, and waited as the moon disappeared behind snow clouds. It reminded him of the nights he saw in his dreams sometimes—the wolf dreams, as he had likened them. The first time it had happened Jon had been afraid he’d become a werewolf. When he had told Serana the story she had laughed, but what else was he supposed to think? He had been young and hadn’t dared to tell anyone about it for the risk of them turning against him. Werewolves didn’t look or move like true wolves, however, and that realization had soothed his worries eventually. He still had them sometimes. Wolves traveled in packs but he was always alone, hunting in unfamiliar woods. They always felt so real.

It was snowing harder when Jon judged that enough time had passed. He ventured out into the night for a second time, far enough away so that his shout wouldn’t wake anyone. 

“It is done,” the dragon told him upon his return. “She was quite displeased to see me return after I was gone so long.”

Jon cracked a smile. “I suppose she would be. You were her jailor.” He hesitated. “And…the Ideal Masters?”

“They deal in millennia,” he answered solemnly. “My departure likely felt like little time at all to them.”

It was a relief to hear. “I’m glad you returned unharmed.”

The dragon dipped his head. “And I am glad you called me to this place. Returning there was a terrible reminder of what I’d lose otherwise.” 

Jon was quiet as he stared out across the pale landscape. “I have another favor to ask of you.”

“Ask.”

He glanced toward the dragon. “I believe in the coming days I’ll need a ride.”

Durnehviir made a sound almost like a laugh. “If that is what you wish, Thuri. It must be hard to be a dragon without wings.”

Jon thought of that first ride atop Odahviing to where he thought would be the end of everything. The violent currents of wind had stung his eyes and left him shivering. Below them, the towns and cities that had become so familiar had grown smaller until they were little more than specks in the landscape. Jon should have been afraid then and yet that was not what he remembered. “I think you’re right,” he replied solemnly.  

The people of the North knew that Durnehviir breathed cold. They did not know that he could do far more than that. 

When they arrived at Winterfell, Ramsay showed no sign of leaving the keep. They had expected it after Durnehviir had killed so many of his men when Jon had first summoned him. As Jon brought Durnehviir closer, he noticed something dark pinned against the stone. My gift will be waiting for you, the letter had said. He and Sansa had planned for if Theon failed, and proof of it lay before him. A child’s corpse was hanging from the wall. It could be a trick. Another dead boy—Rickon had survived that way once before. But then, closer to the keep, Jon could make out another corpse hanging beside him, and a sick feeling grew in his gut. It was a large wolf, with fur matted and stained with blood, like one from the Stark’s sigil.

He could not let his anger control him. It was madness atop a dragon that would listen to the ugliest of orders. 

It had to be his brother. 

Jon swallowed down his rage, but more rose in its place. He bared his teeth, letting out a shout that was more of a howl, and urged Durnehviir downward. The dragon dropped Jon and the few others just inside the main gates and took to the air again as a distraction, summoning the dead from the Soul Cairn. Once they got the gates open it was over. 

Jon found Ramsay inside along with a group of men. The man had laughed, asking what he would do without his dragon—about whether he had liked his gift. Jon slowed time with a shout. He cut through Ramsay's men like butter, and gutted the man himself before he had time to blink. 

He had been told once that as Dragonborn he was a being above the rest of men. Like powerful mages, he could be an army onto himself. Taking a side in politics could mean picking a winner. It was why he had hidden away with the Dawnguard for so long; it was simple there. He hunted monsters that hunted men, though even that became complicated eventually. And it was still not enough. Jon stood in the corridor, looking at the man who had killed his youngest brother, and felt utterly useless.  

He walked slowly back to the gates. The men he had fought with watched him with hesitation. Many of the men who fought for Ramsay fought because they were afraid of him, but now they feared the dragon more and the rising dead with their glowing, empty eyes. Jon could hardly stand to look at any of them. When Sansa arrived a few hours later, he did not know what to tell her. They walked in silence through the place that had once been both their homes. 

“Did you hear of it?” He asked when he could bear it no longer.

“Have you found Theon?”

“Not yet.”

“If he had killed Theon, he would have hung his corpse there too,” Sansa stated dispassionately, but Jon could see her hands were trembling. “Ramsay ruined that poor boy’s face. Maybe it was simply to be cruel—or he was doing it to hide the fact that it is not our brother.”

“Sansa—”

“I wish to pay my respects,” she said, and they resumed their silence down to the crypts. They stopped in front of the statues, the closest being that of Brandon and Lyanna Stark. He had forgotten how imposing they could appear in the dark. As a child, he’d used to have nightmares about getting lost inside the crypt, the dead reaching for him out of the dark corners. Now, the sight only brought a tightness to his throat. 

“We must have one commissioned for Father. And Rob,” Sansa said quietly. “After the Boltons took Winterfell, they were hardly going to honor them. It’s our duty now.”

He forced his eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. The moment that raven came I knew. Ramsay would never—” She stopped. There was a noise coming from far within the crypt, someone moving in the dark. Jon unsheathed his sword, holding it out in front of them.

“Sansa?” The voice was a ragged croak, but it was audible all the same. 

“Theon?” Sansa breathed, and then before he could even think to stop her, she was running into the dark. Jon swore and ran after her, the torch he was holding threatening to go out.

She wasn’t alone when he caught up. Theon looked terrible; he was covered in gashes and cuts that appeared to be done by a knife. And then there was the boy. Jon didn’t recognize him—but of course he wouldn’t. He had been but a babe when Jon had been lost to Skyrim. Sansa, however, had her arms wrapped around him in a desperate embrace. When he looked up, it was clear Rickon didn’t recognize him either, but he did remember Sansa a little.

She cried when he said her name, and more when they realized he was missing several fingers. His story came out in slow, broken starts. His direwolf slaughtered, the woman who had kept him alive for all these years dead at Ramsay’s hands. There was a wild hatred in the boy's eyes that Jon knew by experience wouldn’t leave him for a long time.

But it was over. Winterfell was theirs again.

Jon found Durnehviir in the Godswood that night. 

“Tis a strange place,” the dragon told him in greeting. “The trees here speak in whispers I do not understand.”

“They say that the faces carved on the weirwood trees were made by the children of the forest,” Jon said. “According to legend, they were a long-lived race who ruled this land for thousands of years. Supposedly had eyes like cats.”

“They sound like Mer.”

“Maybe.” He went quiet again. He did not feel like he quite belonged in this place anymore. The Godswood was a place of the old gods and he had lost his right to them years ago. 

“Something plagues your heart.”

“Skyrim changed me in ways that I can never turn back.”

The dragon snorted. “You were not Dovahkiin then.”

“I was just Ned Stark’s bastard,” Jon confirmed. 

“Would you rather return to that?”

“No,” Jon said immediately and exhaled. “Never that.”

Durnehviir laughed, a vibration originating from his chest. “Unimaginable to you to be anything else now. You’ve eaten far too many of our brother’s souls for that.” The words gave Jon an uneasy chill. There was nothing to refute. Durnehviir did not mean it as an accusation but simply as a fact. “What will you do next?”

His words sparked a thought that had been plaguing him for months. “The south won’t have forgotten us, even if winter is coming. The north will need our support.”

“We go to war then?” There was a hint of eagerness in the dragon’s voice.

“No,” said Jon. “I’ve had enough of war.”

Chapter Text

It felt as though they would still be rebuilding Winterfell come spring.

Their food stores were nearly empty, the glass gardens had been smashed, and the keep did not have enough servants to keep it running effectively—a final consequence of Ramsay’s cruelty. He knew his loss was upon him and had made their victory sting. Sansa had already begun negotiating with Lord Manderly and the merchants that came through White Harbor, but the effects of trading wouldn’t be immediate.

Theon left a fortnight after they took back Winterfell, citing a need to return to his sister, Asha. It was clear, however, that the man couldn’t bear to stay in Winterfell any longer. His departure left Sansa a tad forlorn, but they had too much to do to linger on his departure forever. The smallfolk of the north had begun to return to the winter town, and the Starks had very little to offer them.

Amidst everything, a raven arrived from the wall. 

Jon hadn’t thought about the Night’s Watch in years, not since he’d returned from his desperate bid to Winterhold. Once it had been his future. Now the letter brought ill tidings. 

“It’s ridiculous,” Sansa said crisply as she passed it back to him. “If it were true, why have they only contacted us now? Why us?”

Jon scanned its contents again. “They would have heard stories by now of how we took Winterfell back. Have you considered that we’re more likely to believe them?”

“They’re talking about an undead army beyond the wall,” she retorted flatly. “I believe you, with a talking magical dragon who disappeared for eight years, but this is the North.”

“The wall must have been built for a reason.”

Sansa sighed. “In any case, we have far more important matters. The missives from Cersei are growing increasingly ominous. We don’t have time to investigate ghost stories.”

“But if it’s true,” Jon said carefully, “You do understand, don’t you? The dead don’t eat or sleep or tire. They would swarm across the North, adding more to their armies until there is no one left. Whoever this Sam Tarly is, they sound genuinely afraid. They have no reason to lie.”

“They would take us for fools.”

“Sansa—”

She shut her eyes for a moment. “We don’t need this. Another crisis, another thing for us to fix and we can’t. We can’t afford to spend time on anything else or we will all die of starvation once winter truly comes. We have limited food stores already, and the glass gardens are ruined. We have Lord Manderly’s support but that will only get us so far. We need—we need a miracle, Jon.” 

Jon did not have a miracle. More than once he regretted his lack of attention toward learning magic. He’d had his sword and shouts and that had been enough in Skyrim. Surely there was magic that increased crop growth or protected it when frost came but it was not knowledge he had. 

“Oh,” he said as the thought hit him. “We need seeds, and glass to make more glass gardens. We need coin.”

“We don’t have any of that,” Sansa reminded him grimly. “We just have loyalty from men who were once loyal to our father.”

But there was something he could do about this, even just a little. “I do. I’m absurdly wealthy in Skyrim. Not just in coin, but all the things I’ve hoarded over the years. Dragon bones alone go for a small fortune.”

She looked up, something bright in her eyes. “But you can’t return.”

“No,” Jon agreed. “But Durnehviir can.”

Sansa wilted back into her seat. “You told me that Durnehviir is bound to the Soul Cairn. Could he even bring something with him when you summon him back?”

Jon stilled. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far yet,” he admitted, “but it’s worth a try. It’s cold in Skyrim. There are places where people have settled for centuries where it snows year-round and they grow crops outside. I'm uncertain if seeds could pass into the Soul Cairn intact, but it could be enormously beneficial. If not, surely there is something valuable Durnehviir could carry back that we could supplement our funds with.”

She was quiet for a moment. “This is all quite ridiculous, I hope you know that.”

“I do.”

“It’s wonderful,” she told him. “If it works we will actually have a chance.”

Jon looked down at the letter again. “We still cannot ignore this.”

She exhaled. “Jon—”

“I told you a little about the civil war in Skyrim,” he said, interrupting her. “Right in the middle of that Alduin appears. Dragons return and start burning villages and their people to ash, killing travelers and livestock. The civil war doesn’t end. It ramps up instead; towns burn down not because of dragons, but because of enemy forces attacking one another. There were so many damn bandits everywhere because nobody had anything and they were starving.” Jon put down the message carefully, holding her gaze. “In the midst of this, I was trying to kill Alduin, who was trying to destroy the world. Can you imagine the scope of that? No one cared. It took me months of traveling between cities to get a cease-fire long enough for a Jarl to agree to help me. I know what we’re doing here is critical, but if this is real, we cannot pretend as though it’s not a threat or else it will be too late.”

“What they’re saying in that message is absurd.”

“I’ve met my fair share of so-called impossible crises in Skyrim to know better,“ Jon replied levelly. “I’m not asking for you to send any kind of assistance yet. I’m saying we send a raven back with questions.” 

Sansa held his gaze for a beat before sighing. “Very well, there’s no harm in that. We need proof though, some kind of legitimacy to their claims.”

“Yes,” said Jon, and he stood. “I’ll go find Durnehviir now, though whether it works or not, it will take time. Ser—someone else will have to bring any supplies to the Soul Cairn first.”

“And you trust them with your absurd wealth?” There was a hint of a smile on his sister’s face.

“I should not have told you like that,” he said, grimacing.

Sansa laughed. “You must have had so many suitors. Hero of Skyrim and wealthy.” Her smile faded. “Father would have been proud of you.”

Jon swallowed. “I hope so.”

“Mother would have hated it. She never wanted to see you successful.” There was a pause. “I should have treated you better then.”

“I don’t blame you, Sansa. You were just a child, and the worst you did was ignore me on occasion.”

“I did worse than that,” she reminded him. “Gods, all of it seems so far away now. Like the kind of dream you wake up from and desperately wish to go back to. I think about Arya constantly. I treated her terribly, especially after you disappeared. I rejected her time and time again, and then on the way to King’s Landing—that was my fault and it took me years to realize it. I was such a silly, stupid girl.”

“You were a child. You were allowed to be silly and make mistakes.”

“My mistakes helped to destroy our family. I won’t do it again,” she replied steadily. “I survived King’s Landing surrounded by our family’s enemies by becoming like them. I learned to lie flawlessly. To backstab, to play nice with people I loathed—and none of it mattered. I was powerless in the Eyrie and back in Winterfell. I cannot afford to play the game poorly now that I hold Winterfell. Neither Rickon nor our people can afford it.”

It was a dismissal with finality if he’d ever heard one. He nodded once before departing. Durnehviir was still out hunting when he went looking for him. Jon stood on the wall waiting for him to return when Rickon crept up from behind.

“Can you tell where he is? I could with Shaggydog.”

Jon shook his head. “Unfortunately not.”

Days passed in between sightings of his brother. Rickon had few memories of Winterfell before the Boltons had taken it. His world had become so small in the meantime, his wolf and Osha, a woman from beyond the wall. He’d loved them desperately as only a child could, and lost both. It was a miserable thing to watch the boy’s grief. The only thing Jon could count on was Rickon’s curiosity about Durnehviir. Several times Rickon had come to speak to him only about the dragon. He always had questions about how he could speak, what he ate, or the kinds of magic Rickon had heard about him using during the battle. It was a relief to hear him so animated even if some of the questions reminded Jon of his worst years in Skyrim. 

“Are you waiting for him?”

Jon glanced down at him. His brother stared back. “I am. He might be able to help us with our food stores.”

Rickon nodded. “I bet he could hunt really far out.”

“This is not—” Jon paused. Rickon wasn’t wrong. In the short term, it wasn’t even a bad solution. The most difficult part would be getting Durnehviir to agree. “You’re right. That’s a good idea, Rickon.”

A hint of a smile appeared on Rickon’s face.

“Would you like to meet him?” Jon didn’t want him to disappear again so quickly, but Rickon only shook his head.

“Dragons are really dangerous,” the boy said solemnly. “When Shaggydog and I used to hunt we knew to stay away from other big predators like that.” 

“That’s true,” Jon said steadily, and he looked out across the snow-covered land. “They certainly are that.”

There was no answer. Rickon had already left when he turned around.

Durnehviir didn’t return until after dinner. His arrival was announced with the great beating of wings—and the sound of people shouting, as they always did when he caught them unawares. “I have another favor to ask of you,” Jon said when he reached him. “Several in fact.”

“Will I like any of these requests?”

“No,” said Jon bluntly. “I need you to return to the Soul Cairn. Tell Valerica I need to get a message to Serana. My people need help and I have the means in Skyrim but not a way to access them. Do you think when I summon you back here you can take something with you?”

The dragon cocked his head. “Explain.”

“We won’t last the winter with our current food stores. We don’t have the funds to buy it from across the sea, either.”

“Ah,” the dragon mused. “You wish to bring your fortune here.”

“Yes.”

“It is a clever idea—though I do not know if it will work,” said Durnehviir. “But I shall go to the Soul Cairn again and give the vampire your message anyway. I will have her give me something tangible in return so that we might test your idea.”

It was a great relief to hear him agree to it. “Thank you. The second thing is for once you return. The deer and other game are leaving as it gets colder. I was wondering if you might go further south on occasion to bring back some intact for us to store.”

The dragon stared at him for a long moment. “I do not like this idea,” he said coolly. “I may be loyal to you, but I am Dov, not some whelp of a hunting dog.”

Jon winced, having expected the answer. “It’s discourteous of me to ask but I fear I have no choice. My people are barely hanging on.”

“You would never dare to ask of me such a thing in Skyrim,” Durnehviir added, and there was something thoughtful in his voice. “You did not have the same attachments to people then. I wonder if it makes you weak.”

Jon said the only thing that came to him. “Do you think Paarthurnax weak?”

There was silence before the dragon laughed. “I see your point, Thuri. My brother certainly serves mankind without any gain of his own. I would not stand against him, either. You are not old enough to remember what he was in the beginning.”

“I’ve heard stories.”

“He overcame his nature. Turned down his own irresistible hunger for power.”

“And you have not?”

The dragon gave him a knowing look. “I serve you willingly because you have done me a great service and you have championed over the strongest of us already. You are, however, mortal. Eventually you will die here. I wonder if I’ll be sent back to the Soul Cairn then, or be allowed to stay in this world, free to do as I wish.”

A chill went down his spine. “I see,” Jon said, his voice measured. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t already expected, yet part of him must have hoped otherwise. 

“You are strange, Thuri. Others before you have not been so merciful,” the dragon said with a shake of his head. “You do not need to worry, my own days of conquering are over. I have spent far too many years in the Soul Cairn, bound to a duty I had chosen arrogantly. Even now I am not the same as I once was.”

Jon looked at him and saw no lie in his words. “It is strange where fate leads us.”

“Indeed,” Durnehviir said. He rose from where he had laid between trees. “I sense that my words have unnerved you. Summon me again at your leisure.”

Durnehviir faded from the woods. Jon turned back to return to the castle, the dragon’s words still turning in his mind. Merciful. There were many legends about the dragonborn returning in times of great need. What they didn’t mention was what it meant to have the soul of a dragon. What it did to him to consume the souls of other dragons, to feel their usurped strength boil in his blood, the strange, dark hunger that grew with every soul. 

Paarthurnax had told him once that he had overcome his nature as a dragon. Toward the end, Jon wondered if he would have to do the same, but that was over now. His time of dragon slaying was done. The crisis he had left to mend was a matter of food provision. He nearly laughed at the thought as he reached the gates inside. 

There were some in Skyrim who would never believe it.

When they received a second message from the wall, Jon knew it was time to act. Sansa did not take it well.

“You can’t just go galavanting off,” she told him derisively. “I know you long for adventure—”

“It isn’t about that,” he said. He couldn’t quite keep the irritation out of his voice. “They have proof they are willing to bring here. I’d rather it stay at the wall if it really is what they say it is. Durnehviir can get me there in a matter of days. I won’t be gone long.”

“Don’t lie,” she said. “If it is true, I doubt you’ll be back anytime soon.”

Jon halted and she stopped just short of running into him. “You believe their message?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she sniffed. “But I won’t disregard the option completely.”

“Leaving now makes the most sense. It’s not like I can do very much here anyways.” The experiment with Durnehviir had been a tentative success, but they still had to wait for Serana to get word from her mother and then return to the Soul Cairn with supplies. It would likely take weeks if not months. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa told him. “Our enemies fear Durnehviir. They fear you as well.” 

“What have I done here to earn that fear?”

“To them, Durnehviir is your dragon,” she reminded him. “With you gone we’ll be vulnerable.”

Jon paused from where he had begun walking again. “Shall I truly not go then?”

Sansa hesitated before shaking her head. “No. Go. I’m not entirely without a guard. Lady Brienne…”

The woman had appeared a few weeks earlier with an oath from the late Lady Stark, and both of them knew she would do everything in her power to protect Sansa.

“I’ll send a raven as soon as I gain some sort of understanding of what’s going on.”

Sansa nodded. “Be safe.”

“I will,” he told her. 

He found Rickon on the way and told him to be good for their sister. Then there was an eagerness swelling in his chest that followed him to Durnehviir. It was difficult to say whether it was from years of repeatedly venturing into the worst parts of Skyrim, or something deeper, closer to his nature. 

“What brings you here in such a hurry, Thuri?” The dragon greeted him.

“We received a second message from the Night’s Watch, those who guard the great wall to the north,” he said as he came to a halt. “They apparently have proof of an undead army marching toward them. Man, giant, or beast, it takes all their dead for its hoard.”

The dragon’s eyes seemed to gleam. “I would view such a thing if you allow it.”

“I’m glad to hear that because I need a ride there,” Jon told him. The humor the dragon’s interest had sparked was fading fast. If it was true then the north was in further danger. “It should take us around a day or two of flying.”

Durnehviir shook off the snow that must have fallen during his nap. “A long flight to hang onto my back.”

“I’ve done it before from Solstheim to Windhelm. I needed to return quickly.”

The dragon laughed. “I wish you luck. I am unlikely to hear if you fall.”

The wind was freezing even with all the layers Jon had put on before leaving. His previous dragon flights had always been in good weather, and this time it didn’t help that Durnehviir did not run as hot as other dragons, either. It took them two days to reach the wall, stretching farther than the eye could see in both directions. Even Castle Black was dwarfed in comparison as they approached it.

“Let’s land a little ways outside of the castle,” Jon shouted over the wind. “Don’t want to alarm them!”

But as they grew closer to the wall, Durnehviir stopped. He hovered in the air silently with his head turned toward the ice.

“Durnehviir?” Jon called again. 

It took a few moments for the dragon to respond. “Ah, I understand,” he said. There was something particular in his voice. “How strange to find such a thing here.”

“What is it?” Jon said, brow wrinkling.

They dove closer before the dragon abruptly stopped again. “I do not believe that I can pass over this wall. It is blocked to the undead.”

A thrill flew up his spine. “It’s been here for thousands of years.”

“It’s very powerful,” the dragon agreed. “They would not have built such a thing as a deterrent against something that may or may not exist. This was built for the fear of it ever coming back.”

Jon was silent when they landed on the outskirts of Castle Black. 

“I believe we’ll be going to war after all,” Durnehviir commented as Jon slipped off his back. “But not against the living. It has been a long time since I had another who practiced Alok-Dilon as an opponent.” 

“I don’t like this, Durnehviir.” It took him a few minutes to get his bearings; sitting on the back of a dragon for hours and hours was disorienting as it was painful. 

The dragon sounded to be in a good mood. “You do not need to like it for it to be true.” 

“I’ll return soon,” Jon told him, ignoring that last part before starting his way toward the castle. He was greeted at the gates by openly fearful men who seemed as though they desired to be anywhere else.

“I am here at the bequest of—”

“Ah!” There was a shout, and then a new man pushed through the crowd. His cheeks were red as though he had been running. “You must be Jon Snow. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Sam Tarly?” Jon said guardedly.

“That’s me,” Sam said while nodding his head vigorously. His eyes darted between him and through the gates where Durnehviir stood in the distance. “I—um, I hadn’t realized you’d get here so quickly but I suppose with a dragon—never mind, not important. You’ve come about my messages. Well, the Night Watch’s messages.”

The gates closed behind him with a dull clang. Not everyone seemed unhappy with his presence; there was a man standing in the courtyard with a strange grin lighting up his features. Sam jumped a little when he saw him.

“Who is that?” Jon asked, keeping his voice low.

Sam winced. “Oh—that’s Alliser Thorne, our Lord Commander. He supported the Targaryens during the war, still very vocal about it.”

“I’m not a Targaryen,” Jon said flatly. 

“Right. Of course!” Sam Tarly was a terrible liar. “Anyway,” the man continued. He started fiddling with his sleeves, gaze skittering toward the ground. “You’re here about the messages.”

“The second one mentioned having proof.”

Sam’s face leeched of color. “Yes, we do have that. A man died and, well. I know it’s difficult to believe. If I were you I wouldn’t have even—”

Jon interrupted his nervous mutterings with an equally blunt response. “I believe you.”

Chapter Text

Sam Tarly stuttered out something incomprehensible. It took him a second attempt for his words to be somewhat coherent. “I—really?”

“Yes,” Jon said evenly. “Take me to it.”

“Well…if you’re certain.”

Jon followed the man as he led him down to their cells. It was colder than it had been outside, a chill that clung to his skin. They stopped at the cell furthest from the door. It only looked like a man at first wearing ragged furs. When it noticed them, however, a sound gurgled from its torn throat, a thin, hungry noise. 

“Its eyes are blue,” said Jon, gaze unmoving from its features. 

“Er, that’s right.” Sam took a step back when the undead man lunged forward at the bars, hands clawing at the air. 

“Were they always blue?”

“No, I don’t believe so.”

It could be a mere coincidence. Jon didn’t know enough about necromancy to know why the undead often came back with that eerie shade of blue. Regardless, here it was. Proof.  

Jon turned back toward the man. “Tell me everything,” he commanded. 

The Night’s Watch was a mess. Not enough recruits, lack of training, unstable leadership, no support from the Seven Kingdoms since they’d gone to war—it had chipped away piece by piece until the order had reached this state. According to Sam, it had been this way for longer. The increased attacks from the wildlings only revealed how weak they’d gotten. 

“Many of the castles are nearly unmanned now,” Sam told him late that night. “They slip straight through, and it’s no wonder why they do it. The wildlings have been desperate to get south for years now. They even told us why but we didn’t believe them then.”

Their numbers and attacks had dwindled recently. The rest of the men seemed inclined to think it was good news, but Sam evidently thought the same as Jon did when he heard; they were no longer coming because they were dead. The question was why—why were the dead rising? Who was resurrecting them? Sam didn’t have any exact answers, but he did have a theory. 

“I saw one,” he said, voice shaken. “I didn’t know what I was looking at at the time. All the ravens started screaming in the trees and then fell silent at once. It—it came out of the woods. Tall and pale with skin like ice and eyes so blue. It broke my blade in its hand. It had come for a baby and I still don’t know why. When the White Walker died it turned to ice and shattered. We ran afterward, as far as we could to get away. I didn’t tell anyone for years, Jon. They would have never believed me.”

Jon believed him. He told Durnehviir his story later, and the dragon came to the same conclusion. 

“A bit like the Dovah-Sonaak,” he said thoughtfully. “Though that insinuates a more powerful master.”

Unfortunately, none of them had any idea of who or what that could be. If this had been occurring in Skyrim, a lich or even a Daedric Prince would likely be the answer. But this was not Skyrim. Here, the gods were quiet. 

“I want to see one,” Jon decided. “Their scouts won’t be far. Perhaps I could summon you across the wall. It would make the trip much faster.”

"I would warn you against such an action," said Durnehviir. "You might trap me there. I need to study the wards further."

That was the last thing Jon wanted. Not even he was blind to the power the Starks held only because they had a dragon. He made a face. "Better not then."

The dragon laughed. “You’ll be glad for the wards soon enough. Come back alive, Thuri.”

Convincing the Night’s Watch to let him pass through the gates alone took time. In the end, Jon supposed the only reason they let him through was that he had a dragon, and he could simply fly over at his own convenience anyway. Jon didn’t dissuade them of this notion.

But it was not so easy to find the undead. Sam sent him toward an abandoned homestead called Craster’s Keep where he had once killed the White Walker, but nothing remained of the keep but its burned-out skeleton. He continued north. Days passed without seeing a single soul. After months of moving south with a growing army, it was almost a relief to strike out on his own for a while. He had spent so many of his years in Skyrim traveling alone that he’d grown used to it. 

Jon ran into wildlings before he found any undead. 

“Doesn’t look like a crow.”

“A kneeler alone on this side of the wall? Must be mad,” another man jeered. They had surrounded him on a ridge, arrows pointed toward his back. 

“I’m looking for White Walkers.”

The group went silent, and then one of the bigger men guffawed. “Stupid boy looking to die,” he said. “If that’s what you want we can gut you right here.”

Jon ignored the jibe. “You’ve seen them?”

“Aye, we all have.” The humor disappeared from his voice. “They killed us at Hardhome. Came while we slept. There was nowhere to go but into the water to drown in the cold. He revived them afterward.”

“Who is he?”

“The Night King,” a woman hissed. “You’re wandering around out here alone and don’t even know that?”

“Tell me about him then,” Jon said evenly. 

The woman laughed. “What for? You’ll be dead soon enough.” 

He ignored that too. “What does this Night King look like?” 

“A mockery of us made from ice,” another spat.

“He marched from the north—far beyond where any of the Free Folk dare go.”

Jon looked toward the man who answered. “Free Folk?”

The man sneered. “It’s what we call ourselves. You think we like being called wildlings by you lot?”

“My mistake then,” said Jon. The group laughed. More of them had their weapons out now, staring at him with sharp eyes. They appeared as though they had been traveling without rest for weeks—or even months. They were tired, cold and miserable. 

“Tell us your name, boy, before you die,” one of them said with an odd weight to their voice.   

Jon exhaled. “I don’t wish to fight you.” His hand found the hilt of his sword anyway. 

“It’s not really up to you, is it? Tell us your name.”

Another scoffed. “Who cares about some kneelers name—”

“It’s Jon Snow. My father was a Stark,” Jon said coldly. 

The group went still. The tall man spoke again. “After Hardhome, the few of us left were hunted down by our own dead kin. We were helped by a crow by the name of Benjen Stark.”

Jon’s breath caught. “My uncle is alive?”

The man shrugged, “Suppose you could say that.”

That didn’t bode well. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, and I have no intention of going back there,” he said, jerking his head north. “You’d be a fool to go any further. The Night King marches south.”

“Then I am a fool,” Jon said without a hint of humor. He sheathed his blade. “A word of advice; if you’re trying to cross the wall, don’t go through Castle Black. It’s one of the few left fully manned.”

“You’re helping us?” 

“If you stay on this side of the wall you’ll die,” Jon replied. “My uncle—thank you for telling me. I’d heard he died years ago.” 

He began past them when one of the men held up a hand. “Wait.” He pulled something from his belt and held it out. “Take it,” he said forcefully. “It’s the only thing that works against those fucking things.” 

It was a small, primitive dagger. Jon turned it over in his hands. “Obsidian?” It was an unusual choice of material.

“It’s dragonglass, and it could save your life.”

He held his gaze and nodded. “Thanks.”

The group of Free Folk continued south. Jon pressed onwards.  

It grew colder. At night his breath seemed to turn to ice as it escaped him. Building a fire at night was dangerous, but it was also the only way to survive the falling temperatures. There was no sign of his uncle or anyone for that matter. It was beginning to occur to him that journeying out alone might have been getting a bit ahead of himself. If he caught this Night King’s attention there was no place to go or hide. 

He met his first wight beyond the wall a few nights later. Movement past his fire had Jon jolting out of his thoughts. There were eyes between the trees glowing an unnatural blue. He rose slowly, hand sliding over fur to where his scabbards lay.  They were quiet when they slipped out of the shadows unlike the one in the cell back at Castle Black. One of the wights was missing an arm, and another had skin scraped back from his mouth, revealing a row of broken teeth. 

“You’ve been dead awhile,” Jon murmured as he unsheathed the greatsword. One of the wights snarled and then rushed him. 

It was not a particularly difficult opponent; clumsy and nearly tripping over itself in its attempts to reach him. With the silver blade, Jon cut through the wight with ease—but it did not go still when its head detached from the rest of its frozen corpse. Instead, its head lay snarling in the snow as its body continued to stagger toward him. The rest of the wights had since followed past the treeline, running straight at him. 

“Well—if that doesn’t work,” Jon muttered, and turning back, he grasped at where Dawnbreaker lay sheathed. Its glow was nearly blinding against the snow when he pulled it from its scabbard, and then turning swiftly, he pushed the blade through another of the wights’ chest. It was a grim victory when the enchantment struck and the wight went up in flames. Jon did not have access to a master enchanter here, and while he technically could recharge the sword himself, he lacked filled soul gems. Eventually, Dawnbreaker would lose its power. 

Jon dodged another sloppy attack from the last wight, and shouted, “Yol-Toor-Shul!” The wight screamed as it caught fire and then went silent. Jon knew it wasn’t over yet.

It came out of the woods. It was tall, as Sam had described, with pale skin and eyes like all the rest of the undead. It wore dark armor and carried a thin sword made of ice. Like weapons made from stalhrim ore, the spear didn’t break easily. The White Walker moved with inhuman strength. It smiled cruelly at him when neither Dawnbreaker nor fire had any effect. His muscles burned more each time he blocked an attack—which Jon knew to be an inefficient way to fight something like this. He had been fighting vampires and Daedra for years, both far stronger and faster than he could ever be. 

“Can you speak?” Jon asked it, breath coming out in short pants. He dodged a jab thrown at his side and narrowly missed a follow-up aimed at his gut. But if it did, the White Walker didn’t seem inclined to do so. If anything, Jon’s consistency in not getting hit was angering it. Dawnbreaker cut through its armor, but it bounced off the White Walker's skin as though it were as tough as steel. Silver likely wouldn’t have an effect either.

Then Jon remembered the obsidian dagger. He lunged for his pack where he had hung the blade on its side. The White Walker followed with another jab of his sword as Jon rolled out of the way, pack in hand. He fumbled with it in the snow, grasping blindly for the dagger. The White Walker let out a sound like a laugh as Jon’s fingers wrapped around a hilt. 

“Zun Haal Viik!” The sword of ice dropped from the White Walker’s hands. It looked after it with surprise and missed the dagger finding its mark. Jon pushed the blade deep into its chest, feeling it shatter under strain as it cut through frozen flesh. 

The White Walker exploded into ice.

Jon took a deep breath, leaning heavily on the hilt of Dawnbreaker. He wasn’t seriously injured, but he would wake with bruises come morning. He had been lucky; if White Walkers could only be defeated by dragonglass, Jon was in danger. The dagger the Free Folk had given him was shattered beyond a second use. If another appeared Jon wouldn’t be able to defeat it. Stall it, certainly, but in the long term, all he could do was run like everyone else going south. 

It was time to return to the wall.

Sam Tarly was not a maester. He had studied under the previous maester of the Night’s Watch, but he had no formal training. The previous maester had died before they had truly understood the severity of what was happening beyond the wall, and could send out messages to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Even with a wight in their cells, very few amongst the Night’s Watch seemed to take Sam’s alarm about the White Walkers seriously. 

One of them wasn’t even a man of the Night’s Watch at all. Ser Davos Seaworth had loyally served Stannis Baratheon for years, but now he was dead and the man remained on the wall.

“Only Dragonglass?” Sam repeated when Jon made it back to Castle Black. “But why? It’s not exactly a popular ore to forge weapons with for a reason.”

“Aye, it shatters easily,” Jon replied as he sat in front of the fire, letting it warm him all the way through. “But it’s the only thing that seems to do damage to White Walkers. It’s the same with wights—they need fire to kill them. Or dragonglass I bet.”

“But that makes no sense.”

“It’s magic.”

“And where would we even get dragonglass—” Sam paused, looking down in consideration. “Actually, I think I heard someone talking about it before, I just need to remember. Maybe I wrote it down…”

While the man looked for any hints, Jon stood and left to go find Durnehviir. He found Ser Davos instead, standing above the gates and staring out to where the dragon slept. The man jumped a little when Jon came to stand beside him. 

“A terrifying beast,” Ser Davos said eventually. 

Jon let out a short laugh. “More than you know. Can I ask you something, Ser Davos?”

“Of course, m'lord.”

Jon made a face at the title. “I’m no lord. I heard you have family in the south. Why stay here?”

The man fell silent. When he spoke after a few moments, there was pain in his voice. “Stannis Baratheon had a daughter, Shireen. She was an incredibly kind and thoughtful child. I loved that girl like one of my own and they killed her. It was for nothing; they lost against Ramsay Bolton all the same. That damn red witch—” The man broke off, the lines of his face tightening. “I never believed in any of that rubbish, but I should have taken it seriously enough to realize why they took her to war when they never had before, why Lord Stannis left me here at the wall. I would have done everything in my meager power to save her from that fate.”

A chill went down Jon’s spine. “I’m so sorry.”

Ser Davos shook his head. “I stay because despite the initial reasons for my station here, there is a real danger.”

“You believe Sam Tarly then.”

“Aye,” he answered heavily. “Most of the Night’s Watch seems comfortable with the idea of wights existing these days, but White Walkers are as real as grumpkins to them. If he’s right though…”

“The entire seven kingdoms are at risk,” Jon finished. “I met one out there. Killed it, thanks to a dagger given to me by chance. Nothing else seems to work but dragonglass, and gods if I know where to find more of it.”

“Dragonglass?” Ser Davos said, his eyebrows furrowing. “Dragonstone is full of it from what I remember. Bloody useless stuff.”

“Not useless anymore. Who holds Dragonstone currently?”

“No one does,” he answered, and there was sadness in his voice again. “It’s empty. Lord Stannis took everyone north.”

An insane idea took hold in Jon’s mind. “Might you go tell Tarly what you know of Dragonstone? I left him searching for clues to the whereabouts of more dragonglass.”

The man nodded his head. “Aye, I can do that.” The man glanced back at the massive form outside the wall half-hidden under snow. “You’re a terrifying man, Jon Snow.”

“Because I travel with a dragon?” It was strange to be known as dragon kin here when in Skyrim he had been known as slayer of dragons.

“No. You left your dragon on the other side of the wall and went north alone, and came back uninjured. I’ve heard stories of how you took back Winterfell. Some say the dead rose up there too.”

Jon held his gaze. “If they did, it was not through my power.”

The man let out a harsh laugh. “You sound like the Red Witch.” The man left him at that.

Jon sighed, rubbing his face with a gloved hand, and then made his way to the gates. Durnehviir was waiting for him outside, no doubt having felt his return to Castle Black. 

“Apparently there is a ‘Night King’,” Jon told him by way of greeting.

“It is no surprise. In my experience armies made through Alok-Dilon don’t grow on their own.”

“Well, they’re functionally immortal,” said Jon. "The White Walkers are weak to the specific ore obsidian, or dragonglass as they call it here. The enchantment on the dead only fails with fire and presumably dragonglass as well.”

“I wonder what this Night King would fall to then.”

“I’m unsure. Getting close to their army would be the death of me so I didn’t check.”

“Hmm,” the dragon murmured. His head turned to stare at the wall. “I do not believe this wall will hold forever. I’ve been studying it since you left. It is weakening after thousands of years. And this Night King…he would not be on the move otherwise.”

“We don’t have much time before he gets here. Less than a year, if I’m right. Not nearly enough time.”

“I’m sure you already have some idea of what to do next," said Durnehviir.

“Maybe. I know how to fight the undead in Skyrim. It’s different here—the hundreds of thousands of undead make it tricker.”

The dragon went silent for a moment. Then, “I’m curious, Thuri. If you had run into the Night King’s army, what would you have done?”

“How would I get away, do you mean,” Jon corrected. He turned his gaze back toward Castle Black. The sun was setting already, casting it in shadow.

“You may be dovahkiin, but you are still human. Still mortal. How would you escape from an army that never rests?”

Jon could never afford to forget what Durnehviir was, but the dragon seemed only curious about his answer. 

“I don't know which shouts would be effective. I doubt any kind of allegiance shifting would work, and while I could use several shouts to keep myself alive short-term, you’re right—they would catch up. Eventually, I would tire and they would not.”

The dragon nodded his head, appearing pleased. “Yes, so how would you do it?”

Jon looked at him for a moment before pulling out a small satin drawstring bag from the bottom of his pack. He dumped the object it held into his hand. 

It was a ring made of gold with a ruby gem, too uncomfortable to wear regularly. “I would put this on,” he told the dragon, humor stirring in his voice. “Then I would summon as dead a horse as the Night King no doubt rides. Arvak does not feel the cold or tire, and the most importantly, he’s fast.” 

The dragon stared at him, head cocking. He seemed oddly disappointed by the answer. “You were a vigilant, were you not? I thought they disavowed all use of conjuration.” 

Jon shrugged, the words hitting him harder than he liked. “I’m not a vigilant anymore, and desperation makes many a man a hypocrite. Besides, Arvak is a good horse.”

“But how far does that go for you, I wonder,” the dragon continued to press. “How far would you go to live?” Jon knew where he was taking this. He refused to hash out a conversation about desperation, being on the edge, willing to do anything. 

“Far enough to wear this hideous thing,” he said instead, putting the ring away.

“I wouldn't know.”

The odd tension broke. “I only keep it for its magicka enchantment,” Jon told him. The dragon very clearly didn’t care about a lick of it. Durnehviir had turned away, burrowing under the snow again. Jon headed back toward the castle. Somewhere along their conversation, he had made up his mind. 

He dreamed about it sometimes. A cold night sky with more stars than Jon could ever count, blocked by a plume of smoke. It took longer to realize where it came from, and even longer to reach Hall of the Vigilant. They were all dead by then, either burned or bled to death. 

The man he was with, another vigilant, had clucked his tongue. “What a tragedy. Come find me at Windpeak when you’re done investigating.”

Jon should have known better then. He should have listened to that feeling burning in his gut that told him something had been wrong with his mentor for a long time. But Jon had ignored it—kept ignoring it until it was too late to undo it. 

He empathized with Ser Davos. Jon knew what it felt like to trust the wrong man and lose because of it. He understood the feeling of wanting to atone for something that hadn’t been fully in his control. Jon also needed Ser Davos to trust him because he was the only one at the wall who knew anything about Dragonstone. Unfortunately, the man seemed to want nothing to do with him. He would find excuses to leave a conversation almost as soon as they had begun. Small talk made the man even more suspicious of Jon than he already was. 

But Jon didn’t have time to waste. He found the man cutting through the courtyard a few days later. “Ah—Ser Davos, please wait,” he called and the man appeared as though he was considering pretending he hadn’t heard him. Jon understood it: to the knight, Jon could be just as terrible as the Red Witch. It was still frustrating all the same.

“Jon Snow,” he answered heavily when Jon caught up. “What can I do for you?”

“Dragonstone. You know about it more than anyone here.”

The man nodded slowly. “Aye. I lived there for years.”

“Then you must know the location of the dragonglass.”

“I don’t know its exact location. There are caves on the island, perhaps…perhaps it’s there.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“I don’t believe so,” the man said hurriedly. Jon kept up as they turned a corner. “If that’s all—”

“Ser Davos, please wait,” Jon said again. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you in some way—”

The man looked alarmed. “It’s not that—”

“I know you worry about what I can do—what Durnehviir could do, but I would never harm—”

There was a group of the Night’s Watch standing in an alcove. Jon stopped speaking as he and Ser Davos slowed to a halt. 

“It’s not like it matters, does it,” one of the men was saying. “No one’s coming here to help us.”

“The Stark bastard showed up with a bleeding dragon.”

“Well he’s weird, isn’t he? Something’s wrong with him, wanting to range alone past the wall.”

“Not much of a Stark, either. There’s only one family who could ride dragons.”

“And they all go mad eventually. We can’t trust him a lick—”

They spoke like that for a while. Jon turned to find Ser Davos standing there with an odd expression. He looked tired, aged far past his years. 

“They do know that evil is coming for them,” Jon said quietly. “Sam is wrong about that. But they have no hope of surviving it. No hope of receiving supplies or additional recruits or having the rest of the Seven Kingdoms even believe them. It’s easier to pretend that nothing is wrong than to face a bleak truth. I need your help, Ser Davos. I want to help these men. They are all that stand between the Seven Kingdoms and the Night King. I will do everything I can, but I’m just one man. I can’t be everywhere.”

The old man sighed, rubbing his face. “I—well fine. I admit that I might have been unfair to you. My prior experiences with magic have all been terrible. The Red Witch did ghastly things but...I don’t think you’re like her. I hope not.” He looked up. “What do you need from me?”

“I need your knowledge.”

Chapter Text

Dragonstone was a graveyard. 

It took less than a week to make it to the island from the wall. Jon watched from Durnehviir’s back as the snow melted into green foliage and the temperature turned warm again as they traveled further south. 

They touched down on Dragonstone’s beaches when fog covered its shoreline. Jon found old bones scattered in the caves and volcanic tunnels that ran underneath the island. Eventually, Jon wandered closer to the keep until he could bear his curiosity no longer. Ser Davos had not been lying—the castle was empty. 

Empty or not, Jon was trespassing in a home that had once belonged to royalty. He passed like a ghost through its hallways, wandering into rooms covered in a film of dust and marked by neglect. 

“There was ancient magic here once,” Durnehviir rumbled when Jon emerged outside several hours later. The dragon was perched atop one of the towers. “Fire and blood.”

It was like an itch in the back of his mind. “I believe that was their house words.”

“Indeed? This is a strange place you have brought me. I have felt nothing like it since you summoned me to this world. That wall and its magic were ancient. This place—it feels much younger. Perhaps there is still true magic in this world after all.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call the house of Targaryen young,” Jon said, blowing air through his nose. It had been all Westeros had known for centuries. Wars of succession had been fought over which Targaryen would hold the throne. “I get your point, however.”

He looked for dragonglass the following day after camping outside that night. If he had still been in Skyrim, Jon would have stayed inside the castle without missing a wink of sleep. It was different here—Dragonstone was abandoned, but not forgotten. It felt uncivil to intrude.

“Obsidian is volcanic glass, so it would likely be found near the volcano. Did you find any yesterday?” Jon asked the dragon when his efforts came up with nothing.

“More intriguing mysteries had my attention.”

Jon had expected the answer. “Ser Davos did say there were some in caves on the shoreline. There’s just so damn many of them.”

“Whether this island houses enough to be significant shall be your true quest,” said Durnehviir.

“I know,” Jon said, his voice taking on a grimmer note. “I suppose we’re here to gather information on how much there is—mining it is an entirely separate issue.”

“You better start looking then.” Durnehviir yawned, showing off rows of deadly teeth free of rot. There was not a hint remaining that the dragon had once appeared as undead as his summons. It was also clear he had no intention of helping him.

“Fine,” said Jon, resisting the urge to laugh. That would be giving into the dragon’s poor behavior. “Tell me if you find anything notable.”

It took him several days to find the right cave. Almost immediately upon entering it, however, Jon knew it to be the one Ser Davos had spoken of. He was left in the dark with only a torch, but the walls glittered black as far as he could travel through the winding tunnels. It was more than he could have possibly imagined. 

He found something else too—drawings carved into the stone, depictions of White Walkers etched onto the walls of a cave never to be forgotten. Proof that this war had been many, many years in the making. He exited the cave silently, dropping the torch into the sand where it went out immediately. “Dur-Neh-Viir!”

It took only a few minutes for the dragon to reach him. “You have found it, then?” He roared from above, the wind from his wings sending sand rippling along the beach.

“Aye,” Jon shouted back. “There’s more than we could ever use—or mine in a short time.” The bigger issue, of course, was how to mine it. They did not hold the rights to Dragonstone, nor to mine from its shores. 

Durnehviir landed in the sand. “That is good then. I had begun to wonder if you had been sent on a fool’s mission.”

“I hadn’t gotten that far,” Jon muttered, though privately he had begun to wonder. “There’s a volcano on this island so there was surely some.” Another thought emerged out of a hazy childhood memory. “Do you think they knew? Daenys Targaryen was said to have dragon dreams, prophetic visions that foresaw the end of Valyria. This is a miserable place, but it has one thing in spades—dragonglass.”

“I could not say,” said Durnehviir. “Destiny is a strange song. Sometimes it leads us along without us ever hearing it.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Jon said as he looked back into the dark cave. “Our bigger concern is that we have no right to be here, let alone to bring more men back to mine it. I’ve heard the current Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wants my family dead. She could use us being here as an excuse to go to war.”

“Is an army from beyond the wall set on the eradication of anything living not a good enough reason?”

“I doubt it,” Jon said. “Southerners don’t tend to believe in fairy tales. She might not believe you exist, even with the reports she is sure to have that say otherwise. It’s easy to bury your head in the sand when an issue is a thousand miles away.” 

“So what then? What if this queen does get in your way?” Durnehviir pressed. “If she refuses to cooperate, which sounds likely, what will you do when she sends her armies north?”

“Stop that,” Jon said, his words clipped. He knew what the Durnehviir desired, as all dragons did. “I’m not going to take you to destroy King’s Landing.”

“Pah—humans here are weak. It would not even entertain me.”

Jon doubted that; there had been far too many attacks on villages in Skyrim simply for the sport of it by dragons with less ambition. “I’m glad to hear of it. There are other ways, though. If we cannot come to some sort of agreement, then I may need your services after all to guard our ships. I cannot ignore this resource even if the queen won’t see reason. For now, however, I may mine just enough for our blacksmiths back north to experiment with.”

The dragon growled, air hissing through his teeth. “I suppose I’ll be carrying that back too? I am dov, not your pack mule.”

Jon closed his eyes for a brief moment. It was difficult to say what Durnehviir’s true aim was: how much of the dragon’s outrage was deliberate, meant only to incite the worst of Jon’s nature.

“We have two options,” Jon said as he opened his eyes. “We can go back to the mainland and attempt to find someone with a raven trained for Winterfell. That would mean my presence here would become known, and that would cause repercussions for all of us. The safer option is that the discussion of what to do next occurs after we return to Winterfell.”

“I assume you wish to go with the second,” Durnehviir stated thoughtfully. “But I do not see how you will mine effectively alone and without experience. Might we return to Winterfell first?”

Jon exhaled. “It’s fine. I’ve mined ore before—in prison.”

The dragon paused before a sound like a laugh vibrated out of his chest. His anger, real or otherwise, seemed to have disappeared entirely. “Tell me this story then, Thuri. It seems with your mining you will have time to speak it.”

He heard them first. A canopy of wings as they lifted their massive bodies through the air, and then screeching, an eerie sound that did not quite match his memories.

Jon left the cave, the pickaxe he had found lying abandoned inside. Durnehviir was nowhere to be found, but a dragon was catapulting into the sea and rose with claws wrapped around a large fish. Another dragon with cream-colored scales swooped down from the clouds as though to steal it. The first dragon hissed as it swung back with its prey. A series of clicks and screeches came afterward on the wind, as though they were arguing. 

Something uneasy took hold of him; there was only one person who had living dragons, and their presence meant that she was close.

Jon didn’t dare shout. He didn’t want their attention falling on him, especially not if they were hunting, but he couldn’t quite look away either. He had heard so many stories about the Targaryen dragons as a child. They were already bigger than Durnehviir, and if he had his dates correct, they were young still. They would only grow larger.

Abruptly, there was a sound as though something large had landed above him. Jon looked up and found a third dragon with its massive teeth showing, snarling low in its throat. It wouldn’t be the first time Jon had run into a dragon unexpectedly, but the situation wasn’t desired in the least now.

It quieted immediately after, however, its neck stretching forward as though to get a closer look at him. Jon stared back, unyielding. The dragon had green scales with gold running down the frills on its neck—and suddenly something was brushing against his mind, so faint he could hardly feel it. Jon grasped the side of the cave wall to steady himself as the feeling seceded. When he looked up again, the dragon was still peering down at him with eyes that were more intelligent than anyone in the stories had ever given them credit for. 

A moment after, its head snapped toward something coming down from the volcano, roaring with vicious anger before lifting off. 

Durnehviir was roaring too. They briefly danced around one another, snapping at the air before the undead dragon snarled, “Gahvon. Enough—I have fought my own kin before. Go hunt fish with your brothers.”

The dragon screeched a final time before diving toward the sea, where its kin were still bickering. Durnehviir landed in front of him. “Foolish creature.”

Jon exhaled, watching as it joined with its brothers. “It didn’t try to kill me—or eat me. That’s a rarity in my experience.”

“You probably smell like a dragon to it. A twisted, pitiful thing in the wrong shape.”

“How flattering.”

“Perhaps if you had never devoured another dragon’s soul, it would not have recognized you,” continued Durnehviir. “But now you smell like fire and thousands dead, and power. You defeated Alduin, son of a god—”

“Enough,” Jon snapped. He braced his hand against the smooth stone of the cave wall. He felt sick, his stomach rolling like the waves crashing to shore nearby. “It was in my head, but not quite. Like it was knocking on a door.”

“I had a similar encounter,” Durnehviir told him. “Strange beasts. If you smell like kin to them, then they smell of blood magic.”

“And you smell of death.”

The dragon snorted. “Yes, likely why it gave up so quickly. I don’t smell right.” 

“We need to get off this island before Daenerys Targaryen arrives.”

“Why? If it is as you say, then her appearance could be beneficial. This queen of the seven kingdoms would be too busy fighting her to bother with us.”

“This is her home,” Jon said quietly. “Where she came from, where she was born. Would you be happy to return to such a place to find an intruder?”

“Is that what we are? Are we not her kin?” There was something sly in his voice.

“I didn’t think you enjoyed mortal gossip.”

“It’s not gossip if it's useful.”

The dragon wasn’t wrong, but Jon had heard things about the Dragon Queen; she had freed the slaves in every city and freehold she had conquered and had burned the slavers alive. She would not be a woman who trusted easily.

What would he have done had the situation been flipped? Returned after eight years to an abandoned Winterfell, with an unfamiliar woman who commanded dragons sitting in the seat his father once held?

“We leave,” Jon decided. “I’ll go collect my things and pack some of the ore I managed to mine in bags. The situation has changed too much to risk earning her ire.”

Durnehviir grunted. “I suppose I’ll keep these three occupied while I wait. They may be lesser beasts than I, but curious nonetheless…”

Jon had left his supplies closer to the castle to keep them out of the rain, but now it was clear that decision had been a foolish one. He ran, but it was not fast enough. Perhaps he should have wondered why Durnehviir did not argue with him further.

When he returned to the beach, there were ships in the bay and four dragons with them.

Durnehviir was sitting on the bow of one of the ships, speaking to a small figure on deck. Alarm shot through him. He could see it now; Durnehviir could kill her and her armies and ships, kill her dragons who, while not mere animals, were no match for the kinds of magic Durnehviir had learned in his thousands of years of life. He would raise them into his own undead army, and what could Westeros do against him after that? Jon would have to kill him, and then he would just be one man again against the threat of an undead army and the south without the advantage of a dragon. 

“Fuck,” he breathed out. He was getting ahead of himself; dragons were not creatures of betrayal, and Durnehviir had declared his loyalty already. He had to trust that he had a reason for such an action—even if it was something Jon would not particularly like to hear.

Durnehviir finally lifted off from the ship. Jon tensed, but the dragon only turned away from them, and his wings carried him back to shore to where Jon stood, caught between short-lived relief and fury. “What have you done?”

“It was too late,” the dragon said, his lies blatant. “She saw me as they came into the bay. Hiding after would have made no difference, but the surprise of hearing me speak has given us an opening.”

“Your lies make no difference,” Jon snapped. He added afterward, a pause to steady himself, “What kind of opening?”

The dragon’s tail swept along the sand, kicking up fine-grained dust. “The kind you desire. I told her the dead walk again past the wall, and that we need dragonglass to defeat them. Perhaps in another time, she would not believe so easily, but I am already an impossibility. She will hear you out, Thuri.”

Jon sighed. 

“It didn’t need to be this way, of course,” Durnehviir continued, his voice growing darker. “What could she do against you or me in a fight? Embrace your nature. We could have simply taken—”

“For a dragon who found a different way to fight from his brothers, your resolution to conflict is still the same.”

The dragon did not take this harshly. “It is why I spoke to her on your behalf. You like making yourself smaller around others to soothe their fear, but they are right to fear you.”

Jon was not going to grace that with a response. “What do I tell her? What did you say to her? Gods, what do I even call her? She’s not my queen.” This was why he hated politics. 

When her vessels docked upon Dragonstone, Jon realized something significant; Daenerys Targaryen had brought an army with her, though it should have been obvious from the number of ships. A woman standing in front spoke first. “You are standing before Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons.” 

There was a tense silence. Jon had met two kinds of royalty in his life: a queen and a usurper. Neither experience had been especially pleasant. Now he could add a third who had dragons under her command. “I’m Jon Snow,” he said after a beat. There was a long list of titles he could have given that would have meant nothing to them, just as hers did. 

Daenerys, for she could be no other, lifted her chin. “This dragon—Durnehviir, has told us your reasons for coming here. Does he speak the truth, Jon Snow? Are the dead walking in the North?”

“Aye. They are led by White Walkers that fall to no blade or power but for dragonglass. Their leader is called the Night King by the Free Folk beyond the wall.” 

Beside him, Durnehviir released a breath of frost, a waft of freezing air settling over them. The man next to the queen went stiff. He was wearing a pin on his vest that Jon distantly remembered to mean he was her Hand. Rumors from across the sea and his appearance made him likely to be Tyrion Lannister. 

“It is hard to believe,” Daenerys said steadily. “Where do you hail from?”

“The only Jon Snow I know of is the Stark bastard I heard went missing nine years ago,” her Hand answered before Jon could, his expression unreadable. “The few rumors I heard out of the north about you and Sansa Stark and Winterfell are, well, also hard to believe.”

“What do these rumors say?” Jon asked. He kept his voice calm though he certainly didn’t feel it. Sansa would know what to say in such a situation. Jon had nothing except a vague certainty to be polite; it was what he had done in Skyrim unless they demonstrated that they deserved otherwise. 

“You had an ice dragon—that one seems to be true,” Tyrion said, nodding his head toward Durnehviir. “There’s also the one about how the dead helped to take back Winterfell. You speak of an undead army, but how are we to know it is not your army? That this isn’t some kind of trick?”

Durnehviir laughed, causing the man to jump. It was clear the noise was not one they were used to a dragon making. “Forgive me, the idea of him raising the dead was not something I could bear in silence. The undead, few as they were, were mine. Perhaps…I can show you.”

“Durnehviir,” Jon said in warning. He did not want to make new enemies. 

The dragon took his caution in stride. “They will not harm you, of course. They are bound to my will and no one else.”

The woman standing beside Daenerys whispered something in a language Jon did not understand. Daenerys then locked eyes with the dragon. “I accept.”

There was a murmur of discontent at her words, but Durnehviir seemed satisfied nonetheless. “You may wish to block your ears,” he said, and when he spoke next, his voice boomed across the beach. “Diil-Qoth-Zaam.”

Some of the queen’s men started shouting when the dragon’s summons crawled out of the sand, their blackened bones glittering ominously in the sunlight. For the first time since they had met, Daenerys appeared a bit shaken, a strange pitch to her voice when she spoke. “What was that?”

“A shout. It takes many years to acquire the ability,” Jon hurried to say. “You do not need to be a dragon to use them, however.”

“Is that what you were doing all these years then, learning to shout magic?” Tyrion asked, making it sound as though it were ridiculous. In hindsight, even Sansa's initial reaction had been unfavorable despite it being her only option to survive at the time. He had to remember that magic wasn't real to the people of Westeros as it was in Skyrim. 

“He has no need of that,” Durnehviir said before Jon could, his voice taking on a slier note. “He is Dovahkiin.”

Tyrion’s brow wrinkled. “And that is…what, exactly?”

“It means that he has the blood of the dragon.”

That had a reaction from the crowd. “A mummer’s farce."

Jon winced. The blood of the dragon had a different connotation here, and he doubted the woman who likened herself to the mother of dragons would appreciate his ability to consume dragon souls. 

“My apologies—it means something different where he’s from,” Jon clarified. His gaze lingered on the skeleton soldiers still wandering the beach. Complicated emotions arose in him at the sight. As someone who had once been part of Stendarr’s order, he spent a lot of time in the company of necromancers. 

Tyrion’s voice called him back to the situation at hand. “They do not look like ordinary dead men.”

There was a hint of pride in Durnehviir’s voice when he responded. “I cultivated them in the Soul Cairn.” 

“And where is that?” Daenerys commanded, speaking for the first time since he had demonstrated the shout. The queen had long since lost that look of fear in her features, but something else had replaced it, a faint suspicion. 

He needed to find a way to rid her of it quickly before it had time to set in. “A hell,” he said. “Where souls trapped by dark magic go.”

“Have you been there?” She pressed, violet eyes strangely dark.

“Just once. There was someone I needed to find there.”

“That is how we meet,” Durnehviir added, teething showing in a distorted grin. “I had been that woman’s jailer for thousands of years, and he had come to free her. I lost our battle.”

That last line had been deliberate, judging by the looks it caused. “I had help,” Jon said evenly. “I must apologize again for our meeting in this way. I did not intend for it.”

“You mean by stealing from me?” There was a challenge in Daenerys’s voice. 

“This wasn’t your island yet.”

Her gaze turned frigid. “And who holds it then? You?”

“No. Dragonstone was empty. Now it's yours. If you wish us to leave, then we will.” Unspoken was that if she attempted to force them to stay, Jon would react in kind to that threat.

“No,” Daenerys said abruptly. “You’re our guest. You and Durnehviir, of course, should you wish it. I’m very interested in these strange faraway places you both have told me about. We can talk further about the dragonglass tomorrow. Now I’d like to see what I came here for.”

They were dismissed without the dragon queen losing face. He was grudgingly impressed; not many could face a dragon so calmly, never mind the discovery of magic foreign to this realm. Her entourage moved up toward the castle, her armies spreading across the hills to make camp. Suddenly, there were thousands of suspicious eyes on him after weeks of isolation. Jon didn’t like it. 

He didn’t want to step foot inside the castle until she invited him, either. Instead, he lingered by the beach, in the caves he had spent the past week in, eyes trailing over the patterns carved into stone. Perhaps he could show them to Daenerys Targaryen later as proof of the White Walker’s existence, but she would more than likely think it was a trick. 

Durnehviir was waiting for him when he left the cave that night. “When did you stop trusting me, Thuri?”

Jon looked away. They were going to talk about it then. The waves crashing against the shore were larger than usual; a storm was rolling in. “It’s not that simple.”

“I gave you my loyalty.”

“You gave your loyalty to Alduin once.” 

“Yes, when the world was young,” Durnehviir agreed. “In time I realized I wanted more.”

“That’s the problem then, isn’t it? Perhaps you’ll want more again in this world that has no defense against you.”

The dragon growled. “It was not a betrayal to want power of my own. Do my vows mean nothing? Do you think I lie in order to trick you?”

“No!” Jon snapped, turning back. “But you keep pushing me, Durnehviir, to do the worst—if not pushing, then at least seeing if there is a point where I’d ever agree to it.”

“Is it not in your nature? Why settle to do the will of those weaker than you?” 

“You told me you respected Paarthurnax—”

“I don’t disregard Paarthurnax the way my kin did before you defeated Alduin because I remember. I was there when mankind feared him as much as they feared our brother, and not when he turned to their side. Paarthurnax is the way he is now because of what he was then. Two sides, two extremes—I am not Paarthurnax because I do not despise my own nature,” said Durnehviir.

“I don’t think he does, either. He overcame—”

"It is farcical. We are dov, destined to rule one way or another.”

Jon didn’t respond immediately. “He was willing to let Alduin destroy the world if it came to that.”

“I pity him then. Trapped between two sides who will never truly accept him—but that isn’t quite true, is it? Now he is Thur of all dragons whom Alduin resurrected.”

Jon sighed, well and truly fatigued with the conversation. “And there have been fewer dragon attacks because of it, so he’s succeeding.”

The dragon showed his teeth. “Such loyalty. I do wonder: could you kill him? If he had lost himself to power once more, could you kill your mentor for the greater good?”

“I’ve done that already,” Jon snapped before falling silent. He let the sound of the waves wash over him, taking his anger and the intensity of his voice with it. “The Vigilants of Stendarr were all I had for years, and I watched so many of them fall. Why do we keep returning to this? Why can’t you just let this rest?”

Durnehviir met his eyes. “You're certain you do not share blood with that woman, but I am not. A destiny passed within a single bloodline for hundreds of years to reach you—doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“Stop trying to get a rise out of me.”

“Stop deceiving yourself,” the dragon said sharply. “Do you think those inferior dragons approach just anyone? They are bound to a single bloodline. That one reached out because it could sense it. I wasn’t sure before meeting this dragon queen, but I am now. You were brought to Nirn for a purpose, and you were brought back for another.”

The dragon’s words drained him. “The gods are cruel.”

“You were a Vigilant; you already knew that.”

“I need her to trust me,” Jon said curtly. “Her dragons breathe fire. It could be the difference between winning and losing to the Night King’s army.”

Durnehviir’s response was cool. “You will not even believe in the possibility that you are one of these Targaryens.” 

“It makes no sense," said Jon. "My father—”

“Perhaps your father wasn’t your father then.”

Jon paused before shaking his head. “I’m going to bed.” His mother was a mystery, but Ned Stark had always been his father. It was his connection to his siblings, to the Starks, to the North, to home. He had nothing in this world without it.

Chapter Text

Jon woke to snarling. He rolled to his feet, sword unsheathing in one smooth movement before his eyes had opened. The sight that greeted him was not one he expected. Durnehviir was puffed up like a furious house cat, lips peeled back to show rows and rows of deadly teeth. The dragon from the day before was back, head cocked in curiosity as it followed Jon’s moment. 

He resheathed his blade, rubbing his face. “What are you doing?”

“Volaan,” Durnehviir growled, “Intruder—it does not understand what I could do to it.”

“A terrible threat to be sure,” said Jon, a yawn escaping his mouth. After the day he’d had before, he was too tired to take this seriously.

“Do not mock me.”

“Mocking? All I mean to say is that you don’t need to go to war against a baby.”

The dragon had crept closer in the lull, and Durnehviir released another snarl, albeit without teeth. “It has no sense of personal space,” he said grudgingly. “Too used to sleeping close to its brothers, but I am no kin to this beast.” 

“Fine then,” said Jon, and deliberately began to move toward the larger dragon, waving his arms. It hissed, shuffling backward before shrieking, angrier than before, and then at last when Jon didn’t stop, it leaped into the air to disappear into the clouds. 

“It could have burned you for that.”

“I’m mostly fireproof anyway,” Jon said absently. He had spent a small fortune on the enchantments for it, but they had more than paid for themselves when fighting against dragons. 

“And what if he had gone for a bite?”

“I’m sure I would have flung myself out of the way in time. I have fought dragons before.”

“But I am not allowed to?”

“No,” Jon said patiently. “Because you would kill it, and then we would be at war with her, which would end quite poorly for all of us.”

The dragon seemed satisfied with the indirect compliment, which had been what Jon had intended. 

“You don’t normally stay so close at night,” he said as the thought occurred to him. 

Durnehviir’s voice turned sullen again. “The biggest of the three has taken over the volcanic tunnels I had been examining. As you say, I don’t want to kill it, so for now I will leave it be.” 

“Thank you,” Jon said graciously. He looked up toward the castle, and there were already banners hanging with a three-headed dragon. “If it's a matter of exchange, what would she want?” Jon mused. He wasn’t here in any official capacity. He was not Sansa’s proxy, though at the very least he could probably get a raven sent to her now.  

“Perhaps that we do not turn her and her armies to dust.”

“We’re not doing that—stop saying that where someone could hear.”

“I would know if someone was here.”

“Fine. I don’t want to hear it,” said Jon.

“I serve such a merciful lord.”

Jon shot him a look but he only laughed. “Come now, Thuri, it was only in jest.”

The problem though, Jon knew, was that it was never a mere joke with dragons.

The castle had transformed overnight. Gone was the thick layer of dust and the fabric covering the larger furniture. Countless men and women passed him in the halls, arms full as they went about their duties to a queen he was about to meet again.

He had been invited inside after partaking in guest right, following behind a woman who had introduced herself as Missandei, and two Unsullied warriors. He had left his weapons behind with Durnehviir; Jon wasn’t defenseless unarmed, and he had known they would be likely taken away anyway.

Missandei brought him to the throne room and moved to stand next to the queen, the Unsullied stopping just inside the door. Daenerys Targaryen was seated upon a throne carved from stone. 

Jon bowed his head once. “Your Grace.”

“I see you’ve learned some manners since our last meeting.” But there was humor in her voice, and Jon did not hold it against her. 

“You must forgive me. I’ve been away from Westeros for a long time.”

She was silent for a moment, fingertips tapping on the stone’s surface. “It feels like you and your dragon are not quite real to me yet. Like a dream. It happened to me once before in the House of the Undying. Impossible things felt so real then.”

Jon did not know how to respond to that. He must not have hidden his confusion very well because she smiled at him. It didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Durnehviir told me you both come from a land called Skyrim. Was it normal there—shouting, magic, talking dragons?”

Outside the window, one of her own dragons shrieked. “It depends on who you ask. Many of those living in Skyrim never performed magic, or met any monsters in the night, and shouting was only a power that came from old men living atop a mountain they would never visit.”

“And you?”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.” It wasn’t quite the truth. Jon hadn’t needed to join the Vigilants of Stendarr but destiny would have caught up eventually; there would have been a time when he came face to face with a dragon and chose to fight when lives were at stake. 

“Then we have something in common,” Daenerys declared, bringing his attention back to her. “I was born here, you know. Whisked away when I was only hours old to find refuge across the sea, but neither my brother nor I found safety in the Free Cities. I never had the option of a peaceful life. I have survived my Khal and son dying, Quarth and its warlocks, and countless attempted assassinations—all to return here, back to an island that was always meant to be mine. It is a peculiar feeling.”

He hadn’t known she’d had a son. “Returning to a home you don’t recognize,” he said instead. “I understand that well.”

“I’d heard from my advisers that Winterfell was held by the Boltons.”

Jon gave her a tight nod. “Not anymore. My sister Sansa Stark is the Warden’s regent now.”

She held his gaze. “Truthfully, I find it curious that you did not take the position of Warden of the North as Ned Stark’s eldest son. Men so rarely consent for a woman to rule.”

“I am not trueborn, Your Grace.”

“No,” she murmured, “I do not think that would matter. Something else stayed their hand—I confess I’ve heard rumors about you, Jon Snow. Strange, insensible rumors that have turned out to be true. You do have a dragon, though one very unlike my children. It makes me wonder if the other rumors might be true.”

Jon tensed. “I do not know my mother. Durnehviir—his bond with me is one of words. I do not share the kind of connection that you share with your dragons.” But even as he said it, part of him wondered. He wanted to ask if she could feel them in the boundaries of her mind, knocking with curiosity. 

“Fascinating,” she said, her eyes not leaving him. They were getting into dangerous territory; one wrong answer could lead this conversation to a terrible conclusion. “Explain it to me again—the army of the dead beyond the wall.”

So Jon did.

He had a wolf dream that night. 

He was hunting alone, deep in a forest with only the cold for company. He could not stay there forever; it was time to leave, to follow his prey south. The wolf let out a howl and none of his siblings answered. He hadn’t heard their voices in many years, but there was suddenly something else with him in the night. It towered over the grove of trees, steam rising from its nostrils, eyes gleaming like twin moons above him. It should not have been there, it wasn’t there at all—this was all Jon, the wolf—

Jon scrambled from the bed, breath coming out in short pants. It took him a moment to realize where he was: inside Dragonstone, in one of the guest rooms. Daenerys Targaryen had insisted, telling him it was poor manners to let a guest sleep outside. 

He ran a hand down his face. “Fuck.” It had been a long time since he’d had a dream like that, and worse still it had been interrupted.

The dragon was just curious. It held no ill will—for the most part. It was unlike any dragon he’d had the unfortunate chance of meeting during his years in Skyrim. Durnehviir wasn’t completely wrong in his assessment: they weren’t like him. They did not speak or use magic. They were not cunning in the way he associated dragons with the word, but they weren’t simple beasts either. 

He continued to watch them as the days passed and increasingly realized that they were clever in ways he had initially overlooked. They learned quickly, and most importantly, they were young. If this was how they were now, what would they be like in a hundred years?

Durnehviir, for all his grumbling, must have been having similar thoughts. 

“The largest one schemes. It guards its den as though it is a prize—hah! I used to live in golden temples built in my name, and it thinks I envy it. Silly beast.”

They stood together atop one of the cliffs, cool wind striking his skin as they looked down upon the beach. “But you agree that they are more intelligent than you originally thought.”

“It’s difficult to say. They still speak as animals do with snarls and grunts. Could they one day speak Dovahzul— to turn simple words into power? Do they feel the will to dominate, to seek out power? We do not share a common tongue, and so I do not have an answer for you.”

Durnehviir took off in a mighty beat of his wings. A few minutes later, rustling in the grass alerted Jon to someone approaching. 

“Jon Snow,” a voice called. 

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon greeted neutrally, turning toward the man. He knew little of him; that he was a Lannister; that he had likely killed his own father and ran off to become Hand to a queen an ocean away—and that he was one of the few people in King’s Landing that had treated Sansa well. 

Tyrion looked out across the sea. Daenerys’s dragons were flying in lazy circles above the water fishing. “They’re impressive beasts, aren’t they?”  

“They are that.”

“Yours of course—”

“Durnehviir is his own.”

“Of course,” the man quickened to say. “I never thought I’d meet a dragon in my life, let alone one that could speak. Or stare at us with such antipathy.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “He is not a tame dragon.”

“None of them are,” he murmured. “And I think they’re better for it.”

Jon glanced at him. There was a story there he would not ask, but he was curious anyway. “I suppose there’s a reason you came looking for me?”

“There is indeed. I was not present for your second meeting with Queen Daenerys, but I must admit I’m curious about this Night King.”

Jon was silent for a moment. “I confess I also have a question—why her?”

The man chuckled. “How did a Lannister become Hand to a Targaryen after our family’s bloody history? It’s hard to say. I was drunk for most of it, you see.”

“She would not have kept you around if you weren’t useful.”

“What stunning praise,” Tyrion said wryly. “The truth is, Jon Snow, is that someone else held the strings on that particular circumstance. I simply danced along.”

“Hmm,” Jon said. “I have never seen the Night King personally.”

The man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “And yet you sounded so confident in his existence.”

“Because massive undead armies don’t spring up out of nowhere. The White Walker I encountered beyond the wall was dangerous, yes, and if I didn’t have a knife made of dragonglass I might have had to retreat, but it was not any sort of mastermind.”

“So you did go beyond the wall.”

“Aye," said Jon. "It was reckless of me, though the main force is still months away from reaching the wall.”

“It sounds like you did just fine.” 

There was a humor in his voice that Jon didn’t like. “It’s not just men, you know, that raise with the dead. It’s giants and snow bears, and if the tales are to be believed, ice-spiders, faster than any man. They don’t need weapons—do you know what a few thousand rats working together could do to us? They could ruin our food storages and that would end us long before their main force ever reached Winterfell.”

Tyrion winced. “I see your point. It sounds as though it was rather foolish to go beyond the wall alone then.”

He needed the man to understand because he was Daenerys adviser, and it would help her to understand.

“I thought I would be fine because in Skyrim, necromancy is—it’s not uncommon in my line of business. When necromancers would reanimate corpses, most could handle one, maybe two simultaneously. Rarely did I run into anyone who could raise another—but very rarely, something that had risen beyond humanity, or perhaps had never been human in the first place could do it. Mass reanimation,” he continued grimly, “an army that does not require food or water or rest, that feels no pain and listens to every order without hesitation. I am troubled, Lord Tyrion. I flew Durnehviir from the wall to Dragonstone on mere conjecture for a reason. The Night King won’t stop with the North. He’ll continue south all the way to King’s Landing and further still. The Free Folk spoke of a being with an all-consuming hatred for humanity, and he’s coming for us.”

Tyrion’s voice was a touch unsteady. “It is quite the story. I would have trouble believing if I hadn’t seen your dragon speak and summon those strange soldiers—heard his voice laugh at us as though we were children.”

“He can be quite convincing when he wants to be.”

Tyrion went quiet. Then, “Is dragonglass truly all you need from her?”

“No,” Jon said, “but it's a start.”

He was in the volcanic tunnels the next time he met Daenerys Targaryen. 

Durnehviir had spoken of large tunnel systems that he was certain had housed even larger dragons in the past. Jon wanted to see them before he left, which he knew would be inevitable. He could not stay on this rock forever; he would have to return to Winterfell with or without the right to mine obsidian. It was clear, however, that the tunnels had not seen human traffic in many years. Jon followed a path at random, knowing if he truly got lost he could call Durnehviir. He was turning the corner into a larger cavern when he was hit with a blast of hot air. 

It was Daenerys’s largest dragon with black scales and bright red frills down its neck. It growled at him low in its throat, its breath simmering between its teeth from where it lay in a bed of sand and stone. 

“I had wondered if I would run into you,” Jon said, keeping his voice light. “Durnehviir’s been quite vexed with you lately.”

It should not have understood his words, but his growling grew louder as though he had. Drogon, Jon remembered was its name.

He took a chance to look around the cavern. It was large and warm, no doubt from vents carrying heat up through them. Dragons had probably claimed it before. He chuckled. “I bet after spending years growing up in a warmer climate this island is quite the shock.”

Drogon’s eyes watched Jon as he moved around him, careful not to make any movement that could be taken as a challenge. “I’d really like to pass by without you lunging at me,” he told him.

Light laughter began bouncing around the cavern. For an instant, he wondered wildly if it came from the dragon before realization set in. “I’m surprised he hasn’t already.”

Jon spun around to search for the source of the voice and found it behind the dragon, coming out of a different tunnel. 

“Your Grace.” Daenerys Targaryen was dressed in warm furs, hair spun into tight braids. It was the kind of clothing worn when one was about to be riding several hundred feet up in the air. “Dressed for riding, I see.”

“Jon Snow. I can’t say I expected to find you here.”

“Apologies if I’ve overstepped,” he said. “Durnehviir told me this place likely housed dragons larger than any I had encountered. I wanted to come see it when I had the chance.”

“I see. That doesn’t answer my first question, however.”

“Your first question?”

Daenerys came closer, passing by her dragon who trilled in greeting, a strange sound to come from a beast so large. “My dragons don’t like outsiders. Even to those who fed them when they fit in the palm of my hands, who watched them grow into this size. You, however, don’t seem to have that problem.”

“I think you overestimate their tolerance to me,” Jon said, nodding his head toward where Drogon lay watching him. Jon had no doubt that if he moved toward her, the dragon would retaliate.

Daenerys did not seem convinced. “I’ve heard Rhaegal has been paying you visits.”

He grimaced because he could not deny that. “Durnehviir tells me I smell like dragon. Perhaps it is that, Your Grace.”

There was something calculating in her expression as she came closer, one step at a time. “Why do you think that is?”

Jon had a choice to make: lie and potentially sever any trust she had in him, or to tell the truth and be judged. 

“Dragons had been gone for a long time in Skyrim—in all of Nirn,” said Jon. “They are not like the dragons you know. In Skyrim, they had been worshiped by humans they had enslaved, and then rebelled against in a bloody war that ended when their leader was banished through time, vowing to return.”

“It sounds like something out of myth.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “It was mere legend for thousands of years until he did indeed return, and granted his followers new life. They returned with their distaste for humanity intact. One such dragon attacked a guard tower, and I was compelled to fight it. When it died all its power rushed into me—that’s what it means to be Dragonborn. I consume the souls of dragons when they die.”

Daenerys expression was indecipherable. “You’ve killed many dragons, then.”

Jon exhaled. “Not in recent years. After Alduin was defeated, most of them chose to follow Paarthurnax, who fought on the side of men. He has been teaching them a new path.”

“You were the one to defeat this Alduin then?”

There was a tightness in his chest. “It all sounds a bit ridiculous, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps," she said, her voice betraying nothing. "What does your story have to do with my dragons’ curiosity about you?”

“I suppose one could ask how many dragon souls would it take for a man to no longer be a man.”

Her brow lifted. “You look human enough to me.” 

“I am glad of it,” said Jon with a mirthless smile. “But the dragons of Skyrim have always been able to sense it. I suppose your dragons can as well.”

“So you have gone from one world-ending foe to another.”

It was his turn to be shocked into silence. 

Her words were bold as she continued. “You’re a strange man, Jon Snow. By all means, I should ignore your stories as fairy tales or, less considerately, the ravings of a madman, but something tells me that you speak the truth. I could feel it the moment we crossed into the bay and an unfamiliar dragon was flying toward my ships. It feels like destiny for our paths to cross if a war against the undead is at our doors.”

Her dragons would bring an advantage that Jon would find in Westeros nowhere else—but destiny didn’t mean that it was in their favor. Anything could happen in the time between loss and victory. Judging from her expression, Daenerys was thinking the same.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know what to make of Daenerys Targaryen. 

She accepted his offer to tour the dragonglass cave. He showed her the carvings in the stone, the depictions of White Walkers on the walls. It was difficult to say whether it made any difference; she was polite but cold when she left him.

It was different when he came across her unexpectedly. 

He had gone looking for Durnehviir, staying away from the side of the coastline where the few villages of small folk still resided. He had told the dragon to avoid them as well to keep from being spotted, but with Daenerys and her dragons arriving, it didn’t matter as much as it once had. Amidst the clouds, Durnehviir and her green-scaled dragon were nearly indistinguishable. 

Jon found him far up on a bluff asleep. When Jon approached, he opened one eye and then shut it again in disinterest. “You should know I rarely came across sleeping dragons before this venture.”

Durnehviir opened his eyes again, studied him for a moment, and then yawned. “What does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” Besides Paarthurnax, his encounters with dragons before Alduin’s defeat began and ended with hostility. He never thought he would have the chance to get close to one without it attacking. He never would have thought they slept so much. 

“You interrupt my slumber, Thuri.”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but a screech interrupted their conversation. It was not the green dragon he had grown used to coming by, but the cream-colored one. It surged up from the sea with a large fish caught in its talons, and warbled excitedly as it landed above them on the cliffs, snapping up its catch with gusto. 

Durnehviir had raised his head to watch. “It finally caught something. A miracle with this one.”

Jon snorted. “It cannot be that bad at catching fish.”

“On the contrary. This one here mostly begs its brothers for their catches. When it sees game it lunges after it with a complete lack of subtlety, clumsily shrieking at it until it gets away.”

The dragon finished its meal, stretching its wings out as though to dry itself off from the salty water. “I’m sure he will learn how to fish eventually.”

“Hunger is an effective master,” Durnehviir agreed, but his tongue was sharp. “His brothers won’t be around forever. His largest brother already leaves farther with each hunt, and doesn’t always bring back his catch.”

“Māzīs,  Viserion.”

It was a familiar voice, commanding from below them. The cream-colored dragon rose, and then, taking a few steps across the cliffs, folded his wings and dove neatly past them. 

Jon moved over to the edge of the bluff and found her standing below them, the dragon circling her. Several of her guards stood a distance away. “Your Grace,” he called, raising a hand. Daenerys Targaryen looked up, and there was still delight in her features lingering from her reunion with her dragon. 

“Jon Snow. So we run into one another yet again,” she called back.

“I think we had similar motives for visiting this place,” he replied, a bit of humor in his voice, and Durnehviir obligingly swung his tail across the bluff, making himself visible to her. 

“I see.” Her voice became milder. “I was curious, actually, of what Durnehviir thinks of this place. It was home to my family’s dragons for many generations.”

Durnehviir released something like a laugh. 

“We want her to like us,” Jon reminded him.

The dragon eyed him before rising from where he had laid to get a better look at the queen.

“Drem Yol Lok, so we meet again,” he rumbled. “In a time long ago, my kin resided in temples built in our honor, though it has been many years since I have stepped inside one. Compared to the wasteland of bones that was the Soul Cairn, this is suitable.”

She didn’t seem to take offense to the non-answer. “I’m honored to hear that. I’ve been meaning to ask you some questions if you’re willing to answer.”

Durnehviir shook out his wings and then leaped down to where Daenerys stood. Viserion shrieked once before calming under her touch. 

“I may not answer them all, but you may ask.”

Jon had been left out of the conversation entirely, but he found he didn’t mind. He was a little charmed by her treating the dragon not merely as an intelligent threat, as he would be in Skyrim, but as an intelligent conversationalist—even if Durnehviir was simply humoring her. 

He slowly made his way down to where they stood together. Viserion was hanging back behind Daenerys, staring at Durnehviir as though he didn’t know what to make of him. He was smaller than Drogon, yet no less threatening in appearance. At his approach, the dragon’s nostrils flared, and it tracked his movement carefully until he came to a halt beside Durnehviir.

“I would very much like to see that sometime,” Daenerys was saying. “Permitted that your companion accepts, of course.”

“What would this be?” 

Her gaze turned toward him. “He speaks of battles between dragons being one of words.”

“Ah,” Jon said and shot the dragon a look. “It is true, as much as I understand. While I can learn and use the thu’um innately due to my nature as Dragonborn, I am still no master.”

“Can anyone learn this power?”

Jon hesitated before saying, “Yes, though it takes decades of learning to do so. Mastering even one shout can take years.”

“And yet you can learn them instantly.”

“Not instantly, Your Grace,” Jon said. “I must absorb power from another dragon or th’um user.”

She was quiet. “I must admit I do not understand what that entirely means, but you’ve said something similar before—about when dragons die.”

“It does not need to be upon their death. The dragon Paarthurnax once freely granted me the shout for fire.”

Durnehviir shook his head at the name. “He would do something like that.”

"Need I remind you that you did the same for me once,” said Jon.

The dragon bared his teeth. “That was for my own benefit as you might remember, Thuri. I wanted out of that wretched place, even if it was only for a few stolen moments.”

Jon did not understand this sudden hostility toward Paarthurnax. “Why do you treat him in this way? He was my mentor.”

“And Alduin was mine, and yet now you are my thur, and he rules the rest of our living kin.”

“So this is a civil dispute?” Jon said. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is our nature.”

Jon exhaled heavily, tired of those words, and then abruptly remembered who stood before them. “I apologize, Your Grace.”

She merely smiled. “No need. I find that many men are the most truthful when they forget they aren’t alone.”

It was a foreboding statement. “You’re probably right,” Jon said, deflecting the words clumsily. Then, before he could think better of it, “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.” Her voice was serene. 

“Do you have connections with all your dragons?”

She tilted her head, gaze finding her cream-colored dragon behind her. “You’re incredibly blunt, Jon Snow. Perhaps to your own detriment.”

Jon nearly winced. “You would not be the first to say so, Your Grace.”

“Indeed,” she echoed. “It is said that each Targaryen has one dragon to ride in their lifetime. Drogon chose me as much as I chose him, but all three are my children.”

Jon nodded, though it did not answer the question he truly desired. He wouldn’t bring it up, either: she might take it as a threat, and that was the last thing he wanted.

“I’d like an answer in return,” Daenerys said, bringing him back to the present. “Tell me about Skyrim—some interesting story. I confess from what little both of you have said I find myself immeasurably curious.”

Jon searched through his memories to find something that would intrigue her. “There was a college for magic in the north of Skyrim.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Really? Were you a student of this school?”

Her words surprised a laugh out of him, and Jon shook his head. “Gods no—I have little skill in using magic. I visited Winterhold only twice; once as a child looking for a way home, and the other I had been searching for something, and my companion suggested the college as a starting place.”

When Jon looked up, there was something a little sad about her expression, and he felt taken aback. “Your Grace?”

“It’s nothing. Winterhold just sounds similar to Winterfell. Did you go there hoping to find your home?”

“Aye, I did,” Jon said steadily. “I’d hoped everyone I’d spoken to was somehow wrong; that the maps were drawn incorrectly; that when I went north my family would be waiting there for me. Instead, I found a city that had been half swallowed up by the sea and a population that had a deep distrust of outsiders and magic users despite living so close to a school of them. I didn’t stay long.”

“Where did you go?”

“West. Eventually came to a port town called Dawnstar. Fell in with a group called the Vigilants—closest to the Night’s Watch I could get there.” He offered her a smile, though thinking of that particular point in time made him feel anything but. “Rest is history.”

“So you were an honorable man there as well,” said Daenerys, a spark of challenge in her gaze.

The smile dropped from his face. “I tried to be, but the thing I learned about honorable factions is that they’re still made up of individuals, and individual people can fall to corruption.”

“And what kind of corruption would that be?” She said dryly. 

“What is easy is not always good,” he offered her, and when it was clear it wasn’t enough, he added, “As Vigilants we made a vow to fight against evil—but if one is too weak to when it matters, it can be difficult to turn down the promise of power. A lot of them start out thinking they’re doing it for a greater good, that with great power they can save more people than those who died for it, but it never works out that way.” His voice was tight by the end.

“I’m sorry,” Daenerys said, and her voice was surprisingly sincere. “I didn’t mean to bring back bad memories.”

“No,” he assured her, “I was the one who brought it up. It’s been years. You’d think I’d have moved on by now.”

Her expression turned contemplative. “Try as I might, I too cannot truly leave my past mistakes and losses behind. It is something we all suffer from, I think.”

It was a relief to hear someone else speak it aloud. “I suppose it is.”

She looked at him for a moment longer. “I’ll let you get back to your business,” she said abruptly. “Farewell.”

Jon watched her leave, a raw feeling unfurling in his chest. More than anything, he needed her alliance. Queen Cersei was a threat while on the throne, but Daenerys was the key to the North lasting the winter and beyond. 

There was a knock on the door a few nights later.

“Jon Snow, are you in? The Queen has requested you join her in the solar.” 

Jon looked up in surprise and then rose from his seat. He didn’t know what to make of it, but he wouldn’t turn down the opportunity. 

Outside was one of her servants, and he followed her through the hallways until they reached a part of the castle he had not returned to since he had explored it before the queen had set foot on the island. Moonlight shone through the windows, casting shadows that followed them across the walls as they walked. 

“Your Grace,” he said upon entering. He found Lord Tyrion sitting across from her, a bottle of wine between them. Both seemed to have been drinking liberally from it. “My Lord.”

“Jon Snow,” he said, lifting his glass. “We were just talking about you and that cave. I would very much like to see those carvings.”

“I’ll give you the full tour if you’d like,” Jon said wryly, coming to sit across from them both. “Though I don’t know very much about them beyond that they exist.”

“Nonsense,” he replied. “I’m sure you know plenty more about it compared to us Southerners.”

Jon laughed somewhat helplessly; he had been gone from his home for a long time. What did he truly know of ancient northern folktales? “I’m not too certain of that, my Lord. I’ve heard you’re somewhat of a scholar yourself.”

It was the man’s turn to laugh. “It’s merely a hobby, one I’ve neglected in recent years.”

Daenerys Targaryen cleared her throat. “Not that this conversation isn’t enlightening, but I did call you here for a reason.”

Jon turned his gaze back to the queen. “Your Grace?”

“How much dragonglass would you theoretically need?” She said, and her voice gave away nothing. Still, his spirits rose. 

“Enough to make weapons. Arrows, spears—”

“You would need far more than what you can mine alone.”

Jon paused before nodding. “Aye. As much as you would be willing to grant us.”

She stared at him. “It is difficult, you must understand, to grant this request of yours. You come here with no official standing in the North, and yet ask me to save it for no cost. Without bending a knee, Sansa Stark is my enemy, and that would mean that I would be arming my enemy for nothing in return.” Her eyes had turned dark. “I know what you want, Jon Snow. You want an alliance, you want my dragons, but what will you give me?”

“We’re just trying to understand your motives.” Lord Tyrion inserted, his voice calculatingly light.

“I believe my motives are clear. I wish to save Westeros from a deadly threat, and to do that I need the ore found on this island,” Jon said, keeping his voice calm. Despite the man’s words, Daenerys Targaryen was posturing, growing impatient with their game—because that was what it was to her. She viewed his presence as political even when Jon emphatically said otherwise because that was just how it was. He couldn’t show up to a city to assist with a threat as a former Vigilant, he would always be Dragonborn, slayer of dragons, he was a threat. “I can help to convince my sister to bend a knee, but I cannot do so in her place. It would not be right.”

“Lady Sansa is a smart girl,” Lord Tyrion added. “She will do what is best for the North.”

Daenerys said nothing. Then she took a sip of wine and sighed. “I know you are not trying to be difficult. Either of you—even when my Hand is petitioning for mercy for my opponents.”

The man chuckled without a hint of nervousness. “I did tell you I wouldn’t lie to you, Your Grace. I believe the North could be our allies if we move carefully.”

“I don’t have time to move this carefully,” she said cuttingly. There was clearly a story there when the man shifted uncomfortably. 

“Ah, well,” he said, and then shifted his gaze back to Jon. “Do you believe Sansa Stark will bend a knee?”

She wouldn’t without persuasion, Jon knew. But that was not really what this was about. “Yes. She wants the North to thrive again, and to do that we need strong allies in the south. Queen Cersei is no friend to us.”

“She’s no friend to anyone,” Tyrion muttered, taking a long drink from his glass. 

“If anything, we have a common enemy,” Daenerys said, something speculative in her voice. 

Jon shut it down immediately. “Apologies, Your Grace, but we don’t have the men to support you in taking King’s Landing. I know that, at least. Taking back Winterfell—it relied mostly upon having a dragon.”

A sound almost like a laugh escaped her. “If only it were so easy. What about you, Jon Snow? Would you fight for me?”

Jon exhaled. It was a question he had heard before and turned down without another thought. It was not so simple here. No longer was he beholden to no one but his own interests. “I do not think that would be appropriate without Lady Sansa’s input. I’m afraid that mine and Durnehviir’s presence in the north is a tumultuous one.” 

Daenerys laughed. The sound nearly made Jon jump; he had heard it so rarely, and did not especially expect it here. Nor was a particularly kind sound. “I would very much like to meet Sansa Stark. You’re so careful with words, but I see through them easily. She is using you, very cleverly, and you’re letting her. How much of the north sees you as a figure out of folk tales, taking back the north with an ice dragon, and how many believe you to be a Targaryen bastard?”

Tyrion nearly spilled his wine. “Your Grace—” 

He held her gaze. “Mostly I am Ned Stark’s once-missing bastard.”

She was silent for a tense moment before she took another small sip of wine. “A very civil answer. Lord Tyrion, I would ask you to leave us now.” 

The man protested before eventually doing just that. His expression on the way out seemed to be a plea for continued civility for them both. 

The room seemed smaller now that they were alone. 

“I really shouldn’t trust you,” she said coolly. “You’re a threat to me in so many ways. The downfall of my family began with a war between dragons.”

“I don’t want that, Your Grace.”

She sighed. “I know you don’t. Your sister on the other hand…I can guess what she wants. The North can just as easily turn out to be an enemy rather than an ally. I would be a fool to arm it with no promises in return.”

“It would go a long way in getting the Northern Lords to support you,” Jon said, and then, after seeing her expression, added quickly, “I know you do not need it, but it would make their support less resistant. They would be indebted to you.”

When she didn’t respond, Jon continued, “Eventually the Night King will make it south, all the way to King’s Landing, and then you’ll have to fight him alone, with the entirety of the North added to his army.”

“I’ve trusted quickly before,” she said, turning the wine glass in her hand. “Sometimes because I was young and naive, or desperate—and many of them ended up betraying me eventually. Now I am none of those things and you come asking me to do it again.”

Jon didn’t reply immediately. When he did, his voice was steady. “I could confess the same, though one of my closest companions in Skyrim was someone I should have never trusted. She should have been my enemy.”

Daenerys looked up. “Oh?”

“Her father had a plan to enslave all of Skyrim.”

Her expression turned cold, and Jon remembered she'd had her own battles against slavery before returning to Westeros. “What was his motive?”

“Power,” Jon said succinctly. “That and hunger. There’s a disease in Tamriel that makes one crave blood. He wanted to turn the population of Skyrim into his blood farm to glut on. ”

“How peculiar. You really do have the strangest tales,” Daenerys said, but she was leaning closer, the tension in her features easing to curiosity. “I suppose his daughter was infected too?”

“Aye,” said Jon. “We met when she asked me to escort her home. The world had changed during her long slumber, and she did not know the way back. I thought it would be a chance to see what we were really up against—a temporary invitation into his court. It didn’t take me long to realize she was nothing like her father, especially when she showed up a few months later asking for help in defeating him. I tried to keep a distance at first because, like you, my trust had been broken one too many times already.”

“But you must have given in eventually."

He shrugged helplessly. “She had my back for months—it was hard not to. I don’t always like her methods, but she’s efficient in a fight. A scholar of magic as well, though some of the things she talks about admittedly go over my head. She’s brilliant.”

“Do you miss her?” When he looked up, the skin around her eyes had crinkled, a smile softening her features. 

He swallowed. “Aye, I do. I’m glad I returned, my family needed me, but I wish we’d had more of a goodbye.”

She was silent for a moment. Then, “You love her.”

“Of course I do. Serana is one of my dearest friends.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he said and exhaled. “It’s just easier…not thinking about it. It would never work out for us.”

“Why not? It sounds as though you had enough political capital there to marry just about anyone you liked," Daenerys said. 

“That’s not the issue,” he said, nearly despairing. It made him think of the conversation he’d had with Sansa months before. “It’s complicated. She doesn’t feel the same.”

Daenerys stared at him for a moment before laughing. “I find that difficult to believe.”

“No, it’s true,” he said heavily. “We talked once about the future. I was so certain as a child that it would be better for me to never marry and have children. In Skyrim that didn’t—it didn’t matter that I was baseborn, but it still held true for me. She told me that love wasn’t for her either, and that was that.” Jon also had his vows to Stendarr to contend with then, but he didn’t need to tell her any further about that chapter of his life. It had long since closed.

“Well, I certainly understand the sentiment,” Daenerys murmured, fingers tapping against the table. “My first marriage wasn’t entirely pleasant.” Jon glanced at her, and she caught his gaze. “I don’t often think about the past. What’s done is done. It’s better to look to the future.” 

He couldn’t quite agree. For a long time, all he’d had was his past. “In any case, I’ll likely never see her again.”

She didn’t respond immediately. “My advisers will no doubt push me to remarry after taking King’s Landing.”

“Is that your wish as well?”

“What a daring question.”

Jon winced. “Apologies, Your Grace.” Distance, he reminded himself, was the best method when speaking with royalty. 

“You’re very blunt, you know. You probably got away with it in Skyrim because you were its hero.”

“If I’ve offended—”

“You haven’t.” Abruptly, he realized she was probably just teasing him. “I’m surrounded by some of the best liars in Westeros. It’s nice to have someone tell me what they truly think for once.” 

The tension in his shoulders had faded by the time he had found the words to respond. “I’m glad someone appreciates my failings.”

“You can be surprisingly amusing,” she said, her brow lifting. “I wasn’t expecting it after our first meeting—you were so grim.”

There had been a good reason for it; he had not wanted to fight her or her dragons, though she likely comprehended that. “What about you, then?” Jon asked and immediately winced.

“There it is again. I might take offense to such a question.”

He grimaced. “Do you?” 

“We’ll see,” she said, but her expression was still warm, no doubt in part due to the wine. “I had a lover in Meereen, but it was easy to leave him to come here. I don’t think that’s love. My marriage with Khal Drogo—I was so young and scared. What could I know of love then?” She paused, eyes returning to the glass in her hand. “I think your love for this Lady Serana sounds very sweet. I doubt my future marriage prospects will have the same kind of decency.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It doesn’t matter. This is what choosing to be queen means.”

Despite her words, he felt a pang of sympathy for her. “Well, I hope you will find happiness nonetheless, even if it does take a miracle.”

She laughed. “I don’t need miracles—just the throne.”

Daenerys sent him word the next morning: the Starks would be allowed to mine the dragonglass from Dragonstone and send it north. She had also sent some of her men down to the beach to begin mining so that it would be ready to be transported north when their ships arrived. 

Her message left him with a surge of relief. Far from the north, thinking about what awaited him upon his return had been a nebulous exercise. Now his purpose for traveling had paid off—but Sansa was not going to be happy with him.

Daenerys saw them off early. The fog had yet to lift from the waters around the island as Jon made certain he had all his supplies packed. Behind him stood Durnehviir, harnessed rather haphazardly to carry some of the dragonglass back to Winterfell. It was somewhat of a marvel that Jon had been able to coax the dragon into accepting the extra weight. They were mostly quiet as he worked, and then he scaled the dragon as they prepared to travel north. 

It had been itching in the back of his mind, and now he had run out of time. He looked down from Durnehviir, finding the queen watching back. “May I give you a word of advice?”

“You may,” she said staunchly.

“I think you’ve been advised to move slowly, to take key targets and slowly starve Cersei out. Perhaps that is the right call if you only had your armies to rely on,” Jon began, “but you have dragons. Everything I’ve heard from my sister tells me that giving Cersei more time is the most dangerous thing her enemies can do. Don’t give her the chance to take hostages, to create weapons against your dragons, or to seek out your weaknesses.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

He nodded once, and then Durnehviir lifted off. The island grew smaller until it was a mere speck in the distance as they flew higher into the clouds. Then Jon was forced to look ahead. 

Chapter Text

Winterfell was in sight when Durnehviir stopped short, casting a dark shadow across the landscape beneath them. “I smell powerful magic in the air,” he rumbled. “It was not here when we left.”

Jon went tense; he had only just gotten them back. “Is it dangerous to approach?”

The dragon sniffed the air. “No,” he said eventually. “I will bring us closer.”

The winter town outside the castle had filled in their absence. It was a small comfort that the smallfolk were still gathered near Winterfell. If something had happened inside, it wasn’t severe enough to be noticeable yet. 

Durnehviir dropped him off in the courtyard. Men shouted in alarm, but it quieted when he was recognized.

“Snow,” one of the men cried. “You’ve returned!”

“Where is Lady Sansa?” Jon commanded.

“Er—She’s been spending time in the glass gardens—”

Jon took off without listening to the rest; he could apologize for his rudeness later. He passed by the inner walls that separated the yard from the first keep and abruptly came to a halt. A woman was standing in the distance with dark hair pinned to her head, her face shadowed under the canopy. 

“Ser—Lady Valerica?”

She looked at him with the same mild distaste he remembered. “Dragonborn. I suppose I should be flattered you mistook me for my daughter.”

“I-I apologize,” he said erratically and then shook his head. There was nothing about this that made sense. “How are you here?”

“Is it not obvious?” She drawled. “I used the locating stone I sent back with that dragon of yours. Your sister has been…most hospitable.”

“Pardon?”

“Stop teasing him, Mother.” 

It was a familiar voice. Jon’s eyes strained for the source and found it; blocked from sight by the walls before, a woman was walking toward them. This time it was unmistakable. 

“Serana.” His feet moved him toward her without conscious thought. The woman flipped back her hood as he drew closer, revealing dark hair and eerie golden eyes. 

“Indeed.” Her voice was cool. Jon took a half step back at her tone. Then she sighed, some of the tension in her features immediately easing. “I thought you had died, Jon. Imagine my reaction when I received a letter from my mother telling me that you’d gone home—that you appreciated our time together.”

Jon winced. “I'm sorry, but perhaps we can have this conversation less publicly.” 

“If that’s what you want.”

“It was an insufficient goodbye.”

She merely looked at him for a few moments before her mouth twitched. “Very well. We’ll speak later. I believe your sister is in the granary.” 

He resisted the urge to ask her to join him; it was a clear dismissal. The granary wasn’t far from the glass gardens, and so he left the two behind, the adrenaline that had come with the worry of something having gone wrong giving away to something unbelievable yet good. He had a thousand questions, but they would have to wait. 

He found her assessing the food stores. “Sansa,” he called, and the woman turned in an instant, expression caught in surprise. 

“You’ve returned,” she said as she moved closer. “That sound overhead must have been the dragon then. I was beginning to worry.”

The granary was fuller than it had been before he’d left, but it wasn’t enough, not nearly. “You received my ravens, didn’t you?”

She let out a wild laugh. “The undead army is real, I’ve gone to Dragonstone to mine dragonglass—oh, and Daenerys Targaryen has arrived in Westeros. Will try not to mess everything up—that message?”

“It was several messages, but yes,” Jon said, and he couldn’t help but smile. “Surely you weren’t that worried. I had Durnehviir with me.”

“It was more about not starting a war.”

“Not to worry then, I succeeded at that too.”

Sansa sighed, holding a hand against her forehead. “Well, that’s something. What was she like?”

“Intelligent and ambitious. She also understands hardship—I think she will be a fair queen.”

“Hmm,” his sister responded. Her mouth had thinned. “The North won’t accept her.”

“They will if we do.”

“Yes, I suppose they would,” she murmured. 

“The bigger question is whether you will.” It would be Rickon’s seat one day, but it was Sansa who held power in the north at present. It was ultimately her decision, though Jon hoped to convince her of the necessity of their alliance.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The two of you are quite similar, you know,” said Jon. “It’s part of the reason I believe she’ll do well sitting on the throne.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Sansa said coolly.

“I speak the truth. Regardless, you know we cannot survive alone.”

“Because of the undead army coming for us all?” There was a note of scorn in her voice.

“We cannot rely on House Manderly, and Highgarden has already bent a knee to Daenerys. Ramsay's response to Durnehviir’s initial attack weakened us. The North will starve before the dead even reach us,” said Jon.

“Yet you expect her to help us for no cost?” Her head turned toward the glass gardens, which Jon had noticed had been fully repaired in his absence. It would still take time for any crops to grow.  

“It would be her duty to the north as one of her kingdoms. I have no doubt she would raise aid. Better than Cersei in that regard.”

Sansa turned her head back to face him. “But only if I am her warden, as long as I bend a knee. Have you done the deed already, or did you wait for me to have that honor?”

Air hissed through his teeth. “No,” he said. “Me bending a knee would mean nothing. I’m just the Stark bastard, as you know.”

“Don’t call yourself that,” Sansa replied sharply. “You know you are so much more than that. If you want to be legitimized—”

“I don’t.”

She threw her hands up. 

“I thought that was easier for you—with the Targaryen rumors and all that.” There was a hint of derision he hadn’t meant to show, not so soon after he had returned, at least. 

“You must think I’m a terrible person,” she said, her voice somewhat reckless,

“I don’t. Having power, control—it makes you feel safe,” he said.

“It’s so easy for you to say.”

“You’re not a bad person for that, Sansa,” Jon pressed. “It’s fine to have ambition. You know better than I what happened to our family without it—it sounds like we got trampled over by not playing the game. But there is a balance between having enough power to support the north effectively, and not being willing to give up just enough to accept assistance.”

“Bending the knee to a Targaryen usurper is not just enough. It would change everything.”

“I know,” said Jon, “but she believes me about the army beyond the wall. Sooner or later she will come north to support us in defeating it. Her armies and her dragons would be an enormous boon.”

“How very gallant of her,” Sansa exhaled. “We’ve worked so hard to get Winterfell back.”

“A truly independent north right now would kill us. Even with White Harbor, moving cargo through the snow is already difficult as it is, and winter has only begun. The war also took its toll. We’re reliant on the other kingdoms—”

“I know. I know,” Sansa interrupted, “but they tried to break us, and they almost did. At the very least we have other allies now.”

The reminder halted his current concerns for new ones. “When did they arrive?”

“Several weeks ago.” Sansa shivered. “They—scared me, at first. Something about their eyes…”

“They can be rather disconcerting. I’m surprised you didn’t kick them out,” he said a bit soothingly. 

She shot him a look. “How could I? They used some kind of magic to simply appear in the castle. They brought supplies—seeds for vegetables and grains that grow in cold weather and glass to replace what was broken in the gardens. They knew you by name.”

“I’ve known them for a long time,” Jon answered. “Well, Serana at least. Valerica…puts up with me grudgingly.”

His words seemed to surprise a short laugh out of her. “She told me you saved her daughter’s life and hers. That her aid was in debt to you.” 

Jon shook his head. “I didn’t do it for that.”

“I think she knows that. Her assistance in all this—I think it makes her uncomfortable, helping us. Making it a debt to pay off likely makes it easier.”

That was just like Valerica. Jon sighed. “Where is the portal? I’d like to see it.” 

“I’ll bring you there.”

Jon followed behind her as they traveled up into the keep itself, relieved at the warmer temperature once they were inside. Servants bustled through the hallways, many of them unfamiliar. Sansa must have hired them in the time he had been gone. They traveled further inside, where their family’s quarters were located. Sansa stopped outside one of the doors. 

“They appeared here,” She told him as she opened it. “Where you had left that strange stone. Lady Valerica told me it was a locating stone—not that I know what that means. I thought—well, I don’t know.”

“You thought they had come to kill you.”

“Well, yes,” she said wryly. “It was in the middle of the night.” 

The portal seemed to shimmer in and out of reality, showing nothing on the other side. Perhaps Jon had been hoping to catch a glimpse of the land he had known for eight years, because a hint of disappointment grew in him when there wasn’t. 

“They’ve been moving materials and other provisions through in batches. I asked, but they said it was better that they do it alone.”

A cool voice spoke up from behind them. “It’s because the walls between this world and ours do not like the living to pass through it. Odd things happen when they do.”

“Lady Valerica,” Sansa said politely as she turned to greet her. “I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“You’re not,” the vampire said mildly as she passed by them toward the portal. She turned back, meeting his eyes. “Resist, though you may be tempted. If you go through don’t expect a way back.”

“How does it work?”

The woman sighed. “You would not understand the intricacies of such a thing, and it would bore us both to explain. We’ll speak later no doubt.”

Sansa’s expression was carefully blank until she disappeared through the portal. “She really doesn’t like you.”

“I corrupted her daughter to believe in the goodness of humanity.”

His sister side-eyed him.

“It’s complicated. She doesn’t hate me, just…”

“Would rather you not exist in the same space?” Sansa finished.

“Exactly.”

He had missed her. She was different from the child he remembered, but they were finding a rhythm again that had not faded entirely in the time he had left for the wall. 

“Arya would love Lady Serana,” Sansa said a bit wistfully. “I’ve been thinking about that in these past weeks. A woman that fights with a blade and does magic—our sister would be hanging on to every word of hers.”

He hadn’t expected their conversation to turn toward her. “Aye. Do you truly think she lives?”

Sansa was quiet for a moment. “I have to believe it now, even if it's just for Rickon’s sake.”

“How is he?”

“He hunts,” said Sansa, holding her arms close. “I didn’t want to let him leave the castle, but it was stifling him. I let him go with trusted men only. He’s quite good at hunting—better than our brothers had been at his age, at any rate.”

“I suppose it's no surprise, given how he survived.” 

“No,” she echoed. “It’s not.” She went silent. Then, “Forgive me. I know you wish to tell me about your travels to the wall, but let’s speak of it later. Tonight, perhaps. I need to focus on one crisis at a time.”

Jon knew she was not taking the idea of an army beyond the wall as seriously as the situation required, but he knew arguing about it now would make no difference. “Fine. Tonight then.”

He found Serana in the Godswood.

It had taken him a few hours to get there; he had been moving through the keep systematically with Sansa going over the changes he had missed in his absence, of which there were many. More than ever he was glad it was Sansa who was regent and not him. She was far better at keeping all the moving parts organized and functional. Jon liked to focus on a single issue, to follow it until it reached its end before moving on to the next problem. It benefited him in many ways, but it did not make him a good leader for an entire territory. 

Stepping through the trees, Jon looked up as Durnehviir took flight with a flap of wings. Powdery snow rained down onto a smaller figure who was shaking herself off with a shout of surprise. 

“He can be quite rude these days,” Jon called in lieu of greeting as he grew closer. 

“Well he is a dragon,” she replied wryly as she turned toward him. 

“As he keeps reminding me.” It went quiet. Jon didn’t know what to say. His conversation with Daenerys flooded back. You love her, she had said. His confession then had been out of the knowledge that he would never see her again—but here she was, talking as though they had never parted. 

Serana spoke first. “I should have known you were all right. You always have been when you disappear.”

“Surely I haven’t disappeared so often.”

“You’ve had your moments,” Serana looked across the frozen pond. “This place explains so much about you. ”

“The Godswood?”

“Don’t be thick. You know what I mean.”

Jon let out a quiet laugh. “Aye, I know. Truthfully, I’d rather know how you came to be here. I asked your mother, but she told me it would be far too complicated for me to ever understand.”

Serana snorted. “It’s too complicated for me. Did you know that the object she sent through with Durnehviir was a locating stone?”

He shook his head.

“It wasn’t on a whim, of course. She’s always so clever. Knew that you would ask for more and that I would ask for a pathway through, so that’s what she did before either of us even thought to ask. It’s incredibly annoying sometimes—her inability to ask first.”

“Why did you come here?” 

She turned toward him. “Do you really need to ask?”

“Of course I do. I would not ask you to risk your life—”

“But I would. You risked yours to defeat my father.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“Maybe not,” Serana said evenly. “But I had no one else to ask, and you had no reason to accept, but you did. You helped me when everyone else in that decrepit fort would have rather staked me—or tried anyway.”

“Your father was a danger to all of Skyrim,” said Jon. “Even if I did not call myself a Vigilant by then, old habits die hard.”

“Oh? So you accepted a vampire’s plea for help because you were once a Vigilant?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

She laughed, and the sound stopped him. “I have missed you,” she declared. “Always so annoyingly virtuous.”

Jon scuffed his boot along the snow. “Perhaps you should team up with Durnehviir then. He’s been trying to connect me with my true nature.”

“Speaking of Durnehviir—he says you’ve been cozying up to a dragon queen.”

Jon shot her a look. “Those are not the words I would use.”

She laughed again. Jon found he had missed the sound. 

“Yes, yes, laugh it up, why don’t you,” he muttered. “I was attempting to grow our pool of allies—”

“I’m sure you were quite successful. They always love your hair and how broody and mysterious you are.”

“Oh fine,” he said, but he was laughing now too. “If she succeeds she’ll be queen of the seven kingdoms. It’s a useful relationship to cultivate.” 

“So you do like her?” Some of that humor had faded from her features.

“No,” he answered immediately, but he wasn’t in the habit of lying to her. “Not like that. She’s just—she has dragons, Serana. Nothing like the dragons of Skyrim, but they aren’t dumb beasts as Durnehviir might have you think.”

“He did say something to that effect.”

“It’s fascinating. Every boy who grows up here dreams of dragons, and I was no exception. She can call to them without speaking a word, thousands of years of magic bound to a bloodline that binds them together. They feel her emotions miles away—”

“And she’s very beautiful.” 

“He did not say that.”

“No, your sister did,” Serana said, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Quite disdainfully, I might add. Told me all about the Targaryens when I asked. Do you think she’ll be a good queen?”

“I don’t know. I hope so,” he said, holding her gaze. “I suspect nearly anyone is better than who currently sits on the throne.”

“I believe Sansa said the same thing.”

“She would know better than I anyway. She was their hostage for years. They…didn’t treat her kindly.”

Serana nodded. For a few minutes, they stood quietly together by the pond, frozen over by winter. 

“I remember this place so clearly, even through those years in Skyrim,” he told her. With snow covering the branches, the woods were unnaturally quiet. “Lord Stark would take us out here to tell us about the old gods and our family and the north. Our duty.”

“Your father?”

“Aye,” he said, his voice growing thicker. “His face has faded in my memories.”

“Then it is a relief that those moments with him have remained.”

“My half-siblings as well.” He went quiet. “Whatever I had imagined returning to, it was never this. At worst, I thought, they would have moved on without me. I would have preferred that. At least they’d—” His voice broke off. “My apologies. I shouldn’t do this now.”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Serana said steadily. “You don’t need to apologize. You were there for me when we defeated my father. What he had turned into…I didn’t grieve for that. But I did still grieve for what he had been in my memories.”

The grove went still again. He hadn’t dared to tell any of this to Sansa; she had enough to contend with back then without his own complicated grief to muddy the waters. “I’m glad you’re here.”

She exhaled. “I’m glad you’re alive. I didn’t quite believe it until I set eyes on you again.”

“I didn’t even think,” he admitted. “The door showed itself to me after eight years and I walked through it without a thought to anything else—except you. I thought, she’ll think I’m dead, and she’ll have to mourn someone else again. I was sorry about that.”

A cold hand found his own. Jon looked down in surprise, and then back to her. There was a softness to her features he didn't often see from her. 

“I know. You have a good heart.”

She was here, an impossible desire granted. Jon’s heart ached.

Chapter Text

“Tell me about this undead army.”

They were cloistered in what had once been their father’s solar. It was Sansa’s now, and yet it looked the same as it had in his hazy childhood memories. Serana had joined them, sitting in one of the empty chairs Jon had once sat beside with Rob when they had been especially mischievous and had been sent to Lord Stark, or if they had done something particularly worthy. At the time, it had been in those brief moments that he had felt like more than just the bastard of Winterfell. 

“The wall is warded against the undead,” Jon said, and watched as Serana’s expression turned to one of intrigue. 

“Did it hold against Durnehviir then?”

“Aye. He could not pass with me when I went north. I suspect it would hold against you as well.”

“You crossed the wall?” Sansa interrupted. “Alone? Really, Jon?”

He crossed his arms defensively. “I knew what I was doing.”

Serana snorted. “You said it yourself how dangerous these White Walkers could be, and yet you don’t follow your own advice. Typical.”

Jon decided he didn’t like having them both ganging up on him at once. “I lived, so it doesn’t matter. What’s important is what I learned from the excursion; that there is an army of the dead marching on the wall, White Walkers from Old Nan’s tales are as real as we are, and that they can make masses of the dead rise at once. The wights are weak to fire, but the White Walkers seem to fall only to dragonglass.”

“And the Night King?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “I wasn’t fool enough to go looking for him.”

“I’m glad you know your limits,” Sansa said coolly, and her next words were filled with a sharpness that made Jon wince. “What if you had died out there—would anyone have known? Would the next time I saw you be as a shambling corpse?”

“I’m sorry.” Her words humbled him a bit; it had been weeks since he had been around someone who treated him as though he could get hurt, who could die like anyone else. Having only Durnehviir for company had skewed his sense of rationality. Just because it was unlikely didn’t mean it was impossible for him to fall. He could have never reunited with Serana again, or Sansa or Rickon.

“What do you think he wants?” 

Jon turned his gaze back to the vampire. “Your guess is as good as mine. Better, probably, with your experience with necromancy.”

Serana didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, falling silent with contemplation. Jon returned his attention to his sister. “Daenerys Targaryen had some of her men begin to mine the dragonglass before I returned. We’ll likely have very little actual mining left to do—we just need it to reach the wall in time.”

“A tall order,” Sansa murmured. “Cersei won’t sit back and let us move across Westeros as we like.”

“No,” Jon agreed, “But she won’t have a choice, I think. You said it yourself once; she won’t last long against three dragons.”

“That was months ago. I wouldn’t underestimate her,” Sansa said grimly, her hands shifting in her lap. “If there is a way to kill dragons, she will use it without hesitation. She murdered half of the High Lords and Ladies of her own court when she blew up the Great Sept. It doesn’t matter to her if the innocent are killed in the process.”

Jon went silent. It was difficult to imagine the current queen of the seven kingdoms as he had never met her. When Sansa spoke of her, he thought of some of the Thalmor he crossed paths with, so set upon victory that any amount of bloodshed was worth the cost. 

Serana made a small noise. “I think the most important question is what is the Night King? Did he make himself, like a lich, or was he created by someone else, and why?”

“A potentially more dangerous enemy,” Sansa said swiftly, and the other woman nodded. 

“I don’t know,” said Jon. “The Night’s Watch didn’t have any more information than the Free Folk did, and they said nothing beyond the Night King’s power. There are old tales about the Corpse Queen and the Land of Always Winter, but those are just stories for now. We can’t prepare against an enemy we don’t know exists.”

“Then let's say that the Night King is at the top—how do we destroy him?”

Jon shook his head. “There has to be a way, some kind of weakness. For all I know, dragonglass would be as effective against him as it is for the White Walkers.”

Serana shifted in her chair. “I think the more pressing question is whether necromancy works here the same way as it does in Nirn.”

“You want to know whether killing the White Walkers will dismiss the wights,” Jon said, understanding immediately. “Gods—I should have tested that.”

At Sansa’s bewilderment, Jon explained, “In Nirn, for the most part but not always, killing a necromancer will subdue their animated corpses.”

“As though their strings have been cut,” Serana added mildly. “In this case, though, not an easy thing to prove.”

Sansa’s expression sharpened with interest. “But it would change how you think about fighting them, wouldn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “Fighting against necromancers in Skyrim is never about defeating the reanimated corpses, but getting around them to kill the animator. You can’t always destroy a corpse, and the necromancer can simply raise them again. But if you can get to the necromancer…”

“The fight ends,” Sansa finished.

He nodded at her. “Yes.”

She let out a half bark of laughter. “This is all so strange. But…I do believe you, Jon.” 

“It took me some time to get used to it being real and not fairytales, as it was here,” he admitted, thinking of those early months with the Vigil of Stendarr. “Well—up until I met one in combat myself.” He’d had to learn fast back then about all sorts of things. “We need Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons,” he said after a pause. “We need her as our ally. Durnehviir is a lot of things, but he is not a creature of fire. The most effective way to part the wights away from their masters would be through their fire breath—”

Sansa made a gloomy noise. “Of course we’ve circled back to this.”

Jon frowned. “We have to. She has massive armies, ships, dragonglass—dragons. You don’t need to like her to use her.”

Sansa blinked, staring at him for a moment. “That doesn’t sound very much like something you would say.”

“I’ve worked with plenty of people over the years I’m not exactly friendly with otherwise,” he told her. “When an entire continent is in danger, you don’t turn away help.”

“But what if the consequences of working with them are worse afterward?” Sansa shook her head. “It can be so easy in the moment to trust someone when you’re desperate, but afterward—when they betray you just like everyone else, what then? What will you do, Jon, if she decides she wants our family dead after all?”

It sounded as though she were speaking from experience. “I don’t think she will.”

“That’s not good enough,” Sansa said, an anxiety cleaving through her words. “I’ll accept her and her aid because we can’t afford to ignore it, but that doesn’t mean I’ll simply trust her not to burn us all afterward. You could win against her, couldn’t you? You and your dragon.”

“Durnehviir is not my dragon—”

“He’s as good as,” she snapped. “Promise me. Promise me that if she comes for our family you will strike her down.”

“And then what—is that when I take the throne?” Jon said derisively. “Do as Aegon the Conqueror did and just take what isn’t mine? Do you really think the war would end there? That the rest of the kingdoms would agree for an unknown bastard to sit on the throne? I’m not even a Targaryen!” He was nearly shouting by the end, voicing more than this one conversation’s grievances. 

It had been months through a long slog from one family’s keep to the next for support, during which Sansa ensured that no one among their bannermen would ever have him as Lord of Winterfell. It didn’t matter that he’d never had any intention of accepting it—it was the fact that she had felt the need to do so in the first place. Sansa had bigger, more ambitious plans to rip every bit of power back from her enemies, and she had put him right in the thick of it. He forced his voice quieter again. “I’m not going to be your pawn in your revenge.”

“This isn’t about revenge,” Sansa retorted, her cheeks flushed with anger. “This is about living through the possibility of another mad king.”

“Daenerys Targaryen isn’t mad,” Jon insisted, standing from his seat to pace the walls. He felt like he was going a little mad. “Truth be told, I believe she’ll be a decent ruler at the very least. She listens to her advisers, thinks about the small folk—”

Sansa snorted, and he rounded on her, but she was already speaking contemptuously, “What great praise in such a short time of meeting her.”

There was a punch of abrupt laughter, and Jon remembered that they weren’t alone. Serana was still sitting in one of the chairs, cheek leaning on the palm of her hand. 

Sansa went still, tearing her gaze away from him. “I must apologize for our conduct, Lady Serana. I did not intend for this meeting to drag on like this.”

“Don’t apologize,” Serana said mildly. “But I think you’re chasing the worst possible future because that has been your reality for so long. What if this Dragon Queen is as Jon says she is? What if she is honorable and rules faithfully, and supports the north through the winter long after the fighting is over—will you be able to change your mind? Or will you forever chase the throne that was once to be yours?”

Sansa flinched and then stood, something strange passing over her features. “Clearly the two of you have decided what it is that I want well enough without me.”

“Lady Sansa, I meant you no offense,” Serana said, her voice softer than it had been before. “Please stay. I did not say that to hurt you…”

Jon expected his sister to leave anyway, but she did not, staring intently at the vampire as she spoke, her arms limp at her sides. 

And Jon knew what it was; not glamour, but simply the full force of Serana’s presence focused solely upon her, that inhuman potency meant to lure mortals full of hot blood into dark alleys to be fed upon. He had rarely seen Serana use it, only sometimes in taverns when it had been weeks in between meals. He tried not to remember it because remembering came with feelings like jealousy, something he should not have been feeling about his vampire companion feeding on other humans like they were cattle. 

But Jon thought about it anyway, her getting close enough to brush teeth against his neck—

Sansa had taken a seat again, her features tense but no longer on the verge of leaving. Jon exhaled, hating those dangerous thoughts, and knowing why they tormented him now. It had felt safe then to speak to Daenerys Targaryen of love when they were soft from wine, but Serana was no longer in a far-off realm, she was here.  

“I won’t turn away her help, but what exactly should we expect?” Sansa said coolly.

“For now, the rights to mine,” Jon told her. “We need to send men south to bring back the dragonglass. I’ll go with—”

“No,” Sansa said instantly. “That would be a waste. We’ll send someone else.”

“But who?” Jon pressed. “Who do we have that we can trust to send to Dragonstone?”

Sansa didn’t have a sufficient response that night, but the next day brought answers with it. At the gates of Winterfell were two familiar men—Sam Tarly and Ser Davos Seaworth. With them came a woman and child that Sam gave a stumbling explanation that they were Free Folk who didn’t have anywhere else to go—and that he vouched for them. It was clear there was more to the story, but neither Jon nor Sansa had reason to turn them away. 

The full tale came later that night with alcohol in their systems. Sam Tarly was on his way to the citadel to search for information on the Night King. Alliser Thorne, the Lord Commander, while cruel, was also not a complete fool; more and more of the Night’s Watch reported encountering wights, or worse, never made it back at all. With the maesters of the citadel still skeptical of their reports of the dead walking, he’d had no choice but to give into Sam’s requests to take leave. Sam had taken it as an opportunity to get Gilly and her son somewhere safer—to Winterfell. 

“And you, Ser Davos?” Jon asked, turning his attention toward the man. He had been quiet the whole night, citing the biting cold of their travels. “What brings you here?”

The man was slumped in his chair, expression weary. “I don’t believe my strengths were being put to use there. Working with men like Janos Slynt and Alliser Thorne…I thought it would be better to turn south again.”

Jon was silent for a moment, thinking. “I heard you were a sailor.”

“Aye, a captain,” Ser Davos said. “Though I haven’t been on the sea since traveling north.”

“And a knight,” Jon added. “I may have a task for you, Ser Davos. One that is crucial in our fight against the Night King.”

The man looked up from his drink. “What would that be?”

“There will be a ship going south to Dragonstone with some of our men. There is dragonglass there, a mountain of it, and Daenerys Targaryen has given us permission to mine it. We need to get it north.”

“You need to get it north without Queen Cersei or the Ironborn giving you any mind,” the man said, and there was a new brightness to his eyes. 

“Yes,” Jon agreed. “Are you the man for such a job?”

The man chuckled, and it was the sincerest he’d ever seen him. “I was a smuggler once. Aye—I can do that for the Starks.”

It was one problem solved, but more always followed. 

Now that he was back, Jon was confronted with the same issues that had existed before he had left: rations for winter. The glass gardens were nearly fully rebuilt, and Sansa had plans to build more with the supplies Valerica was moving through with nearly perfect reanimated corpses—ones which even Jon had to watch carefully to notice they weren’t living people. Some of them even spoke, mere echoes of the people they were once, but it was enough to fool anyone they briefly encountered. 

He wouldn’t tell her to stop as they had no other method, but if any of the servants realized what they were, the situation would turn in an instant. Sansa didn’t seem to realize what they were either, or she was staying ignorant on purpose. With building materials and crops and goods they could sell for capital, they couldn’t afford her to stop.

Jon couldn’t understand what her motive was for going this far until Serana told him one night, a bitter twist in her voice. “She plans on staying here. Skyrim bores her. There’s all kinds of new esoteric magic in this world. Even I didn’t know until I asked her a few days ago. My mother isn’t normally this altruistic.”

Jon didn’t control his expression well enough, and Serana added, “I know. I know you don’t want her here forever.”

“Westeros hardly needs vampires,” Jon said before he could think better of it.

Serana went still and then her expression chilled. “I see,” she replied crisply, and walked away, leaving him to feel like a fool.

Jon caught up to her. “I didn’t mean it like that. If she turned anyone—”

“In our thousands of years, I don’t believe her to have turned a single soul,” Serana informed him coolly. “She is not my father—she locked me in a tomb and hid herself in the Soul Cairn to ensure that he would not have his way. She has never had an interest in affecting the politics of the mortal realm. That would not change here.”

“I—I know,” Jon said tightly, but he had spent too many years hunting vampires to accept it easily. There was always going to be a part of him that worried. “I thought she was going to move back into Castle Volkihar?”

“Well, all the servants are dead—”

“The thralls?” Jon said deliberately, and she shot him an irritated look. 

“Yes, Jon, the thralls. All of them are either dead or gone. The other vampires of his court as well, though I suppose she wouldn’t care for them. The castle, however, was nearly destroyed by our fight with Father, and the parts left are in complete disrepair. She could repair them, much like how she is repairing the glass gardens now, but I think she has always preferred to leave it behind completely if another option arose, and it has.”

Jon dragged a hand down his face. “Where has she been getting the corpses anyway? Tell me she didn’t kill them for this.”

“Of course not,” Serana replied coolly. “I believe she has been liberating them from Solitude’s Hall of the Dead. There might be a few bandits she ran into as well.”

A laugh escaped him, thin and somewhat alarming. Sometimes he forgot that Serana, for all the kindness she showed him, was still a vampire. She tended to care more about individual people than populations as a whole.

“Besides,” Serana continued haltingly. “She’s…happy here. I think she likes having gardens to tend to again. This far north in the winter, she can be out in the day comfortably. You were the one to encourage me to repair our relationship.”

He cringed a bit at her words because they were true. “Gods, very well. I won’t say any more on it.”

She glanced back at him and sighed. “No, you have a right to worry, though I don’t believe she’ll stay here forever. There is a city—Asshai, I think, that she has heard about. If we all live through the winter, I believe she will go there eventually.”

Jon wracked his brain for any memory of it and found nothing. “What draws her there?”

“Magic,” Serana said succinctly. “There’s all sorts of stories about it and the Shadow Lands.” She hesitated for a moment. “I probably won’t see her again for a long time if she goes, though I suppose I’m used to it.”

“I’m sorry. I know you wished for…more,” Jon said carefully. He knew Serena's relationship with her mother had been tenuous for a long time, even before she had locked her away. 

She shook her head. “It’s fine. Let’s get back to work.” 

There was a question suddenly burning on his tongue, but Jon resisted it. Perhaps he didn’t want to know the answer yet.

Chapter Text

The trees were ablaze with smoke. Jon came to with a gasp and then went on to hack his lungs out. He got to his feet afterward, legs shaking as the fire crackled around him. He needed to leave, yet he didn’t know where he was or where to go. 

“Killing me changed nothing,” a voice said, and Jon turned and found a man he had left in the past—except there was no leaving something like this in the past, not really. 

“Where are we?”

“Nowhere,” his dead mentor told him. “Anywhere. This is just a dream, Dragonborn. It isn’t real.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jon snapped. The man laughed. 

“That’s right—you weren’t a dragon yet. That saved you, you know. Where’s the fun in chasing after some mere mortal?”

Jon looked away, searching for a breach in the ring of fire, but there wasn’t one. There was never a way out. Not here in these woods, or in that dark temple hidden under a beacon of light. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” he said with a facetious smile. “Well, I am curious. Do you ever worry about your moral character? Falling in love with a Daughter of Coldharbour.” The man whistled. “What would your fellow Vigilants have to say about that?”

This was how Jon knew it to be merely a dream, his own mind taunting him; his mentor would have never been so flippant about his fraternization with the enemy. “I’m not a Vigilant anymore.”

“Is that so? Does it make it easier to ignore it then—the desecration of corpses, the blood that is no doubt being taken from your people, the allowance of a disease to enter your home?”

Jon didn’t answer. There was no point in any of it; a weightlessness to the dream that meant none of this was real. 

“It’s obvious why you don’t answer,” the man said, amusement tinting his voice. “Answering would be acknowledging your compliance in all of it. Well, good luck, Jon Snow. I suspect you’ll need it.”

Jon let himself look at the dead man before the dream fell apart. He was blurry around the edges of his features, as though Jon had forgotten what his mentor had looked like. Perhaps he had; locked away those memories like the rest of those last horrible months when everything had gone wrong in the final hours for the Vigilant in Skyrim. 

Then the dream slipped away, and Jon was looking through wolf eyes, and then he was high above the clouds on great wings, and then, and then—

Jon woke in the morning feeling distinctly unrested. He went looking for Durnehviir almost immediately; there was something foul itching under his skin. He found the dragon half buried under snow.

“The portal,” Jon said unceremoniously when he lifted his head, stirring awake. “What are the dangers of leaving it open like this? What else can come through it?”

The dragon stared at him for a beat. “You speak of gods.”

“Yes.”

“Not as much as you might think. The vampire cleverly opened the portal near a gate to the Soul Cairn—it throws off the scent. But even then there are gods here, and I do not believe them to be so weak. If a Daedric Prince attempted to travel through they would not be met with peace, especially not here in the North.”

Jon rubbed at his face wearily, not entirely convinced. His traitor of a mentor belonged to a chapter of his life that had long since passed. And still, his words burned in his ears.

The dragon made a noise like a sigh. “It must be closed eventually, but that gives more than enough time to use it to save your home. There is a more pressing concern at hand.”

He looked up quickly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been neglected.”

Jon glowered at him. “No, you haven’t.”

“I haven’t,” the dragon agreed. “And yet it is a funny thing; for months we had each other for company. Before that I only had the vampire, and we went centuries ignoring one another. I have missed conversation.”

“Do you miss your kin?”

Durnehviir tilted his head. “No. I have forgotten what it is like to have them. The Soul Cairn took much from me until I had very little left to give. I’ve regained some of it here, free from its pull, but I will never regain everything that I was.”

It saddened Jon to hear it, even after the many times Durnehviir had taken to needling him over the months. “There is a city, Asshai, and farther on, the Shadow Lands. Apparently there might still be wild dragons there.” He had done some research after his conversation with Serana, and though the city was the last place Jon would ever want to go, the words came anyway. 

“What would I care for those unpleasant beasts?”

He grimaced. “I don’t know. Just a thought.”

“It is not so easy to replace them,” the dragon said knowingly. “Never again will I see my true kin—that is the exchange I made for a new life. I’d rather have this than be alone in the Soul Cairn.”

He had grown into a man in Skyrim, and then he had given it all up to return to Winterfell only to be met with immeasurable loss, and still, he would not give that up. Jon understood the sentiment well enough. “Is there anything you would like to do? I imagine it is more than sleeping under the snow for days on end.”

“I have sworn to serve you, Thuri,” Durnehviir rumbled. “If that means staying close then so be it. There will be a time soon enough when we will return to the wall where my true curiosity dwells.”

“I see,” Jon said. He turned back toward the keep, letting the sleeping dragon lie. 

His thoughts returned to Dragonstone more often than not as the weeks passed. The Night’s Watch was the weakest it had ever been, the Free Folk remaining beyond the wall were likely still dwindling in numbers, Stannis Baratheon’s army had been entirely wiped out by Ramsay Bolton’s forces, and most of his forces had died to Durnehviir’s initial assault and then the brief attack on Winterfell. Many of them had surrendered, but it was not enough. They needed men to fight against the Night King and his army. 

They needed Daenerys’s armies as much as her dragons. 

“It’s not as terrible as you think,” Serana told him one evening in one of the sitting rooms. She was reading a thick tome, something out of her mother’s study from the castle. 

“I have no experience commanding armies,” he said grimly. “Even if we did have the forces necessary, we don’t have anyone to lead them. It’s been years since I’ve studied past battles—it's all just a blur from my childhood. I wish Rob was here. He was always better at it.”

“You may be right about that,” Serana said, looking up from her page. “But you’re forgetting one critical point—you’re not alone in this. Necromancy is my specialty. If there’s a weakness to exploit, we will find it.” 

“It still worries me to just sit here,” Jon muttered. The windows outside showed heavy snow coming down in the dark. 

“And what would you do if you left?”

“I don’t know—something stupid, no doubt. If Durnehviir could pass over the wall I’d already be out there scouting.” 

Serana put down her book, gaze finding his. “Do you trust him?”

He ran a hand through his hair, putting off his answer. “It’s complicated.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is though. I can trust that he will aid us until my dying breath—but what about after, when he is free to serve no one? Or before that, when he picks at me, attempting to goad me into the worst, bloodiest solutions, because that is what a dragon should do, according to him—or perhaps because it simply amuses him.”

“Hm,” Serana said, and Jon turned to look at her. 

“What?”

“When you summoned Durnehviir in Skyrim after those first three times, it was when you were at your most desperate. You summoned him to kill for you. But now he is here, in this brief suspension of peace, perhaps in this world forever. He likely wants to learn your character.”

Jon fell back against his chair with a sigh. “You’re probably right—not that I like it,” he added. “Truthfully, I feel uneasy about some of the things he says. About me and…what it means to be Dragonborn.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder what you’d be like as a vampire.”

Jon recoiled on instinct, but Serana only smiled thinly at him. “The idea scares you, doesn’t it? You spent so many years thinking us to be evil by nature, and many of us indeed fit that image. It is difficult to treat mortals kindly when we hunger for them so ravenously. When I first woke in that coffin after thousands of years, it took all the strength I had not to feed—to make you look into my eyes and bewitch you, to drink until you had nothing left to offer me.”

“But you did,” Jon said steadily.

“I did,” she echoed with a tilt of her head. “But I could have done it differently. I didn’t need you to help me find my way home, but I couldn’t quite let you go.”

They had never spoken of this before. “I don’t understand.”

“I think that your blood would taste like nothing I’ve ever had before,” she said, still in that mild tone, but her eyes had gone dark. She leaned closer and reached out, touching the tips of her fingers against his throat. “To be Dragonborn means more than the ability to absorb dragon souls and shout. You absorb power and it lingers around you. It probably lingers in your blood too. Vampires often develop certain tastes for blood, as you know. We’ll hunt similar victims for centuries. For a long time, it was clear to me that I should never learn what yours tastes like.”

His heart was beating loudly in his ears. “I see.”

Serana paused and looked at him. The hunger had never been clearer in her features. It was the thin ring of gold remaining in her eyes, a faint flush staining her cheeks, her mouth parting to show two sharp pointed teeth. 

Jon couldn’t stop looking at her. They had traveled and lived unaccompanied for years, never once thinking about propriety during their travels, but now they were in Westeros where there were rules about men and women being alone. It shouldn’t have changed anything, but it did. He was suddenly all too aware they were alone. Serana was looking at him as though she wanted to devour him. 

When they had first met, he had always been guarded with her, knowing what a vampire of her power could do. Now, Jon might let her. 

“Sometimes I wonder how it would have turned out for you and me if you had taken my offer back then,” she murmured. She had pressed a finger over his pulse; his skin felt unbearably hot. 

“I don’t think I would make a good vampire,” Jon rasped. “My issues with gods and—feeding aside.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore but at his throat, at that spot she was holding to feel his blood moving under his skin. “Serana.”

She looked up, her breath hitching. “I wouldn’t have let that happen to you, to create regrets you could never take back.”

The worst part was that he believed her. Not that he could fully trust her promise: he had seen more than a few of his fellow Vigilants fail to control themselves after they had been turned. But still, the fact that she would even try.

 “I don’t think becoming a vampire will improve this situation,” he said hoarsely. 

Something like disappointment cast a gloom over her features. She dropped her hand abruptly, leaning back in the chair. Her tongue ran over her teeth, and then she exhaled. “Maybe not. Tell me then,” she said, her book had been long forgotten in her lap. “How would you defeat the Night King if you had to do it now? What would be your plan?”

The unexpected change in conversation left his head spinning. “It would be impossible. I don’t even know what he looks like or where he is—”

“I know you can guess.”

Jon forced himself to relax first, the tension straining under his skin easing. Nothing had happened. It had just been a solitary moment, in a long span of moments they had both pretended never happened. “The only reason I would need to go now is if the wall’s wards were down. Durnehviir would be able to cross the wall. We would fly until we found his army.”

“Then what?”

“Then I would have him use some kind of shout—Cyclone, perhaps, to sow confusion. Durnehviir would act as a distraction once he dropped me close to the Night King. Then I would use the Slow Time shout, but I might not have an effective weapon, so it would be meaningless even if I could get to him.” 

“It’s not meaningless,” she told him. “You’re already thinking differently than someone fixed to the ground, and that’s how we’ll win. Why go through an army when you can simply fly over?”

“I’d be surrounded in a heartbeat, and it would be over for me. We still need the men—we can’t do this alone,” Jon said.

“No, but it’s a start,” said Serana. “No one here has fought an enemy like this before. We have. Stop doubting yourself and start with that.”

Jon wished everything else about his life was as simple. 

Jon had begun to drill along with the men-at-arms they had at Winterfell. They had already been training, but he needed to build their trust. He needed them to understand exactly the position they were in. 

Then they received a raven from King’s Landing. Maester Wolkan found them at supper, Sansa turning tight-lipped as she read. Rickon appeared disinterested as he moved around the food on his plate, but Jon knew he was listening. 

“What does it say?”

“Daenerys Targaryen has taken King’s Landing and has been crowned Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei is dead, she was found like that before they even arrived…I think you should read this, Jon.”

He reached out to receive the letter. His eyes ran down the page swiftly until he found what had alarmed her, and looked up abruptly. She looked about as dreadful as he felt. “I don’t think I can.”

“I think you have to. If she was willing to put this in a letter, then it's probably worse than she says.”

“What could burn a dragon?” 

“Wildfire,” Sansa said, and she shook her head. “It’s not a surprise, in all honesty. It’s how she blew up the Great Sept and all her enemies inside. She would use it again.”

Jon scanned the letter again. “It doesn’t say the city is leveled so—” He looked up. “Something about this doesn’t feel right.”

Sansa appeared faintly sick. “I won’t go back. Not ever, Jon.”

“I know,” he said. She had lost nearly everything there. “She’ll march north eventually. You can bend the knee then.”

Sansa let out a choked laugh. “That’s not any better. That’s worse. If I don’t go now, she will hold it against me.”

“She’s not going to do that. I will go south in your stead,” he told her. “I will do what I can to help her dragon, and it will be enough.” It had to be. Jon stood abruptly, handing her back the message. He turned to Rickon, who had gone pale during their discussion.

“You’re always leaving,” the boy said very quietly, and Jon had no defense because it was true. He bent down, catching his brother’s gaze. 

“I promise I’ll return,” he said, and swept from the hall, heading straight to the glass gardens. It was eerie in the dark; he had never gone inside one at night, but she was exactly where he was hoping to find her.

"Lady Valerica,” Jon called, and resisted the urge to flinch when those two yellow eyes found him.

“Jon Snow,” she said mildly. “I hope you have a good reason to interrupt me. I’m currently in the middle of planting a very fussy ingredient.”

“I do. Daenerys Targaryen has been crowned queen. I have been called south, one of her dragons was severely injured during the taking of the city.” Jon exhaled before his worries could consume him. “She hopes I can help because she has seen me do impossible things already, but advanced restoration magic or alchemy isn’t one of them. I was wondering…”

“If I might go with you to assist her?” The woman drawled. The dark outline of her figure moved closer until more than just her eyes were visible. “No. I’m far too busy helping you already to leave. However…tell me the details of this injury, and I can send with you some potential treatments. My daughter can administer them.”

“Likely burn wounds,” Jon said, shaking his head in frustration. “I don’t understand—dragons don’t burn easily here.”

“Explain to me what wildfire is exactly.”

Jon thought back to what Sansa had told them when they had received news about the Great Sept being destroyed. “It’s some kind of flammable liquid. It’s incredibly destructive when ignited.”

“It may not be burn wounds then, but the impact of the explosion itself,” Lady Valerica said thoughtfully. “That would require a different treatment, but it's not beyond me. Find my daughter for me and bring her here. I assume you’ll want to leave as soon as possible.” 

Jon did what she asked, catching Serana up on the way. “I’ll call Durnehviir to the Godswood. We’ll leave as soon as we’re able,” he told them after he had brought her to the glass gardens. They could not afford to lose even one of Daenerys’s dragons, but it felt unthinkable to let one die regardless.

“I’ll come find you as soon as I have the supplies we need,” Serana promised. 

Jon went to get properly dressed to ride in the winter, and then raced for the Godswood to call for the dragon. He didn’t need to wait long; Durnehviir had only been a few miles away and landed in front of him, covering Jon in a heap of powdery snow.

“What have you called me back for, Thuri?” The dragon rumbled.

“We’ve received a raven from the south,” said Jon, shaking the snow off himself. “Daenerys took the throne, but one of her dragons is injured. She calls for aid.”

The dragon cocked his head. “And what exactly does she expect you to do?”

“A miracle. I may not be able to offer much, but Lady Valerica is making sure that Serana has everything we might need to treat it.”

“I suppose she would be your best chance, though if there is anything I can do to aid you, I will do it. Does this mean I have to carry you and the vampire princess?”

“Aye, and we must hurry. We cannot afford—”

Durnehviir laughed. “Is it that we cannot afford one to die, or does it feel unspeakable to let one die? Perhaps your blood cries at the idea of one having been slain.”

“Maybe I’m tired of seeing dragons die."

“Yes, though at least this one won’t be at your hands," said Durnehviir. Jon didn’t have time to answer before Serana arrived, and his remarks were lost in the disarray of their departure.

Chapter Text

Jon hadn’t known what to expect upon their arrival at King’s Landing. He had seen the aftermath of numerous dragon attacks over the years, and wars between men, but as Durnehviir descended through the clouds, it was not to the devastation he had feared.

King’s Landing hadn’t entirely escaped destruction; a section of wall by one of the gates had fallen, as though a dragon had pushed straight through it, and there was a massive wreckage atop a hill that must have been the Great Sept once. The worst of it was on the opposite hill from the Sept, a black shadow marking the city. Even from far away, Jon could tell there was little of anything remaining of the Dragonpit; sections of earth scooped out, as though it had exploded outward. 

“That does not look like dragon fire,” Jon said somberly. 

“If we were in Skyrim, I would say the cause would be some kind of cursed fire,” Serana agreed. Her voice was muffled by the layers of clothing she wore as sun protection. He had offered for them to arrive at King’s Landing after dusk, but neither of them wanted to risk being taken as a threat by city guards jumpy after a battle. Durnehviir would be glad to retaliate even if it were by mistake. 

If the damage had been caused by wildfire, then it was a sobering reminder of the destruction conceivable in Westeros. Had Ramsay Bolton gotten his hands on it, Winterfell would have been a smoking ruin, and he would have taken them all along with him.  

As they approached the Red Keep, Jon hoped that Daenerys had the foresight to warn her men not to attack them. He was proven correct when they landed in one of the courtyards. A man waved them down and shouted in a voice that only slightly wavered that the queen was at the Dragonpit. Durnehviir leaped back into the air and glided across rows upon rows of buildings that had miraculously remained intact, and then toward the heap of ruins that was all that remained of the Dragonpit. The Dragonpit had already been derelict, Jon knew, but this was on an entirely different scale. Half the hill was missing.

As Durnehviir began to land, there was a furious snarl, and the largest of Daenerys’s dragons lifted off from the blackened earth. 

Serana made a noise in her throat. “Jon—”

“I know,” Jon said tightly, as Durnehviir swung sideways to dodge the irate dragon. 

“Daor, Drogon!” A familiar voice commanded from below. “Lykirī.”

The dragon hung in the air watching them before it plummeted back to the ground where his rider stood. Durnehviir quickly followed, landing on the other side of what remained of the ancient pit. 

Jon let Serana dismount first, sliding down the dragon’s wing and then onto relatively stable ground, her boots sinking into a layer of ash. Jon landed beside her as Daenerys approached them. Closer to the ground, Jon could see that guards were surrounding the Dragonpit, but far enough away as though not to incite the dragons.

“My apologies,” Daenerys said. There was a tension in the way she held herself, in the brittle expression he found upon her features. “He’s grown rather territorial since Rhaegal was injured. I’m very glad you’ve come, Jon Snow. Durnehviir as well. If you can heal him I will grant you any boon within my power.”

“Your Grace, it is good to see that you are well,” Jon greeted her in turn, though he could sense she had little patience. “I will do what I can, but I’m afraid I am no healer. My companion, however, may be able to help.”

Daenerys turned her attention to the woman beside him, as though only just seeing her. “Who is this?”

“I present you Lady Serana of Volkihar,” Jon said, and then, without helping it, his eyes went past her and found the green dragon on its side, eyes closed and oddly still in the open arena. There were patches of his scales up his legs and feathered across his belly that were horribly mangled if not entirely stripped away to raw flesh. “Gods.”

The dragon should not have heard his voice, but his visible eye opened briefly with recognition. 

Daenerys gaze had followed. “He is not well, and no one here is of any help. I trust the maesters that once served the Lannisters even less. Whatever you need you may ask it of me.”

Getting close to Rhaegal was an issue in and of itself. Daenerys led them toward the injured dragon only for his other brother to abruptly land in front of them and scream. 

Daenerys sighed softly, implying it was a regular occurrence. “Oh Viserion, it’s alright. Lykirī… ” she said as they moved closer, her voice turning distant. “My advisers told me I would be showing weakness by asking for your aid with the north still unpledged.”

The alternative, however, was to let him die. Jon did not know her well, but he understood her enough to know that would never be an option for her. 

“While my sister could not leave on short notice, I have come to bend a knee in her place,” Jon said, but his voice trailed off as they reached the injured dragon. Rhaegal didn't move until they were only a wings length from him, and then his head swung around, a growl vibrating in his throat as his eyes pinned the group in place. 

“He’s in pain,” Daenerys said quietly. She hadn’t acknowledged his previous words; it was clear her priority was Rhaegal. “Using some kind of medicine to put him to sleep could be a larger danger according to the maesters—he might not wake up.”

“What happened?”

Daenerys’s gaze turned back to him, her jaw clenching. “A late gift from Cersei. The taking of the city was smooth as far as these things can go. But there was a cache of wildfire, I believe, left underneath the Dragonpit. I thought to have my dragons stay here as my ancestors once did, but they were agitated from taking King’s Landing, and play fighting as they do. Luck,” she spat out, “that it was only Rhaegal who was hit by it. I was across the city at the time. It was so loud. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

It was a miracle Rhaegal had lived this long, judging by the damage. But infection, internal damage, and lack of healing intervention were condemning the dragon to a slow, painful death. 

“The worst of his wounds are likely internal.” Serana’s tone held a careful neutrality. “It won’t be difficult to heal him with the potions my mother has given us, but the issue is making him take them repeatedly.”

Daenerys’s brows rose. “Your mother?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Serana said calmly. “She has spent many years studying the human body and medicine.”

Daenerys looked at her. “I see. Then I extend my boon to you as well, Lady Serana. I consider Rhaegal like my own child. Do what you must to save him.”

Serana inclined her head and then dug through the satchel she carried with her. She pulled from it a bottled potion, and knowing Lady Valerica’s skills, it would likely cost a minor fortune in Skyrim. Here though, Jon realized, it would be priceless. 

“Serana,” he said in a low voice, and she turned to face him with an inquiring look. “Alchemy here is different from that in Skyrim. Less effective. This potion…”

“Ah,” she murmured, glancing down at it. “Then—”

“You hail from Skyrim?” Daenerys interrupted.

“I do.”

Daenerys turned toward Jon again. “You told me the way is closed,” she said, a flash of coldness in her voice. 

“It is,” he said evenly. He didn’t want to think about what she was accusing him of—and if Valerica’s words were true, then the living couldn’t pass through anyway.

She blinked, and then her head turned back toward the vampire, something strange passing over her features. “My apologies. I believe Jon has spoken of you before.”

“Has he?”

His heart jumped, but Daenerys only sent the vampire a thin smile. “Indeed, though it was all good things, I assure you. I must admit that the notion of you being from Skyrim grants me some relief.”

“Does it?” Serana said, her tone not hiding her skepticism.

“Yes,” Daenerys said with an air of some finality. “I was shown things on Dragonstone that I never believed possible. Durnehviir is proof alone of that.”

Serana side-eyed him and then seemed to steel herself. “We’ll start with a health potion to restore health. It should help to heal some of his injuries and any infection that has taken hold—but it won’t be nearly enough to restore him completely.” She turned back toward Jon. “Have you ever used a potion on a dragon?”

Jon winced. He had used poisons rarely, but he would not be admitting that in front of the queen. “Unfortunately not.”

Serana only nodded her head. “We’ll follow up immediately with a regeneration draught then. It should boost his natural healing. We did not have very many in stock to bring with us.”

“We need to make the few we have count,” Jon said grimly.

Serana turned her attention back toward Daenerys. “What are you feeding him? The easiest method would be to lace his meal with the potions.”

“He isn’t eating,” Daenerys admitted. She was holding herself in a way that made Jon uneasy; he had never seen her so uncertain. 

Jon turned back toward Durnehviir, but the dragon was looking out of the dragon pit and toward the city, seemingly disinterested. “Do you have any ideas?”

The dragon shifted his attention back to them. “Perhaps, though I do not believe it is time for my suggestions yet.”

“And when shall we expect you to break your silence?” Jon said, a voice turning a bit testy; he knew when the dragon was up to something and this stunk of it. 

“When there are no alternatives left,” he replied, and with a powerful beat of his wings, the dragon rose above their heads. It was not ideal—Jon didn’t want to be left without a quick exit.

“Peace, Thuri,” he called from the sky, “I will harm no one. I simply wish to do a bit of sightseeing.”

Jon ran a hand through his hair and then turned back to Rhaegal. If they failed to save him, would it even matter if he had bent a knee? He did not think Daenerys would abandon the north to its fate, but perhaps they would not receive the full aid they required. Her dragons, he knew, were proof of her seeming invincibility, and now one of them was dying.

Jon didn’t let any of his doubt show. “Very well. If feeding him the potion through his meals won’t work, we’ll have to try something else.”

Rhaegal gradually grew weaker over the course of the oncoming days. The dragon refused to eat and drank little out of a trough that had been dragged up to the pit. Briefly, Jon had wondered at the possible use of it, but Serana shot the idea down immediately due to the dilution rendering the potions ineffective. Jon wouldn’t give up so easily, but many of the remedies from Skyrim to the situation were out of reach. 

“Do you think illusion magic would work on the dragons here?” Serana had asked him.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t on dragons in Skyrim—not that it matters. We don’t exactly have an illusion master on hand.”

His frustration festered. They had been given separate quarters for the duration of their stay, but Jon spent little time inside them, spending most of his days at the Dragonpit or joining Serana in the library they had been permitted to use. 

He tried not to pay attention to any of the gossip within the Red Keep: there was no sense in reacting to it. Durnehviir was hardly around to make them accurate anyway; he spent most of his time flying far from the city. Jon gave up keeping him close, deciding if someone was going to attempt to murder him or Serana they were in for a very unpleasant surprise. He had spent years dodging assassination attempts and here they didn’t even use magic.  

“You need to ask him,” Serana told him one night. She didn’t need to tell him directly who she spoke of. They had exhausted every written log the maesters could find for them. 

Jon sagged into his chair. “I’m afraid his methods would do us more harm than good. Do you know what he told me upon meeting Daenerys? I’m certain you can guess of it. Even if he’s loyal to me, he’s still a dragon. There is always an angle.”

Serana shifted in her seat from across the table. There was an old scroll in front of her, fingers splayed to hold it open. “You need to find out what his goal is.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Her brow raised. “Have you asked him? Do you think he would lie if you did?”

“No,” Jon said wearily, “but he’s more complicated than the other dragons I’ve known. Odahviing bows to strength and cleverness. I defeated Alduin and in his mind that meant I was worthy, now and forever until I am defeated myself. Paarthurnax follows the way of the voice, a pacifist, and cares not for whether I keep my power or not. But Durnehviir left Alduin’s side to grow his own power and fell to arrogance. He tells me he is loyal to me, and I believe him, but that doesn’t mean he wants something else for himself just as he did with Alduin.”

“He has his own goals.” 

“Aye, and I do not begrudge him for that,” said Jon. “The problem is that his goals and mine do not always match up. They are not in opposition, but we don’t see eye to eye on how to solve certain situations. I think…this will be the same.”

She was quiet for a moment. “There’s a solution to be found, even if it does come from him. Don’t give up yet.”

Jon reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. She looked up in surprise, but she didn’t pull away. “Thank you for coming here with me,” he said. “I know this place would not be your preference.”

“My preference,” she echoed, not looking away. Her mouth quirked. “I wonder what that would be. You always get pulled into such intriguing circumstances.” 

Jon wondered if he was reading too much into her answer but it didn’t matter. It was too close to the truth between them, and neither had dared touch that it in years. 

When Jon left his chambers for the Dragonpit the next morning, Jon was approached by a servant with an invitation to meet with Lord Tyrion. He found the man sitting at a small table near a window when he entered the Hand of the Queen’s solar. The door shut behind him with an audible click.

“My Lord.”

“Ah, Jon Snow,” Tyrion said and patted the seat beside him. “Come sit.” 

Jon did somewhat reluctantly; he had meant to find Durnehviir that morning.

“You’ve never visited King’s Landing before, have you not? What do you think of it?"

Jon didn’t know whether to speak his mind or not. “It has a…strong scent.” 

Tyrion laughed. “It certainly does. Her Grace is already thinking of ways to improve it—updated sewer systems for one, though I speak from experience that such an endeavor is expensive. Regardless, I called you here for another matter.”

“Rhaegal,” said Jon. The man nodded.

“Yes. I’ve heard you and your companion have had difficulty finding the information you need. If there is anything I can do to help, please tell me.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Jon said evenly. “If I cannot find the answer soon I will be sure to ask you.”

Tyrion merely stared at him before sighing. “I hope you do. I so loved dragons as a child.”

“I felt the same way,” Jon said, startling himself. He did not often think of those times, when it had been him and Rob, and occasionally Theon playing knights and dragons—when Jon got to pretend for a few hours that he was a Targaryen prince and not an unwanted bastard. 

“I suppose many do,” Tyrion replied, gazing out the window with a distant expression. “I used to dream of having one, you know.” The man snorted. “I even asked my uncle once for one, but he told me they had all died out a century past. I rarely dreamed of them since, but perhaps I no longer need to dream of them. They exist in the world again, and it may be a fool’s hope, but I wish their numbers won’t dwindle again.”

“I understand.” And because he knew why he was called here, Jon added, “My companion and I are doing everything we can to find a solution.”

The man’s fingertips tapped over the table. “It sounds like you already have a solution.”

“Aye,” Jon said, after a moment of hesitation. “The treatments we have could be very effective if done correctly. Getting him to take them, however…”

“Could you not force him to drink it at least once? Would that not help?”

Jon made a noise in his throat. “I think you can imagine the results of forcing a dragon to do something it does not want to do. To heal properly he needs to take them regularly, and forcing him to do that will only get harder the more he recovers. The biggest problem is that we do not have very many health potions. We cannot make more if he wastes them.” If they had an unlimited supply, they could have just dosed his water trough—that is if Rhaegal would drink the contaminated flavor. It was never so simple with dragons.

“But he’ll be healed fully? Like it never happened?”

“Yes,” Jon said. “It’s very likely he could make a full recovery.”

“Incredible,” Tyrion murmured. “Is that how it is in Skyrim—or Nirn, was it?”

“No,” Jon said and exhaled. He knew where this conversation was going, but it was a dead end. “Potions like the ones we have are incredibly rare. There are very few alchemists with the skill to make them this potent. Healing potions themselves aren’t hard to find, but it's the difference between healing a shallow abrasion and a mortal wound. Perhaps the weaker healing potion could keep a man on the verge of death from dying sooner, but it won’t heal him enough for it to matter in the long run.”

“Still, you could make a lot of money with these—enough to keep the North fed this winter. It’s a shame you don’t have more,” the man said with a wry smile.

Jon half shrugged. He could not rely on a vampire intent on leaving them after winter. “Unfortunately, my skills lie elsewhere.”

“Perhaps,” Tyrion said, “though I think your knowledge against fighting the undead will be particularly useful in the months ahead.”

“So you do believe me about that?”

The man looked at him for a moment. “Forgive me for saying this—your current existence is still dubious at best. I do, however, trust Sansa’s word, and if she believes that an undead army is marching on the wall then I believe it.”

Jon had not realized they had been exchanging letters. “I understand,” he said and stood. “Forgive me, My Lord. I must return to the Dragonpit.”

The man rose with him. “Yes, yes, of course. I wouldn’t want to keep you—I’m busy enough planning the celebration as is. Though I do hope you succeed in this endeavor, Jon Snow. I don’t know what she would do if he died.”

Jon dipped his head before heading to the other side of the city. Outside, he watched the ongoing repair work with something close to awe. It always surprised him how quickly a town or city could rebuild after a dragon attack. He supposed Daenerys Targaryen had the additional motive of wanting her smallfolk to like her to accelerate the process. The faster their livelihoods went back to normal, and afterward improved as she had promised, the quicker they would support their new queen. 

Close to the Dragonpit, he felt an itch under his skin like he had invisible eyes watching his back. Jon spun around when he could take it no more, and searched the crowds for its source. It had been happening more frequently as of late, and though he could handle any attempts at his life, it was not a pleasant feeling. 

It took him a few moments to spot them in the distance: a woman maybe, with short dark hair. There was something familiar about her, but nothing he could place with certainty. That wasn’t a good thing—a vague familiarity of knowing without ever meeting meant they were probably a spy, following him for one of the Houses in the south, or if Jon was especially unlucky, an assassin. 

The figure hopped down from the ledge and disappeared down an alley. These days, Jon was no longer stupid enough to follow. 

When he arrived at the Dragonpit, Durnehviir was speaking in a low voice to the largest of the dragons, who seemed to be ignoring him. Jon ignored his desire to begin yelling right away; it would not be productive. “I don’t think he’s listening.”

The dragon raised his head. “Thuri,” he said in greeting. “He listens well enough to the languages here. I wondered if he might listen to mine.”

“The only language he seems to respond to is High Valyrian from his rider.”

“Listening is different from acknowledging. Since he often grounds himself here with his brother injured, forced to be in my presence, I could hardly pass up the chance.”

The Dragonpit went quiet except for the occasional screech or growl or scrapping of talons against stone. The dragon had nothing more to say, and Jon had too much and wished to voice none of it. Instead, his gaze moved toward Rhaegal who had his eyes closed, wings splayed unnaturally across the stone. He looked terrifyingly vulnerable; if not for his brothers and the guards that encircled the pit, it would not be difficult to kill the dragon. 

“Tell me,” Jon said, breaking the silence. “How do we fix this?”

“You will not like what I have to say.”

“Say it anyway,” he commanded. “We’re out of other options.”

Durnehviir didn’t reply immediately. Then, “I’m sure you’ve already thought of it, Dovahkiin.”

He had not used the term in many months, even before Jon had returned to Westeros. “Clearly I have not considering Rhaegal has yet to recover.”

The dragon picked himself off the ground, shaking the ash and dust from his wings. “You know of what I speak; the word to bend even the will of dragons to your own. If you used it he would have no choice but to do what you asked of him—including taking the potions that will save his life.”

“No,” Jon said shortly. His hand clenched at his side. He forced it to relax again.  

“Why not? The effects would wear off eventually, and he will be as he was before he was injured.”

“It wouldn't be just one time as you know. I'd have to use it on him over and over again. It is wrong to use such a power.”

The dragon cocked his head. “Wrong? How so when it would save his life?”

“It is a form of mind control. I refuse.”

“Is this about your vows to—”

“No,” Jon said with emphasis. “It’s about my experiences as a vampire hunter and every poor enthralled soul I encountered. It's the control the Daedric Princes would possess over their victims to make them carry out the most evil of acts. I won’t do it.”

“But you would only be using that power to save a life, and it is not the only shout that carries a similar effect. You possess the shout to control animals, don’t you?”

“It’s not the same,” Jon said, even though it probably was. His refusal wasn’t rational. It was the way he had felt back then, ripping away Miraak’s control of his dragons. A false sense of authority, lulling him into using it again and again—just as newly turned vampires learned to use their thrall. It was a dangerous pattern to fall into. “I know you to think of these dragons as little more than beasts, but they are intelligent beings.”

“Very well,” said Durnehviir. “Then you must bond with him through these Targaryen methods.”

Jon sighed. “I don’t know if it will work.”

“When has that stopped you? ‘Tis an excuse, Thuri.”

The dragon was right: it was an excuse. Jon had known the idea would come up eventually. With a bond, he could potentially coax the dragon into eating again, to take the potions that would save his life. A bond like that meant Rhaegal wouldn't just be influenced by his own pain, but Jon's, and it would be painful to have to live after Rhaegal's death—that was clear enough from Daenerys's bond with Drogon.

If he did become Rhaegal’s rider, though, he would be proving every rumor about himself true, that he was a bastard of another nature. It would no longer matter that he had been raised by Starks until his disappearance. The mystery of his mother, to which he had never had the chance to discover the answer, would be picked apart for the rest of his life. He had returned to Winterfell for the Starks—not to play out a lie as the baseborn son of a dragonseed or worse. He might not even be a Snow.

“Shit,” said Jon.

“The final option, of course, is that you watch as he slowly succumbs to his wounds, too afraid of claiming power and dooming yourself and everyone else on this wretched continent.”

It painted a very unflattering portrait of himself, Jon would give Durnehviir that. “Perhaps he’ll spontaneously recover.”

“Hah! There is little chance of that—he has given up eating. That is the death of all living things.”

Jon had known that too, but maybe he had wanted to be selfish. The problem was that he didn’t know whether his claim to selfishness was to ignore a method of saving the dragon's life to preserve his way of life, or to steal a dragon from the queen.  

“I don’t have the right,” he said after a pause and ducked his head at the dragon’s resounding snort. “She won’t be pleased by my asking.”

“Perhaps not. Queen Daenerys wants him alive—not because he is a threat to her enemies, but because she loves him.”

“Love makes us all fools,” Jon muttered, more to himself. He turned his gaze back to Rhaegal, watching his chest rise and fall with every painful breath. He was not certain that Daenerys Targaryen would forgive him for claiming one of her dragons, even if it meant saving his life.

“You’ve said it yourself that you need her dragons for the war to come. If this is the only way, then it is the only path forward," said Durnehviir. “I do not say these things to goad you, as you like to say. I say it because you must be prepared. The wards on that wall far north are exceptional. I have not seen magic like that since we have come here. Whoever cast them did so with a grim purpose.”

“You told me this before.”

“Then you should listen,” Durnehviir stated archly. “Where do you believe the war against the evil north will occur? Tell me, Thuri.”

Jon looked back at him, startled by the dragon’s change in tone. “Strategically—the wall.”

“Indeed,” the dragon said, all teeth gleaming as he spoke. “And yet I cannot pass over the wall and neither can your vampire allies. You will be alone and there will be no dragon for you to ride unless you claim one of hers.”

“Aye, I know,” said Jon heavily. “You said the wall is coming down.”

“It will come down if we do not defend it. But do not be so quick to depend on its destruction. Do you really believe that the Night King will be all that comes in a ten-year winter? There have been stories of the long winter for thousands of years. I have had your mortal kin check for me in Winterfell, and here, when I had the queen ask her maesters. A figure such as the Night King rises and falls to a hero of legend—but not forever. He returns when he is slain, his body rendered into mist. What is more likely; that he is reborn repeatedly, or is he a pawn being remade by a higher power each time it suits them?”

“You’re speaking of gods."

“In the faith of R'hllor, he is called the Great Other, god of darkness, and ice, and terror,” Durnehviir continued. “In other stories there is no god—there is just a long, unnatural winter that never ends and a generation that is born and dies in the cold. Whatever the case, it will not be so easy to defeat this enemy, whether it is only the Night King himself or something else.”

Jon shut his eyes. “If the wall comes down—”

“You know of it as much as I. It is not just the human dead you would need to worry about. Once he passes through the wall, the Night King will have access to every dead thing in the North, and after months or even years of winter if he is patient enough, there will be an abundance of them. How much of the North would need to be in flames to kill every wight coming for it—and that is if that would even be effective. An unnatural winter means he can likely control the weather. How will you light fires in snowstorms with wind strong enough to pull the roofs off thatched houses?”

“The wards on the wall need to hold for as long as possible,” Jon decided definitively. “Perhaps there will be a time when it is more beneficial for you and Serana to be able to cross, but at the beginning…”

“Yes, and that means I cannot fight with you,” the dragon agreed. “And so we circle back to our current predicament.”

They fell silent.

“Do you think the bond changes something in them?” Jon said, watching the injured dragon again. Whether he bonded with Rhaegal or not, Daenerys would likely bring all three of them north when the time came. What would be the difference, he wondered, between her and Drogon, and her other two dragons in a fight? Were the dragons of old Valyria meant to have a rider, and did the dragon riders feel the same? Jon had thought before about whether it would feel similar to when he had consumed that first dragon soul, but there was no one to answer his questions. 

“It’s certainly possible,” Durnehviir said thoughtfully. “Drogon is the only one of the three with a bond, and he is the most perceptive by far. Perhaps it is simply the shifting of their priorities from hunting and sleeping to including their riders. It would benefit us all if it did. A being that can mass raise the dead could surely find a way to pierce these dragon’s hides. Imagine what the Night King could do with a dragon.”

“Utter destruction,” Jon agreed, though if there was anything he was confident in, it was killing dragons. But between the time it was raised and the time it would take to destroy it, the hypothetical undead dragon would reach their armies—men who would be powerless against such an enemy. It was critical that the undead marching on the wall would never have a dragon under their control. “You told me that the wall is weakening. Can we fix it?”

“I am not certain,” Durnehviir said plainly. “Zahrahmiik, perhaps. Sacrificial death was necessary in its creation. To rebind its enchantments would likely need the same.”

“I don’t see that idea going over well,” said Jon grimly, not liking it either. He looked toward where Rhaegal lay, his chest rising shallowly. Jon would have to make his decision quickly; they were running out of time.

Chapter Text

Jon wasn’t going to do it without permission, but the idea of asking sent a shiver of trepidation down his spine. Bonding with one of Daenerys Targaryen's dragons would be permanent. Any trace of credibility against being of Targaryen descent would go up in smoke. 

He asked Daenerys for a final time whether she had any way of coaxing Rhaegal into taking the potions. While her bond with Drogon was stronger, she still had a connection with Viserion and Rhaegal. Instead, Jon received an uneasy story of two dragons being chained inside a pyramid and her bond with them stretching so thin it nearly broke. 

Jon couldn’t tell her their options after that, and so he returned to Serana again with last-ditch methods that she ruled out one after another. He repeated any strange treatments that he had run into over his years in Skyrim when conventional wasn’t enough. She turned down those too.

Jon slumped against the wall. They were in his quarters; Serana had stolen inside hours ago. They were still no closer to the answer he wanted—because that was the problem. Jon had several solutions, he just didn’t like any of them. 

“I do believe that in eras past, a bastard claiming a dragon without permission was considered treason.”

Serana was entirely unsympathetic to his plight. “Get permission then.”

“‘Your Grace,” he began, in an ungrateful parody. “I apologize for bothering you at this late hour. I believe I’ve found a solution—by taking for myself part of your identity as the Dragon Queen.’” 

“Then use the Bend Will shout and don’t tell her.”

He had spent enough time talking to Durnehviir about that one. “My moral dilemmas aside, Serana, I don’t think she’d much prefer that option either.”

“It would save his life.”

“And bind me to him forever,” Jon muttered. Serana looked up at his words.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” she demanded. “That’s why you’re so reluctant. This isn’t really about the queen, it’s about you.”

“Perhaps it is,” he replied steadily. “Claiming a dragon means Rhaegal is bound to me until I die. It’s not like I could just leave him with Daenerys afterward as though it never happened. I know that’s not how it works.”

The candles had long since burned down. Her features were hazy, face cast in shadow as she leaned against the table. “When will you accept that you’re allowed to desire things for yourself, rather than fleeing from them?”

“I don’t dare want something like this. You know why.”

“You never do.” Suddenly they were speaking of something else entirely. 

A silence suspended over them. They had gone years without voicing the ache that stood between them. Perhaps, Jon thought, it was because he had left, and she had thought him dead for long enough to wonder. He had his own reasons that no longer held true. His oath to Stendarr felt like a falsehood—had since the order had fallen.

Serana exhaled, a nearly inaudible noise. “If only one of us knew healing magic. I thought the Vigilants of Stendarr were supposed to learn from the restoration school.”

“I can use restoration magic—on myself.” 

Her brow rose. “That’s it? Not a single spell of repel undead?”

“I never needed it,” said Jon.

“What about that spell Isran uses—it had some ridiculous name—”

“Stendarr’s Aura. I’m not skilled enough in magicka for that.”

“What kind of restoration magic can you do then?” 

She was teasing him, changing the conversation. She always did. “Nothing you would be impressed with.”

The vampire lifted her head and laughed. “It must be nice to be Dragonborn, not having to worry about things like this. What could actually kill you?”

Jon could say the same of her as a pureblooded vampire. “I don’t know.”

Even in the near dark, her gaze was unwavering. “Then stop pretending to be afraid of what Daenerys Targaryen could do to you and tell her how you can save the dragon she calls her own child.”

“I should have known you were leading up to that.”

“So do it,” she said firmly. “You’ve decided in your heart to save him, so you know what you must do. Speak to her, be honest. She’s an intelligent woman, Jon, she will understand.”

“Aye,” Jon said. “Understand, almost certainly. But to forgive me for it? I fear we may have cause to race back to Winterfell afterward.” 

“I trust you.” 

“I’m glad to hear it, but I can’t say I feel the same level of confidence,” Jon said wryly. 

She cracked a smile. His heart skipped a beat, their quarrel falling away. Love made a fool of him indeed. 

“Your Grace,” Jon said in greeting when he found Daenerys Targaryen in the Dragonpit the next morning. He had spent the early hours wandering the Red Keep in circles, and then had sent word for the queen to meet him at the Dragonpit. 

“Jon Snow,” she said, and while her voice was measured, her gaze sought her injured dragon. “I trust you’ve found a solution?”

“Yes,” Jon said.

She turned back, her eyebrows raised. “And what is it?”

He exhaled, prolonging the inevitable. “Durnehviir has imparted two possible methods that I believe would be successful.”

“Ah,” she said. “I remember. I believe he told you that he had answers, but it was not yet time.”

“Aye. There is a shout that temporarily bends the will of the beings it is used upon. I believe it would—that it would work on Rhaegal,” Jon told her. 

“You do not want to use this shout,” she noted after a short pause, though her voice was cool. 

“I don’t ever wish to use it,” Jon said tightly. “It’s not a power I take lightly. I have my reservations about it—ethical concerns.”

“But you have done so before, or you would not be so sure of it working.”

Jon’s jaw clenched. “Yes, Your Grace. Once—when I was up against another Dragonborn.” His words left a cold shock in their wake.

“There are more of you?”

“No,” said Jon. It was a struggle to keep his voice even. “I’m the only one left now. I had no choice.”

Daenerys breathed out, and her gaze drew back to him. “I see,” she said, voice betraying nothing, but it didn’t matter. To her, Jon had murdered the only other of his kind upon meeting him. Jon had no particular interest in explaining either; Solstheim had not been kind to him. 

When Daenerys spoke again, her voice held a sharpness that put him on alert. “Would it hurt him?”

“I don’t know. Dragons here are—they bond with someone of Targaryen blood in a way I’m not familiar with.”

“You don’t know?” Daenerys hissed, and there was a fire in her gaze as she strode toward him. “I thought you could help him, not put him in more pain. What can you actually do then?”

Jon did not take her words to heart. Daenerys was not truly angry with him; she was grieving Rhaegal before he had even died. Jon had seen it time and time again in small, neglected villages during the civil war, when the larger cities had no one to send when reports of attacks began to trickle in and Jon arrived too late to actually save anyone.

“There is another way,” he said quietly.

She looked up at once, though the hardness in her features had not disappeared. “Tell me.”

“If Drogon had been injured as Rhaegal was, could you get him to accept treatment?”

She was quiet for a beat. “Perhaps—yes.” Then she understood at once, mouth curling. “Ah, I see. Can you feel him calling to you, Jon Snow? ” 

Jon flinched and she let out a sharp laugh before going silent. Her voice was deceptively calm when she spoke again. “When did Durnehviir tell you this?”

Jon hesitated. “Not long ago, Your Grace.” 

“But you neglected to tell me immediately?”

“Durnehviir has…aims that don’t always align with mine,” Jon said carefully. “I had to decide whether I trusted his word or not.”

Circling above them, Drogon roared. “You’ve been scheming behind my back to bond with one of my dragons.” 

It felt like he had swallowed a stone. “No. I would never—”

“But you can feel him?” She said, interrupting him. “This isn’t mere conjecture?”

“Yes. I have since Dragonstone.”

She went still, and Jon didn’t dare speak again. He did, however, hope that Durnehviir was close by. He did not want to fly north with tales of war that he had started, but what choice would he have? But the answer was already there within reach; Daenerys was—

“Do it,” Daenerys said, and Jon looked up in astonishment.

“Your Grace?”

“My dragons are my children. I could not bear to have another die, even if that means letting one go,” she said, her voice like steel.

“I wouldn’t take him away from you, Your Grace,” Jon said, but it was a meaningless turn of phrase, and the weight of her gaze was heavy. 

“It’s not about you,” she said. “Do it. Save his life and I will grant you any boon—I gave you my word. I will go North with my armies and I will fight against the Night King if that is what you desire, but you must do this.”

She had strange look about her; arms held stiffly, eyes trailing over her dragon as though she might never see him again. If Jon refused, it would be one of the last times she saw him before Rhaegal passed. It was a grief of a different sort, the kind when a connection was severed. The shifting of priorities, Jon thought. He wondered what it would mean for her bond with the dragon.  

He began to walk toward where Rhaegal was lying. The dragon no longer had the strength to lift his head, but his eyes opened and came to rest on Jon.

“Rhaegal,” he said quietly, coming to a halt in front of him. Slowly, he reached out and pressed his hand against the dragon’s snout. Rhaegal shifted toward the touch, but nothing more. An ache burned in Jon’s chest; he should have done it far sooner, when the dragon had a better chance of living. And now it wasn’t enough. Jon knew that too. 

What could actually kill you, Serana had said earlier, and once Durnehviir had told him his scent was like thousands of years worth of lives, and both were true. He had consumed the lifeforce of nearly every dragon he had defeated but Alduin, and all of it was his now—but perhaps he could share. 

Jon closed his eyes, hand still held against Rhaegal’s snout, and imagined giving freely what so many had been forced to give to him—life. There was a strange noise, like a fierce wind rushing through and out of him. 

As he opened his eyes, Rhaegal was already moving, raising his head and then the rest of his body after weeks of inactivity, a presence settling in his mind that was as disconcerting as it was soothing.

There was a thud as something massive landed behind him. He knew it to be Drogon landing beside his rider. Jon expected anger when he turned back, but found something worse in her features; a soft wonder that made him swallow. 

“I never thought I would find magic so wonderful again,” Daenerys said. She raised her hand, pointing toward the dragon. “Whatever you did, he’s visibly healing.”

Jon followed her gaze. The damaged patches that had covered Rhaegal’s underbelly and legs were scarring over. A weakness he might never shed, but he would live. 

“To think a year ago I thought I was the last in the world,” Daenerys said. There was a wistful quality to her voice now. “I think you already know what you must do. Fly, Jon.”

He could sense that Rhaegal was waiting for him. As he had many times before, Jon ascended onto a dragon’s back to take flight.

Flying with Rhaegal was different from that of any dragon before him. He did not speak, and yet Rhaegal knew to a degree what Jon wanted him to do as though by instinct. He was also the largest by far, and there was something humbling about how small Jon felt clinging to his neck. 

Flying with Durnehviir or Odahviing always felt a little like he was inconveniencing them. It was always a means to an end. This was a partnership—Rhaegal was enjoying the short flight as much as he was. 

When they returned to the Dragonpit, Daenerys told him the command to land in Valyrian. Rhaegal wasn’t completely healed, but Jon was sure the dragon would start eating again, which would make it a simple fix. 

Daenerys was courteous as they returned to the Red Keep, but there was something new in the way she looked at him, and it wasn’t the cold temper he had been apprehensive about. She insisted that he join her, inviting him and Serana to a celebration she was holding in her court later that week, and he knew he could not refuse. It occurred to him that he had as much bound himself to Rhaegal as he had to Daenerys and her new reign.

Jon requested leave from her once they arrived at the keep, and Jon left to find Serana immediately. 

She had been waiting for him, but her expression didn’t change when he burst through the door once she had invited him inside. “You did it.”

“Yes,” Jon said and sunk into a chair, fingers finding the armrest like a lifeline. 

“I assume we are not at war?”

A laugh escaped him, wild and disbelieving. “We are not. In fact—we’ve been invited to a soiree later this week.”

“Ah,” she said mildly. “I believe I’ve overheard some of the servants talking about it.”

Jon exhaled. “Now that I’m thinking about it, Tyrion said something about it as well, but I didn’t think we’d be invited.”

“Well of course you are now,” Serana told him. “You’re bonded to one of her dragons. She cannot ignore what your presence means any longer—and neither can you.”

Jon made an unpleasant noise and hung his head back, eyes finding the ceiling. “I’m a fraud.”

Serana let out a snort. “You’re her asset. A second dragonrider makes her nigh impossible to defeat. It tells her enemies she’s even stronger than she was when she took King’s Landing.”

“Rhaegal isn’t exactly in peek condition for a fight,” Jon muttered. His gaze found her again. “Sansa will love this, even if I can’t claim to be of Targaryen blood.”

“It doesn’t matter. Daenerys doesn’t need to legitimize you for everyone to know who you are.”

“You did not see her after I claimed him. It was not as I expected,” Jon said. 

“Did you really think she would try to have you killed for it?”

Had he? The time before claiming Rhaegal was fading away like smoke, replaced by that faint presence in the back of his mind that was growing stronger by the hour.

“I don’t know,” he said. 

Serana was silent for a moment. “What does it feel like?”

Far from the Dragonpit, Jon could still feel an impression of the dragon as though he were just outside the room. “Dangerous. Almost like coming home again.”

It was later, when Durnehviir returned the next day, that it burst out of him. 

“You tricked me,” Jon growled at him as he arrived in the Dragonpit, voice filled with a resentment he didn’t quite feel, and the realization only made him angrier. “Did I even need to bond with Rhaegal to save his life? You must have known I could transfer life force to him directly.”

“Why are you upset, Thuri? These are not my kin, so there was no way for me to know it would work,” The dragon answered. There was a mocking lit in his voice. “Either way, you have what you want.”

The worst part was that Durnehviir was right. He had desired this, since he was old enough to want things. Every boy in Westeros imagined their own dragon, and Rhaegal was his now because he had been dying.  

“You waited to tell me until I was desperate because then I wouldn’t think it through,” said Jon.

“You needed one of them,” the dragon rebutted. “Now you have a dragon, and the queen doesn’t seem to wish you dead either. What more could you possibly want?”

“Impossible things, as it turns out,” Jon snapped and left without another word. It was not safe to have such a conversation out in the open.

Serana was out supposedly to find clothes to wear, but it didn’t matter in the end; both of them received suitable attire to wear for the party, and he didn’t need a name to know who sent them.

“Solves that particular issue,” Serana said mildly.

Jon grimaced. “She knows we likely didn’t pack appropriate clothing.” A twist of unease went through him. “Perhaps I can fake an incident in the north we must return for,” Jon added, voice a touch strained.

Serana looked up, her voice measured. “You won’t.”

“No,” Jon said. “I won’t.”

He wouldn’t, but as the days passed he almost wished he would. Suddenly there were people interested in him, who wouldn’t take no for an answer when he told them he was very busy. The party was going to be worse, but any words of refusal stayed stuck in his throat when he found the queen in the Dragonpit as the evening approached.

She smiled when she saw him, and he wondered how much of it was real.

“Jon,” she said. “I was wondering if you’d like to go flying with me.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Your Grace.”

“I’ve never flown with another before,” she mused. “Isn’t that sad? The Targaryens must have flown together often when there were many, but now it is just us.”

“I’m not a—”

“Of course not,” she assured him. “But don’t you want to?”

What Jon wanted didn’t matter. He liked Daenerys Targaryen; she was clever and powerful in her own right, but more alarmingly he felt a faint kinship with her. He couldn’t afford to grow soft around her until he understood exactly what she wanted from him. 

“I do,” Jon answered her heavily and headed toward where Rhaegal was perched upon one of the crumbling arches. His health had improved greatly with several heavy doses of health potions. 

“Māzīs,” he called to the dragon, and the beast descended the wall and dropped in front of Jon, sending a storm of dust scattering over him.

He coughed as it settled, and then scaled the dragon. When he looked over, he found Drogon already lifting into the sky. 

“Sōvēs,” Jon urged Rhaegal, and the dragon needed no other encouragement to follow after his brother. Jon knew only a few Valyrian commands so far; to come when called; to fly; to land—they seemed the most important in the few short days he had found himself with a dragon. 

Daenerys was headed toward the ocean. The air was cool; winter was approaching even this far south. It took only minutes until they were out on open water, following the curve of the bluffs and leaving King’s Landing behind. The brief flight he’d had with Rhaegal before had been nothing like this. Jon could already sense his excitement for it. 

Abruptly, Rhaegal dove without warning, clawed feet ripping through the waves as though seeking out prey. Jon let out a startled shout, and Daenerys and Drogon slowed until they caught up.

When he saw her again, there was humor clear in her voice. “My ancestors used saddles,” she shouted. “They used chains so that they would not easily fall.” 

“I can understand why,” he called back. It was something to get used to; if Durnehviir needed to turn quickly he would warn him with words. Rhaegal gave him little warning, but there was a part of him that preferred flying with him already. Durnehviir merely put up with him. 

Rhaegal did not have the same reluctance. The feeling was infectious; Jon let out a whoop of laughter as Rhaegal sprang forward, catching up to his brother and then outpacing him for a few spans of his wings. Drogon caught on and began to pursue them. From above them there was a shriek, and then at last their final brother joined them, Viserion dipping out of the clouds.  

They circled back eventually, and while Rhaegal seemed to desire to fly for longer, their shorter flight was no doubt for his benefit. They dismounted at the Dragonpit, still half intoxicated from being up in the sky again. 

“Thank you,” Jon told her. “That was wonderful.” 

A shadow fell across her face for a moment before softening. “I should be thanking you.”

Chapter Text

The day of the celebration arrived. Daenerys arranged for free food and drink to be distributed to the smallfolk of King’s Landing, and Jon watched as the mood toward her, which had already been leaning positively, swung completely in her favor. It had been so long since the people of King’s Landing had a monarch who wanted to improve their lives that it didn’t matter to them that she had crossed the seas for the crown with a foreign army and three dragons. Their loyalty was fickle, but she had gained it nonetheless.

He went to speak with her in the early afternoon, summoned by one of her servants. As he approached the door, he found it slightly ajar, and he could hear voices coming out of the solar.

“I must admit I am curious,” Daenerys was saying, “There are rumors that my ancestors’ bond to dragons was made by way of blood magic.”

Serana murmured something, and before Jon knocked on the door, he decided to turn around and pretend he hadn’t heard a word of it. He did not want to hear of—whatever this was. 

A few minutes later, Serana passed him in the hall, eyes dark with unfulfilled hunger. 

“Are you well?” He asked her, even when it was clear she was not.

Serana slowed to a halt, her gaze burning holes into his skin. Jon wondered how long it had been since she had last fed; they had spent the time since they had arrived at King’s Landing in a constant state of feverish researching. 

“She is a strange woman,” Serana said after a pause. “Very charming when the situation calls for it. I don’t believe you should have told her what I am.”

Jon couldn’t keep his eyes off her. “I never thought I’d see you again. I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It may not. She doesn’t seem interested in the kind of immortality that damns you after death.”

“Ah,” he said. “That is…fortunate.”

“It wouldn’t matter either way.” Serana stepped closer until her lips brushed against his ear. Jon went still. “Whatever power lingers in her blood, I have little doubt it would save her from my thrall if the occasion called for it.”

From anyone else, it would sound like a threat. It was a threat. He had killed other vampires for voicing similar sentiments, but if he were being honest with himself, he didn’t much care either way at the moment. He had been playing a dangerous game of pretending she was a tame vampire; as though she were always fully in control, even when hungry. 

I should never learn what your blood tastes like, Jon remembered Serana telling him. For a moment, he was sorely tempted to offer anyway. Perhaps he understood after all how so many of his fellow Vigilants had fallen.

“Oh, Jon,” Serana murmured. “I’m just teasing you.” 

She straightened up and continued on her way; his eyes following her back until she disappeared down the hall. Jon still had to go speak to Daenerys Targaryen, but he couldn’t find even a speck of interest in doing so. What do you want from me, Jon wanted to ask Serana with a sudden, stabbing hunger. What had changed? It was boiling under his skin, unable to be ignored. He found Daenerys sitting in one of the divans, but he couldn’t think.

“Jon. What good timing,” Daenerys said easily, as though she hadn’t just been speaking of sharing her blood casually. “I understand why you spoke fondly of Lady Serana. A fascinating woman.”

“She is.” He felt himself tense with an emotion that nearly tasted of jealousy. Shame quickly followed. “What do you require of me, Your Grace?”

“Ah,” she said, and she was all business again. “I wanted to discuss your role tonight…”

It was a sea of faces Jon didn’t recognize when he entered the Great Hall at sunset. Serana was late. They were, as had been discussed earlier, Queen Daenerys’s guests of honor for healing Rhaegal. If he were to judge by her absence, she was as reluctant to face the gossip as he was.

Jon had hoped to stand in a corner quietly for most of the night, but he was a dragonrider, which meant everyone wished to speak with him. Part of him wondered how they knew who he was. He did not have the Targaryen look: the unnaturally purple hue of their eyes or the shock of white hair. 

His Stark features had always brought a sense of pride; he looked as his father had, unlike the rest of his true-born siblings. All except for Arya, but he couldn’t imagine what she would look like now if she were indeed alive. Sansa's appearance had reminded him of her mother, making it easier for Jon to recognize her the day they reunited, but Arya would nearly be a woman grown with no one he could compare her to. Perhaps he could walk right past her in the streets of King's Landing, and never notice. It was a strangely comforting thought; at least then she would be alive. 

He didn’t notice Serana at first, so lost in thoughts of his family. The hall was as crowded as it was loud; even if he had kept his eyes on the entrance, she may have slipped past anyway.

But her voice parted through the murmur of voices, of glasses clinking, and people dancing. “Jon.”

Suddenly she was there in front of him, dressed in a gown that opened at her shoulders, hair spun into an intricate braid. 

“You look lovely,” Jon said in greeting. A smile tugged at his mouth. “How do you always find me so easily?”

Her gaze was steady. She watched him for a moment before answering. “I can track your heartbeat.”

His brows rose. “Even in this crowd of people?”

“Even then.”

“For how long have you been doing that?”

“Forever. Since we met.”

A daunting proclamation. She already appeared to regret admitting it; a soft flush taking to her features. It was no doubt a useful ability for a vampire. Jon did not think she meant it in quite the same way now.

“I see,” Jon said lightly. “Very practical.”

It was her turn to laugh, a short punch of humor. Jon took it as a chance to study Serana further; her gown was a rich red color, darker than the usual colors of the south. Jon himself was dressed in black. It was his usual palette, and yet he realized only now what the queen had intended by it. 

Leaning forward, he murmured, “I could be deceived in thinking we have been dressed in Targaryen colors.” 

Serana’s eyes flicked toward his. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice,” she said, and when Jon half-shrugged, she exhaled. “It’s certainly a statement of our allegiance.”

The eyes on him felt incredibly heavy. His gaze followed the hall up to the throne made of swords, and found Daenerys speaking with several people at the base of it. “That throne…”

“Ridiculous looking,” Serana agreed. “The sort of thing you’d expect from my kind.”

Jon snorted. Daenerys was dwarfed by it in comparison. He imagined the throne wasn’t any more comfortable than it appeared. 

Serana had been looking at Daenerys too when he turned his attention back to her. “She looks quite regal like this.”

“Aye,” said Jon, but his attention was not on the queen.

Those golden eyes found him again. “If I were still hungry…”

Jon had noticed the intensity of her hunger had lessened since that afternoon. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Serana laughed outright. There was still so much he didn’t know of her. If Jon had taken her father’s offer, she might have been still feeding without hesitation on the thralls trapped inside that crumbling castle. Perhaps he would be right there with her, losing his humanity one kill after another until he was emptied of it.

He flexed his fingers. It wasn’t nearly so tempting as her own offer, in the hours before they had traveled through the portal to the Soul Cairn. Harkon’s offering of vampirism as a reward had repulsed him. When he thought of her own offer, it was really of her words that had come afterward: I'd never do anything that could hurt you. Jon had believed her then, even as he denied her. Given Serana his soul for safekeeping, instead.  

“Stop thinking,” she commanded suddenly, pulling him toward the center of the hall that was being used for dancing.

“I don’t know how—”

“Yes you do,” she said archly, and he did despite his denials. It wasn’t their first dance together, and this one was easy enough to pick up. It gave him a chance to escape conversing with a stream of strangers. 

Jon thought she likely had the same idea. “Are we dancing because you don’t want to have to speak to anyone?” 

“Not everyone. We’ll have to go speak to the queen soon enough.”

Jon was dreading it; marching to the front of a hall filled with members of noble houses while dressed in a mockery of Targaryen colors. It should have made him furious, but he could only call up a mild frustration with Daenerys; it was very dragonlike.

“Does it bother you?” Jon murmured. “That she didn’t ask?”

"She’s the ruler of this land’s kingdoms, Jon. When do they ever ask?” 

His teeth clicked together. “I suppose you’re right.”

“She’s testing the waters,” Serana continued. “Is it real or just an illusion to trap a couple of fools?”

“I assume we’re the fools.” 

“We’re both well acquainted with playing the role,” she agreed as he swung her around gently, his hand on her waist. Social dancing, Jon had learned over the years, could be casual between friends and strangers alike. It never quite felt that way with her. 

“When was the last time we did something like this? That coven north of Falkreath?”

“I was pretending to be your thrall,” Jon said, and Serana’s golden eyes glinted. 

“That’s right,” she said, “I’d almost forgotten.” But Serana was looking right at him, the memory of it clear on her face. A maze of rooms carved out of a mountain; a long list of names; missing persons from the city known for its dead; an invitation for the daughter of Harkon. Like this, his hands on her waist, on the small of her back. The excuse to look at her, desire shining out of his features as though he were properly enthralled. 

“I haven’t.” He knew she would hear his heartbeat jump at the thought.

Her answer didn’t come immediately. Then she leaned forward, mouth nearly brushing against his cheek, speaking in a low voice, “I could never truly forget that night. You rarely act so forward.”

She left him like that as the song finished, stock still among a crowd of strangers. 

Eventually his feet carried him out of their path, and he was pulled into a conversation with an overly ambitious man he did not have the patience to engage with. He was rescued by an older woman who sent a scathing remark to the other man to hurry him off, but when she turned her attention back to him, Jon realized it was no rescue at all.

“You’re Ned Stark’s bastard,” she said bluntly, eyes roaming over him critically. “I heard you disappeared years ago. Surprising to find you here under these circumstances.”

“I am, my lady,” said Jon, tensing as she smiled; it was not particularly friendly. “May I ask for your name?”

She clucked her tongue. “You must do better than that if you are to survive here, Jon Snow. We’ll eat you alive otherwise. Olenna Tyrell.”

It was a name Jon recognized—her grandchildren had burned when the Great Sept was destroyed. “I apologize. I’ve heard wonderful things from Lady Sansa.”

“Hah! No, you haven’t,” the old woman said with a short laugh, “not that it matters now. My house is not what it once was, Cersei got her wish in that at least, and the Starks rise from what many had once thought to be their graves. I admit I have grown curious about you, Snow.”

Jon had played this game enough that evening alone to know what came next. “Curious about what, my Lady?”

She looked at him for a moment longer. “Unlike most of this crowd, I was alive when there was more than one Targaryen left. They had very striking features—not for me, but pleasant enough to others.” In fairness to the Tyrell matriarch, Jon had no idea how to respond to that. His lack of reaction seemed to amuse her. “I’ve never thought that Ned Stark had it in him.”

That roused a familiar irritation; he had heard enough of that tonight. “My Lady—”

She harrumphed. “Claiming a dragon is proof enough of your blood,” she said briskly. “Perhaps if you play nicely she’ll even legitimize you.”

For a second time that night, Jon was shocked into a stupor as a woman left him. Laughter sprung up behind him, and Jon turned to find Tyrion Lannister standing beside him. 

“Enjoying the party, my Lord?” Jon said, a bit testily. 

The man held up his glass. “I surely am now. You can always rely on the Tyrells to scandalize one way or another. Come—Daenerys wants you front and center.”

Jon had little choice but to follow him. Making it to the front of the hall, he found that Serana had already arrived. The end of their dance together sat heavy in his mind; he inclined his head before turning his attention toward the queen. 

“Your Grace.” He was prepared for the smile she sent his way now; a slow curl of her mouth, the skin under her eyes crinkling as though it were genuine. A quiet part of him wondered if it was. 

“My guests of honor both before me,” Daenerys said lightly, and extended her arm, gesturing to the side of her. “Come, I shall announce your accomplishments to this hall—and my gratitude.”

And she did, but it felt different from in Skyrim after he had defeated a dragon or cleared out a threat near a village. Jon had rarely ever owed them back, or required their aid afterward. It was a pointless thought at this point, but Jon could have chosen not to play these highborn games. He had done it in Skyrim, remaining a third party concerned only with the monsters that hunted men and Mer. Here it would be at the cost of the North, his relationships with what remained of his family. 

He had looked down on the constant political battles and general pettiness that had taken place in Skyrim, but he understood it better now. Some of them were no doubt just trying to put their kin and smallfolk in a better position than before; to grant them better lives, just as Jon was seeking in the present.

He was glad Daenerys was so busy speaking to her guests; it allowed him the distance to find one of the servants carrying drinks. He took one of the glasses at random and downed it in one go, scorching his throat. It could have tasted like ash in his mouth for all that it mattered. 

“Drinking away your troubles?”

Jon turned to find Serana standing beside him again, her mouth curled. It was a funny thing to say when she was starring in said torments. 

“I’m sure you wish you could do the same,” he said, placing the glass back down on a table, where it was quickly whisked away by an ever-present servant. It was no wonder; if anyone had a desire to finish off what was left of the great houses in the south, it was a great opportunity to poison them all.

“I’m certain you’re right,” Serana agreed. “Not on this wine, however. Something stronger.”

“I suppose your preferred drink would be pre-inebriated,” Jon said as he looked out over the crowd. He was still glad she was with him; while none of these people knew anything about what Serana was, it kept them circling without making contact. Starved beasts too frightened to bite. 

“Only for events like these,” she said dryly. “It’s easier than being sober.”

Jon snorted. “When do you think is the earliest we could leave while being polite?”

“She’s already announced us as her honorable guests, and you’ve done the rounds already."

Jon needed no further invitation. They slipped through the great doors, knowing a hundred sets of eyes followed them out. It was a relief all the same.

“My chambers are closer,” Jon muttered, not looking back. Serana laughed, causing him to swing his head toward her. “What is it?”

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she said, her voice languid, golden eyes flashing in the light from the candles lining the halls. 

“I hardly see why—” His face warmed. “That is not what I meant.”

“Of course you don’t,” Serana drawled, and she reached for him, settling her hand in the crook of his elbow, “You never do.”

His brows bunched together. “Have you been drinking?” He made a show of looking around as if to search for a slumped-over guest.

She swatted his arm. “Don’t be rude, Jon.”

They were quiet as they moved through the castle until they reached the doors of his chambers, suddenly all too aware of what it looked like. She had been acting strangely all day, all week, since they had reunited in Winterfell.  

“What do you want, Serana?”

The hallways were ringing with far-off laughter from the celebration they had left behind, and Serana was moving, fingers tugging him closer as his face tilted down toward hers.

Her lips were soft. Not quite warm.

Jon’s hands found the top of her gown that crowned her shoulders, thumb running up her throat, over her jaw. Abruptly, she pushed him against the door, fingers curling in his shirt, the show of strength sending a particular thrill down his spine. 

Then just as swiftly, Serana drew back, detangling herself from him. “I don’t know,” she said, voice ragged as she left him in the hall. “Goodnight, Jon.”

Chapter Text

Jon suddenly had little interest in spending the rest of the night alone in his rooms. Against his better judgment, he went back for more wine. He wandered down into the streets of King’s Landing afterward, navigating narrow roads and celebrating crowds, heady from their own cheap spirits. He escaped down an alley from a particularly rowdy group—and promptly tripped. 

Jon groaned as he contemplated getting up; only the threat of having nothing to do but think had him pushing himself upright. From behind him, footsteps sounded on the cobblestone. A passerby, come to laugh at or commiserate with him. 

“This is pathetic,” a voice told him rudely. After a pause, they added, “I can’t believe you’re probably my brother.”

Jon instantly got to his feet and turned, finding a woman dressed in the clothing the servants of the Red Keep wore, their hair cut short. It was possibly the same person who had been following him in the days since he had arrived in King’s Landing, but up close, Jon could finally place the familiarity. 

Her features were of the north, with dark hair and gray eyes that matched his. It could have been the imagination of his inebriated mind, but it could be more than that. “Arya? Is that you?”

“Maybe,” she replied neutrally. “Are you truly Jon Snow? Or are you just some pretender?”

He flinched, unable to imagine why anyone would pretend to be him, and then remembered where it was that he had been going. Men would do just about anything to gain a dragon. “It’s me. Sansa will be so happy to hear that you’re alive.”

“Don’t talk to me of Sansa,” she said sharply, and there was suddenly a blade in her hands, a thin dagger that would hurt even if she simply nicked him. “I’ve heard what she’s been through, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she was desperate enough to take help even from a fraud. Tell me something only you would know.”

His memories were acting like smoke as he fumbled desperately for anything he could remember. She had been so young when he had been whisked away to Skyrim. “You asked me once if you were a bastard like me since we were the only ones who looked like Father,” He settled on, and she went still. “You had been so worried at the time—”

“You reassured me I was as trueborn as my sister,” she said, and suddenly there were two arms wrapped around his sides, and his world was spinning as she spun him around. “I thought it wasn’t real when I heard about Winterfell. It just sounded so absurd. I came here, and then you showed up, and I—”

Jon wished desperately that he wasn’t drunk, that he could really see her. Sansa hadn’t been entirely sure she lived, but now she was here with a dagger after following him for a week.

He laughed with happiness, cupping her cheeks with his fingertips. “You look like Father. You look like—”

“You,” she finished, and she was smiling a bit too, but then it faded. “I need your help.”

“I need to sober up first,” he said, drawing back. “But tell me about it anyway. Where have you been?”

“Where have you been?” Arya parroted back. “The stories I’ve heard…”

“Some of those are probably true.”

“Well then,” she said, a strange note in her voice, “You really do have two dragons.”

“Durnehviir isn’t mine—”

“So you say,” she said as they left behind the alley. “Let’s not talk about this here. Anyone could be listening.”

They made it back to the Red Keep, and then to his chambers, and Arya asked him how much he knew already. Jon told her what Sansa had told him; Starks did not fare well in King’s Landing. She went silent for a moment and then began a tale of anger and grief bleeding into one another—the execution of their father by a cruel young king, a desperate journey north dressed as a boy, cut short by that same king’s men. 

“By the time I reached Harrenhal I wanted revenge. I made a list,” she recalled darkly. “And then after I saw what they did to Rob and Mother, I vowed to get Walder Frey and the rest of them back one day and I did.”

That, if nothing else, got through his drunken stupor. “That was you? We heard that the killer wore his face.”

“I did,” Ayra said coolly. “I crossed the seas to Braavos after leaving the Hound behind.”

“You’re a Faceless Man?”  

She shook her head. “I couldn’t leave Arya Stark or my past behind. Evidently, neither could you. Where have you been?” 

He hadn’t told Sansa, because he thought at the time she didn’t need to hear about the miserable early months of his stay in Skyrim. To Arya, however, he told her of Riften, of the orphanage run by a monster of a woman, and his escape into the sewers where he began a brief career running packages for the Thieves Guild. Of how he saved little by little until he had enough to take the long carriage north to Winterhold, which he had hoped to return him home—only to find it to be just as unfamiliar as stepping foot in the Rift had been.

“Where did you go then—back south?” Ayra asked after he finished. 

Jon shook his head. “I joined the Vigilants of Stendarr, an order dedicated to combating evil. Their headquarters in Skyrim was located in the north, so I turned to them. They weren’t going to take me at first—too young, they said, but I was decent enough with a sword.”

“Like the Night’s Watch,” she said, her voice quiet, and Jon could only nod because she was right. 

“Aye, I think that’s part of why I joined. I always thought that was going to be my future.” 

There was a pause as his words sunk in. “You said was. What happened to them?”

Jon exhaled. “They died. I left the north after, traveled south. Met a dragon I was destined to defeat, and the rest is history.”

But he told her the rest too, same as he had Sansa. By the time he finished, his head was beginning to pound from the prior choices he had made that night. He ignored it; Arya was alive, had survived the worst just as he did, as Sansa did, as Rickon. It echoed in his thoughts over and over; alive, alive, alive.  

“Sansa will be glad to see you,” he told her and smiled when his sister scoffed a little. “Really, the two of you still don’t get along?”

“It got worse after you went missing.”

“Sansa told me that too,” he said. “Something about the road to King’s Landing. Said that she thoroughly regretted it.”

“I bet she does,” said Arya, but her voice had taken on a hint of misery. “We should have never left the north. I wish you had never disappeared.”

“I tried apologizing to her once—for not being there,” said Jon. They couldn’t change the past. “She told me I wouldn’t have been able to do anything, and she was glad I had been gone, otherwise I would have ended up dead too.” 

“She’s probably right,” replied Arya, without looking up. “Not even Father or Rob survived. Bran and Rickon were so young when Theon took Winterfell as if he was owed it.” She broke off, and her silence was telling.

“Rickon is alive, Arya,” Jon said steadily. 

She looked up and then scrambled from her seat. “What? I heard that Sansa was Warden and thought—”

“Ramsay Bolton got his hands on him, but Theon got Rickon to safety before the siege.”

She stared at him for a long moment, disbelieving, until she collapsed into her chair. “Theon?”

“I did not know the man Theon grew into,” Jon said carefully, “but Ramsay carved away everything he was afterward.”

“He deserved it.”

“He didn’t,” Jon said gently. “No one does. Ramsay tortured him until he forgot even his own name.” 

“You’re not mad at him?” Arya certainly appeared so; a redness quickening in her features that was pure outrage.

“I was. Still am. But he helped Sansa survive, and then he saved Rickon, and it’s—not forgiveness that I feel exactly, but he has suffered enough.”

She didn’t answer immediately. When she did, her voice held a note of uncertainty. “How is he? Rickon, I mean.”

“Angry,” Jon said humorlessly. “Scared. I don’t know—I keep having to leave, but he’s been out hunting, and it seems to keep him busy.”

She picked at the fabric of the chair’s armrest. “Part of me wants to take a horse and leave tonight.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you did,” he said gently, but she shook her head.

“I didn’t come here for you, Jon. I told you I made a list. One of them was here, and I wasn’t going to leave without checking their name off.”

“Was?” He said, repeating her own words back to her.

“Cersei Lannister.”

Jon stumbled up from his seat. “That was also you? I heard she was dead when Daenerys took the city.”

Arya smiled, a sharp thing like the knife she had hidden in her boot. “That’s the problem. It wasn’t me. I used the sacking of the city to get inside the Red Keep to find her because I surely wasn’t going to wait for someone else to do it when I had a personal stake. But she was dead in the throne room with a sword wound through her back. I want to know what happened. I want to know who killed her.”

“You and everyone else,” he said.

“I think I know who could tell us, but I haven’t been able to get access—too well guarded,” Arya continued.

“Who?”

“The Kingslayer.”

There was a pause as her words sunk in. “He’s alive?” Jon said warily, “Why?”

“That,” Arya said, “is a question for Tyrion Lannister, I think. How much do you know of how the city was taken?”

“Not much. It was taken with little destruction except for the wildfire.”

“Yes,” she said, satisfied with his answer. “How do you think Daenerys pulled that off?”

“Well,” Jon said slowly. “I’m not sure, actually.”

“They’re keeping very tight-lipped about it, but I know because I used them before,” Ayra said. “There are hidden doors and passages that run throughout the Red Keep. Some of them even lead to the beach, where there are no walls at all.”

“They breached the Red Keep first,” Jon said, understanding instantly. “They gave the orders to open the gates themselves.”

Arya nodded swiftly. “That’s what I think, anyway. The bigger question is how Daenerys Targaryen, who has never set foot in this place before, knew to use them—and that is where Tyrion Lannister comes in. It could have been Lord Varys, but he would have no reason to keep the Kingslayer alive this long. I think Lord Tyrion made a deal; a bloodless turnover of the Red Keep for his brother’s life. In theory, anyway. The massive holes from the wildfire say otherwise.” Arya took a breath. “Getting access to the Kingslayer would be messy business, and while I was planning for it, you showed up, and I decided figuring out if you were real or a fraud was more important.”

“I’m glad you did,” Jon told her sincerely. “But I see where this is going—you want me to ask Lord Tyrion about his brother.”

“Will you?” She asked him bluntly.

“I will,” Jon agreed. “But let me sober up first.”

When Jon woke in the morning, his head was pounding worse than it had been in the early hours when Arya had finally left, and he had stumbled into bed. It felt like it had been a dream, but he knew in his heart that it was not. His sister was alive. She had suffered terribly, like the rest of them, but she had survived. 

Rising had his vision twisting treacherously, and it took more time than usual to look presentable enough to leave his chambers. He doubted Lord Tyrion would be accepting visitors anytime soon, and so he began to wander without a destination, hoping the exercise would help clear his head. He could have taken breakfast in his quarters, but he hadn’t had the stomach for it yet. 

It was during this pointless meandering that Jon abruptly remembered what else had occurred the night before—just as he turned the corner and found her before him. 

Serana slowed as she took in his appearance. “What happened to you?” She said lightly, as though the night before had never happened, magic that disappeared once the night gave way to day. 

“My sister is here,” Jon croaked, and the vampire’s features bunched up in surprise.

“Sansa?”

It was not a conversation to have in an open hallway. “No,” he said, and then moved closer to whisper, “Arya. You would not have met her.”

A flicker of recognition. “And she’s here? Now?”

“Not a coincidence,” he said, answering her unvoiced question. “She was here for her own reasons. Now she needs my help.”

“I’m sure she had good reason to not come to you immediately,” Serana said as they walked arm in arm, her expression tepid.

“She thought I was not who I said I was,” he replied quietly. “And—that does make sense, to be fair.”

Serana exhaled. “I suppose you’re right. What does she want from you?” 

He looked at her for a moment, and when she nodded he knew they were alone and it was safe to speak, perks of vampirism. “Have you heard anything about how the city was taken?”

“Just whispers here and there. A small group of Daenerys’s forces found their way into the castle almost immediately.” 

“Apparently there are secret passageways.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere you wish to go,” Jon said, and the vampire’s eyes gleamed.

“Castles like this always do, but I doubt Daenerys knew their locations beforehand. Who was the deal struck with?”

“The lion.”

“Ah,” Serana said after a pause. “They were his family and he did it for the greater good. I know that feeling all too well.”

“I don’t begrudge him for it,” Jon agreed, though he knew it would not be a popular opinion among those in Westeros. “I understand why it was kept quiet. What is relevant to us, however, is that it was a deal for his brother’s life.”

She turned to look at him. “Now that is interesting. Why does Arya Stark care about all this?”

“She wanted to kill Cersei.”

“Did she do the deed then?”

Jon let out a bark of laughter. “No. That’s where this gets intriguing. If Daenerys Targaryen and her forces weren’t behind her death, and my sister hadn’t done it, then who did?”

Serana turned, mouth parting. “I believe that Jaime Lannister’s nickname is Kingslayer.”

“But he loved her,” Jon said, dismissing the idea. “It was the reason for the whole mess between the north and the throne. He’s done terrible things to protect her.”

“Perhaps,” Serana said thoughtfully, “but how far is too far?” 

“Meaning?”

“Ask about Cersei’s use of wildfire,” she said, and left him to think. 

The mystery of the previous queen’s death was a clever distraction, but it didn’t last forever. Jon ruminated on her clue while waiting for a message from Tyrion Lannister. He had known Serana had been researching wildfire in order to treat Rhaegal, but she had never said anything more about it. With little to go on, his attention began to wane as his thoughts returned to the previous night. 

He wondered if they would ever speak of it again; another stolen moment they would both banished from their minds afterward for one reason or the other. If he brought it up, would Serana brush him off, citing the festivities causing temporary insanity, or would they finally speak the truth to one another? 

It was not as though Jon meant to pine after her. He had fallen into bed with others during his time in Skyrim, though it had always been casual. He knew they had no future together; she would live forever, and him for a mere handful of decades compared to her lifespan. Jon would rather cherish the friendship they had both fought for than nothing at all. But now he wondered at her words. Was he allowed to want her? 

Jon doubted she meant to be cruel, but hope was the cruelest thing she could give him. It was a relief when his moping was interrupted by receiving a summons, and he set off for the Hand of the King’s solar at once.

“My Lord,” Jon greeted upon entering. Tyrion was seated on one of the sofas, but he was surprised to find Daenerys seated across from him, an old tome in her lap. “Your Grace. I had not realized you would be here.”

She looked up, smiling at him. “I did not get to speak with you very much last night. I heard you left early.”

There was a glint in Tyrion’s eyes. “Lady Serana left early as well, did she not?”
Jon did not give him the satisfaction of answering besides a grunt. 

The man sighed. “I must say I was quite surprised to receive your message. What could possibly be so urgent?”

“I have a request for you both.”

“Oh?” Daenerys answered crisply. 

“I would like to speak to Jaime Lannister if given permission.”

Tyrion tensed, the smile slipping from his face. “Why do you think he lives?” He said slowly. “Family or not, he was an enemy to the crown.”

Jon exhaled. “Forgive me, but I believe you made a deal—a clean turnover of the Red Keep in exchange for your brother’s life, and I believe you took it, Your Grace.”

Daenerys inclined her head, her eyes never losing sight of him. “I did, following your advice.”

It was Jon’s turn to stare. “My advice?”

“Yes, in part,” she said. “You were not the only one to advise me to move quickly so as to not give the late queen time to prepare. It was the right choice. I must thank you for that.”

He had nearly forgotten about it. “I see. I’m surprised you remembered.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “Why do you wish to see the Kingslayer? I assume you realize, but I cannot allow you to hurt him.”

Tyrion’s head turned toward her abruptly. “Your Grace, please—”

She held up a hand, eyes not leaving his.

“I wish to know who killed Cersei Lannister,” he said plainly. “I understand that upon your force’s arrival she was already dead, the killer unknown.” 

“We’ve asked as much of the Kingslayer, but so far he has had nothing to say,” said Daenerys, her lip curling. Her gaze turned toward Tyrion. “He won’t even speak to his own brother. I assume you’re here on your sister’s behalf?”

Realization sparked in the other man’s features, and he released a sigh. “Lady Sansa would want to know, I suppose,” Tyrion said, and he looked up, gesturing helplessly with his hands. “I wish I knew. There was no love lost between us; I’m sure you heard Cersei tried to have me killed more than once. My brother on the other hand…”

“You love him,” Jon said simply. “I understand. I have no intention of hurting him, I only wish to ask him a few questions.”

“But why think that you could get information out of him that we cannot?” Daenerys said casually. “What do you know, Jon?”

He halted, hesitating with his next words. “I have a suspicion—it is not mine, in truth, but Lady Serana’s.”

Daenerys waved her hand for him to continue. 

“Wildfire,” he said. “His silence has something to do with the wildfire that caused the damage in the Red Keep and wounded Rhaegal.”

It was a low move, but he knew the moment he said the dragon’s name he would have her, and he did. The queen leaned forward, that bored smile leaving her lips.

“Alright, you can have your talk,” she said, ignoring Tyrion’s objections. “But I will have several of my men at the door at all times, and you will not hurt him. I made a vow and must keep it.”

Jon bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He turned toward Tyrion, who looked as though he had swallowed something sour, and added, “I will not hurt him, Lord Tyrion, I will promise you that.”

The man held his gaze before looking away. “Yes, fine. You Starks are so bloody honorable, I might as well believe you.”

“I’m not a Stark,” Jon said, discomforted, and was dismayed to find Daenerys’s attention switching back to him. 

“Yes—I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” she said. “Would you like to be?”

 Jon gawked at her before regaining control of his expression. “That’s—very kind of you.”

She laughed, and it made him go silent. “It’s not kindness,” she said levelly. “But out of curiosity, why do you think I would make such an offer?”

Jon searched desperately for a non-answer. “Perhaps out of generosity.”

“Do you think me so generous?” Daenerys said, an eyebrow raised.

Tyrion cleared his throat, standing abruptly. “I have work to do elsewhere. Keep me posted if my brother says anything important.” He escaped the room in record time, but this was his solar, in his tower. Jon watched him go with a sinking feeling. 

He turned back toward the queen; there would be no right answer to her question. He searched for a different topic—and found one equally risky. It was still an improvement over the matter of his legitimation. “May I ask you something?”

She seemed surprised by his gall. “You may.”

“Why did you accept his deal? You clearly dislike the terms.”

It was blunt, but Daenerys did not seem offended by it. “I told him that once that I did not come here to be Queen of the ashes,” she began, tilting her head toward the door. “I must have convinced him because when we started preparing for the siege on King’s Landing, he came to me with a different plan. I had a choice to make—revenge for my family, or the opportunity to take the throne without shedding the blood of the people I would soon rule.”

“I see,” said Jon. It was about what he had expected since Arya had brought him in on the secret. Killing the Kingslayer would have felt like a victory, but doing so would have cost an opportunity she would have never forgotten. He looked up at her again, glad to have met her on Dragonstone all those months ago.

“Yes,” she said as understanding passed between them, “I think you do.”

Jon remembered stories about the Kingslayer as a child. He had been one of the best swordsmen in generations, one of the youngest to serve on the Kingsguard—and the one to turn his blade against his own king. From his father and tales from other older men who had served during the war, he knew the man had been found sitting arrogantly upon the iron throne. 

This was not that Jaime Lannister. This man had lost all interest in living; Jon knew it from the moment he entered the private quarters he was being kept in, guarded day and night.

His gaze was dull and utterly disinterested as Jon took a seat across from him. Jon noticed his arms were fastened behind his back. 

“A new guest,” Jaime said blandly, speaking as though out of obligation. “Is this when the torture begins? I’ve been treated so kindly these past weeks, I was beginning to wonder.”

“No, though I think you know very well why you’re still alive.”

The man scoffed. “My brother is a fool. She won’t keep her word forever—I killed her mad father after all.”

“And yet you live unharmed,” Jon said, not taking the bait. 

Jaime laughed. “Yes, living. You must be close to our new queen to be allowed in here. Who are you?”

Jon took a moment to answer. “Ned Stark’s son.”

“That’s funny. I heard rumors about a Jon Snow returning to the living, but we dismissed them. Snow dragons, the dead walking, magic—”

“All true,” Jon said calmly. “Though I accept that it may be hard to believe.” 

“Is the undead army marching on the wall real too?” The man said derisively.

“Unfortunately,” he answered. “I went past the wall to confirm it myself.”

The Kingslayer laughed, a gutted sound. “Of course you did. The perfect image of your father, the late honorable Lord Stark.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

A sharp smile spoiled his face. “But he died from his honor, and yet you live. His bastard.”

He was goading him, a reckless, clumsy reach for death—but it wouldn’t work. Jon had heard worse things just as a child living in Riften. The bigger question was why the man wanted to die. Jon did not believe it to be only grief, though it no doubt played a part. 

Jon lifted his hand, and as he had with Sansa many months ago, he cast flames. The fire curled around his fingers, unburning.

Jaime’s face drained of color, and it was not the response of a man unfamiliar with fire as a weapon. “Nice trick,” he said, his voice betraying his unease. “What else can you do?”

Jon released the spell. “All sorts of things, but we’re not here to talk about me. I want to talk about the wildfire used by Cersei Lannister.”

Serana had been right; the comment hit its mark even as he hastened to hide it. “Doesn’t everyone?” Jamie drawled. “Unfortunately for you, I wasn’t with her during the end. Missed whichever coward it was who stabbed her through the back. If I had been there, it surely would have had a different ending.”

“A funny thing to say for a man who faced a similar situation twenty years ago.”

Jaime snorted. “You think I haven’t heard that one before?”

“I heard Aerys liked wildfire too,” Jon continued and was glad to see a flicker in his expression at his words. “Couldn’t bear to stand around again to watch? I heard you were found deep in the Red Keep’s underground. Perhaps if you had been faster, you could have gotten away.”

“If only it weren’t for my traitorous brother who sold out the castle’s secrets—is that really why you’re here?” The man demanded, leaning forward. The two guards shifted by the door. “Trying to get me to admit I’m a coward? Admit that I abandoned my oaths again? Gods, you really are your father.”

His words didn’t feel like the full truth. If Jaime Lannister had truly loved the queen to the extent Jon had been told, he would not have left her to save himself. It had to be a clever misdirection—but for what?

“You seem to dislike Ned Stark quite a lot for a dead man,” Jon said instead.

Lannister’s lip curled. “He hated me the moment he found me on the throne. It didn’t matter what had come before.”

“What did?” Jon said, leaning forward.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“I was a child when I left Westeros, but I still remember some of the stories told about you,” Jon said conversationally. “None of them answered that question in a way I was satisfied with. They said that you were dishonorable by nature, and you did it out of greed. You told me yourself that they found you sitting on the throne—but I don’t think that’s all there is to the tale. From what I understand, you watched Robert Baratheon drink himself into an early grave as he dishonored your sister, and you did nothing. When Aerys Targaryen burned my uncle and grandfather alive, you did nothing. But then—mere hours before it wouldn’t matter any longer, you decided to kill your king? Tell me why.” 

The more he spoke, the more Jon believed his own tale. It didn’t make sense. 

Lannister looked at him as though seeing a ghost, and exhaled in the next. “Oh, what the hell—Aerys loved fire,” he muttered, as though confessing a grave sin, but his voice strengthened. “He burned more than just your family while watching from his throne. Eventually it wasn’t enough.”

There was a strange squeezing in his chest. “Wildfire?”

“Wildfire,” the man confirmed. “The Alchemist guild was all too happy to make it for him. When he told them to put caches of it under the city, they were happy to do that too. They were as fucking mad as he was.”

“Gods,” Jon murmured, because even without the man saying it, Jon understood anyway. “He was going to set them off.”

“Yes,” Jaime said shortly, bitterly. “Wanted to make the whole damn city burn. I killed his Hand—Rossart first, because he went off by Aerys’s order to kill my father. Then I went back—and after,” the man laughed wretchedly, “I had to track down every last one of the guild to make sure they wouldn’t set them off.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

His expression twisted. “Because I’m an oathbreaker anyway,” Jaime said sneeringly. “It wouldn’t matter. I would be Kingslayer all the same.”

Jon hadn’t forgotten what that meant in Westeros, but still it came flooding back as the man spoke. It wouldn’t have mattered to Robert Baratheon, or any of the high lords, or Jon’s own father, who even with the truth would have likely still condemned it.

“You could have stopped him without running him through,” said Jon, and the man stiffened, mouth curling into something of a snarl. Before he could speak, however, Jon added, “I doubt that crossed your mind, though. You were young and afraid and your king was about to kill everyone in this city. I bet you hated him—how could you not? Of course you killed him.”

The man watched him for a moment before sagging against the couch. “I would expect more of a condemnation from a Stark.”

“It doesn’t explain why you were below the Red Keep when Daenerys’s forces found you, but I think I can guess anyway,” Jon continued, ignoring the halfhearted taunt. “You were disabling the same caches you had sought to stop before because the woman you loved was repeating the worst day of your life.”

And that wasn’t all, Jon realized as he watched the man’s reaction. How far is too far, Serana had asked earlier, and he knew she was right. “You—”

“Enough,” Jaime snapped and jerked his head toward the door. “I’m done talking, Bastard. Leave.”

Jon did. Jaime Lannister had done unspeakable, dreadful things in the time since he had broken his first oath. There would be no redemption, and Jon doubted the man would even want it. He had become a kingslayer twice over. 

Chapter Text

Jon found Durnehviir in the Dragonpit. He knew the dragon was becoming bored with their stay and would be glad when they departed. Jon did not have good news on that front; he was here for a different matter. 

“What is honor to a dragon?” Jon asked him, settling against one of the cracked walls. 

“You wake me for this?” Durnehviir answered though he did not sound particularly aggravated; if there was anything dragons enjoyed, it was philosophy.

“Say you swore an oath to protect your king, but he was about to lay waste to his people and his city because he had gone mad. What would you do?”

“Why would I care for mortal lives?”

“Because they would be yours,” Jon countered. “As a knight, you took an oath to defend the innocent.”

“Is an oath to a king stronger than the oath of knighthood?” The dragon replied slyly. 

“Probably,” Jon said grudgingly. 

“Then I would let the king drown in death if that is what pleases him.”

Jon exhaled. “But morally—such a decision would be the wrong one. You just let a city of innocent people die for someone else's dark pleasure.”

“And yet I would be an oathbreaker if I didn’t.”

“But it would mean your death as well. An utterly meaningless death having done nothing.”

The dragon thought for a moment. “Perhaps it would be better to stop such an action then.”

“I knew that is what would get you,” Jon said, frowning. “What if it had been Alduin? If he decided to kill every last one of his kin, not for aggregating power, but because he simply liked to watch them fall under his teeth—would you have turned against him?” 

The dragon went silent for a moment. “It is a repulsive idea. We would have found a new thur. The only dovahhe who would kill our kin for pure sport are Dovahkiin.”

“Yes,” Jon murmured. He had expected that, too.

“Why these questions, Thuri?” Durnehviir said, lowering his head to where Jon stood.

“A knight’s testimony,” Jon answered, the dragon's cold breath settling against his skin. He quieted his voice, ensuring that their words wouldn’t travel. “To break an oath here holds greater weight than in Skyrim.”

The dragon tilted his head. “You speak of your oath to Stendarr.”

“Aye,” Jon said steadily. “I left behind the Vigilant because the last of them told me it is better to live than to die for a Daedric Prince’s pleasure—and it was to die for nothing in that wretched temple if I had stayed.”

Durnehviir’s gaze assessed him. “I assume you do not speak of one of the Nine Divines’ temples.” 

“No,” he said, placing his hand against the stone. “I only lived because I was unremarkable, a boy who hadn’t consumed a dragon soul yet. I knew how to appear unexceptional—I had done so my whole childhood. It saved my life.” 

“Then it is good you had not encountered a dragon before then.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. It’s so easy to break oaths in Tamriel,” Jon continued. “There are too many gods who use the mortal realm to amuse themselves. Time and time again I watched my brothers and sisters of the Vigilant break theirs until it was my turn. Nothing to say of all the other Daedric Princes’ tricks upon mortals.”

“But you did not break it. What have you done in the service of Molag Bal?”

Jon shuddered. “I love one of his own. I have no intention of ever slaying her. To the Vigilant that would be enough.”

“An interesting quandary then,” Durnehviir mused. “It’s a matter of whether you can live with the knowledge of it, Thuri. There is no one to punish you for it. Stendarr’s light will not reach you here.” 

“That is your perspective on this matter?” 

The dragon laughed. “I am not Paarthurnax, who turned on Alduin by Kyne’s will. I once sought evil for my own gain, and I gained a lifetime of servitude in return. Was that my punishment for my insolence, or simply the matter of course my choices took me on? Even now, I break my pact to the Ideal Masters to serve as guard until Valerica’s death. Do you judge me for choosing this life instead?”

“No,” Jon said, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just—he loved her. He did evil in service of her for years, and then faced with the same circumstance from his past, he chose to kill her regardless of that love.”

“Did Paarthurnax not love his brother even after Alduin had put his teeth to his wings and horns?” The dragon responded. “Alduin turned away from Akatosh, a sin to be sure, but the rest of my brothers followed him even as it meant betraying our creator, our father—out of midun, or as you mortals say, love.”  

“Loyalty and love are not the same.”

“No?” The dragon said slyly as he stretched his wings. “My mistake then.”

Had it been loyalty that made him draw his sword again and again when one of his Order had fallen to evil, when they were draining the life of the very people they had sworn to protect—or was it simply his oath that had shackled him to the task? 

Jon exhaled, letting his thoughts settle. “The Vigil’s oaths can be severed. I knew more than one person who left before their oath condemned them—I suppose I did too. Maybe it’s different outside of Skyrim, but I don’t think I met a single Vigilant who retired from old age. They all died young or became the thing they once hunted.”

“It is a thankless task to be the sword of a god,” Durnehviir agreed. The dragon then bounded into the air, leaving Jon no closer to closure. 

Jon set off for the Red Keep, returning to that miserable tower to ask an equally miserable man a question he would likely not answer willingly. Jon had to try anyway because eventually the caches would be found again, and there would always be someone mad enough to light them. 

The guards let him inside—it had only been a few hours, and he was a dragonrider, accepted by the queen herself, and it suddenly bothered him that it worked at all. 

“Back again so soon?” Jaime said, his voice sour, not bothering to speak with the kind of mocking pride he had before. 

“The caches need to be destroyed permanently,” Jon said bluntly. “They’ve sat under the city long enough.”

The man stared at him for a moment, as though his words came unexpectedly, before inclining his head. “Tell my brother first—not the Targaryen queen.”

Jon wasn't expecting that to be his answer. “She would not use them if that is what you worry about.”

Jaime laughed. “Oh, but you see I once told myself the same thing twice over, and it turned out I was wrong on both accounts.”

Another terrible confession. Jon hesitated at the door, though there was nothing to say. He left to find Tyrion Lannister at once.

From the initial estimates, it would take weeks to clear the caches out entirely, and that was nothing to say about what to do with them. Some would potentially go north to the wall, a potentially clever but reckless plan from Lord Tyrion, and as they waited in his solar as more reports came in, the lord drank more and more, and then abandoned drink entirely as he sat behind his desk looking more tired by the hour. 

“Why did he tell you?” The man had asked him almost disbelieving when Jon told him about the wildfire caches, but the truth was that not even Jon truly knew. Perhaps it was because Ser Jaime was simply tired of keeping it hidden when he had nothing left to lose, or because Jon looked like his father, and it was a chance to finally confess to a dead man from an age past. 

Eventually Lord Tyrion called for the queen when they were surer of the danger lying under all of King’s Landing, and she had her own demands of getting it away from the city immediately. Jon left them when the sun had long past set, returning to his rooms only to find them already occupied. There was a servant in his quarters, and he tensed until their head turned and he found his sister’s face looking back. 

“Gods,” Jon said and slumped down in one of the chairs by the unlit fireplace. “Your request kicked up quite a hornet’s nest.”

Her expression was nearly gleeful, reminiscent of how he remembered her. “So I was right? You know who did it?”

“Aye.” Jon didn’t particularly feel like talking about it, more so with that look on her face. He was right; when he told her the kingslayer had killed twice, she laughed sharp as a knife, and said something that made him shut his eyes. They were a family of strangers; she wouldn’t understand why the confession made him so weary. Rickon was too young, and he knew Sansa would not understand either. He wondered if his sisters had known of the wildfire, what they might do with it—but it was incredibly uncharitable of him to even think it.

Long after Arya left, Jon sat in his chambers unable to sleep. Lannister’s confession had made him remember, which was just as terrible, and he knew if he slept he would find himself in that dark temple again. The dead, strewn outside a tower cloaked in snow; the voices of the dead whispering in his ears as he went down further into the dark.

A knock on the door interrupted his brooding, but it was not a servant calling him back to the Hand of the King’s solar as he thought, but Serana. She shut the door behind her, coming to sit beside him.

“So I was right?” She asked him steadily, an echo of Arya’s words, but it was said in such a different tone without any of that mean cruelty behind them that Jon nearly sighed with relief. 

“It’s an awful thing,” he told her. 

“The truth often is,” she said, and they said in silence for a while until Jon could bear it no longer. 

“How did you know?”

“I didn't for certain. Wildfire is unlike anything I've found in this realm; I’ve been researching it as much as I can since we arrived, but very few alchemists still live, and even fewer can tell me how it actually works. Even they’re missing knowledge because their entire guild had all but vanished twenty years ago. There’s no history of that either; they all just died," she said solemnly. "Wildfire is incredibly dangerous, and yet no more than a single cache went off, and that seemed to have been placed deliberately by Cersei to hit Daenerys where it would hurt her most. Everything I know of the woman tells me she wouldn't have had access to a powerful weapon like wildfire and only used it once with her enemy on her doorstep."

Serana turned toward him, resting her chin on her palm. "The missing puzzle piece came in documentation from twenty years ago about the production of wildfire from the Alchemy guild. Someone must have stopped her like they did the Mad King then. There's only one person left in this keep who fits.”

Not in a million years would he have made the right connections she had to find the truth. “No one would think of Jaime Lannister and honor in the same sentence,” Jon replied humorlessly. “But at the very least, even with all the awful things he’s done in between, he made a choice that saved this city twice. The first time it cost him his reputation, and the second time his sister, and he did it again anyway. There is honor in that, I think, even if no one else will acknowledge it.” 

“It’s the worst sort of honor.”

“It’s probably going to kill him,” Jon agreed, because the man clearly wanted to die, and eventually he would antagonize the right person and get his wish. A wretched ending for a wretched knight. “That will make my sisters happy at least.”

She looked up at that. “What is Arya like? You didn’t say.”

Jon shrugged helplessly. “Revenge driven and bloodthirsty like the rest of us. Part of me wants to think this isn’t my sister. The one I remember had been a rebellious but mostly happy child. This Arya is—she’s grown up after watching most of her family die needlessly because a single family, the Lannisters, wanted more and more power. She is owed her revenge. It’s just hard…”

“Because when you thought of seeing her again, you remembered the child and never imagined this,” Serana finished. 

“Yes,” Jon said shortly because it was the truth and it hurt. They sat in silence. The ball suddenly felt very far away, as though it hadn’t just occurred the night before. An age ago.

“Can I ask you something?” Jon said, finding his courage again. 

She inclined her head. “Of course.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Why do you think?”

Jon’s voice went quiet. “We’re not good at being honest with each other.”

Serana stared at him. “No,” she agreed after a moment. “We’re not.”

How honest could he be, Jon thought, before he was playing with fire? How close to the truth could he get before he hurt them both? “You told me you never wanted to marry.”

Serana went still. “Who said anything about marriage?”

“You did once,” Jon said humorlessly. “But anything more casual either.”

“Maybe things change.”

“I don’t think I could do it,” he said, his gaze steadily upon her. “Having it mean nothing with you.” 

Her expression grew pained. “I know. I don’t want that either.” 

“But then—”

“I don’t know,” Serana said. “I can’t be what you want. Thinking of you touching me half the time makes me squirm, and not in a pleasant way. But the other half of me feels—” Her hands curled in her lap, knuckles flashing white. 

“I’m sorry. I don't mean to push you,” Jon said steadily. “We can remain as we are now.” 

She let out a hollow bark of a laugh. “But aren’t you miserable? I am.”

His heart jumped in his throat. “Tell me what you want, Serana.”

“It’s not that simple.” Without waiting for a response, Serana rose from her seat and disappeared out the door, leaving him alone in the unpleasant silence. 

Arya found him halfway to the Dragonpit the following morning. After she had caught up to him, his sister peered at his face and clearly found it wanting, judging by her expression. “Have you been drinking again?”

“I’m just thinking,” growled Jon. 

She made a face. “About what? You’re not thinking this hard about the Kingslayer, are you?”

“No.”

Arya was quiet as they moved through the crowded streets. She spoke again once they were down an empty alley. “Is this about Lady Serana?”

Jon grimaced. “Have you been watching me for that long?”

“Oh, it’s fairly obvious to anyone that you two have something complicated going on.”

“Wonderful,” Jon muttered under his breath. “It’s not complicated—it’s doomed.”

Ayra laughed at that, but it was a quiet thing. Her response wasn’t immediate this time either as they navigated the city, crossing between narrow alleyways and packed streets. “I found a friend of mine here after failing to get to Cersei.”

“A friend?” Jon said as they turned a corner down to a near-empty lane.

She shrugged. “I liked him before in a childish way. He was brave and clumsily kind, and I took that for granted at the time. He’s grown up into a good man.”

Jon swung his head toward her. “Ah,” he said, suddenly not knowing what to say. She had been such a wild girl as a child, so he had never expected this to be part of her past. “This is a week of reunions, then.”

Ayra snorted. “We haven’t reunited. He doesn’t know I’m here. Or alive, for that matter.” The ruins of the Dragonpit rose tall in front of them. “The problem is that he is good,” Arya continued, her voice quiet. “I am not.”

Jon made a noise. “Arya—”

“I’ve killed so many people since I last saw him. He wouldn’t understand, the Freys most of all. That was—” she broke off, expression turning bleak. “That was cruel. I meant for it to be. I was a vindictive girl, and I grew into a vicious woman.”

"I think you’re more than that,” Jon said carefully.

“Maybe, but I’m spiteful, Jon. I suppose that is one of the few things I get from my mother.” She shook her head. “It was hard after you went missing. I never fully forgave her.”

“She wasn’t at fault for my disappearance,” Jon said diplomatically. 

“No,” Arya agreed. “But her satisfaction from it was.” 

He grimaced, having heard similar comments from Sansa. It didn’t surprise him. “It’s in the past.”

Arya made a noise in her throat. “You really haven’t changed very much, have you?”

“I have.”

“Not about this.”

“Lady Stark is dead,” Jon said and exhaled. “That part of my life feels very far away these days. I—I faced worse, after.”

She reached for his arm, squeezing it once. “We all did.” She took a breath. “You’ll have to tell me more about it someday. Skyrim sounds—I would like to visit it, truly. Women warriors and monsters and magic.”

His voice turned a tad sour. “There’s even an order of assassins there too.”

She paused, eyes finding his. “Familiar with them, are you?”

“There was always someone willing to pay to kill me.”

“My poor brother,” Arya said, voice nearly cheerful, her gloom seemingly evaporated. She waved him off once they were closer to the pit.

“You could come meet him, you know,” Jon called after her. “You used to love dragons and their warrior queens.”

Arya shook her head, offering him a smile. “I need to get ready.”

A hint of foreboding. “For what?”

“For returning from the dead,” she said and turned back to blend into the crowd.

Chapter Text

Arya Stark arrived on a ship from Braavos a few days later. She was escorted to the Red Keep by the Master of Whispers. She embraced Jon fiercely; to all discerning eyes, it was a joyful reunion between kin. 

It was a complete sham, made more absurd because it worked. Both Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys had met her as a child and recognized her immediately. It also obliged him to the crown by returning his youngest sister to him—merely a convenient coincidence, Jon was sure they would tell him. He was ever more appreciative that he had known Arya had returned ahead of time. 

Serana had begun to avoid him since their last conversation, and while Arya was supposed to be recovering within the keep after her long journey, she spent most of her hours wandering King’s Landing with her own agenda. Jon found himself returning to the tower on a whim for a lack of alternatives, and then another until a plan was unfolding in his mind. 

“You saved them, you know,” Jon told the knight one cloudy afternoon.

“That’s me, savior of the King’s Landing,” Jaime drawled. 

As tempting as it often was, Jon didn’t take the bait. “Only one cache went off near the Dragonpit, but the casualties were few. One of the queen’s dragons took the brunt of the damage.” 

The man perked up at that. “Did it really? Well, that is something.”

Jon glowered. “He lived through it, I’m sure you’re glad to hear. Rhaegal—”

“The dragon has a name?” Jaime interrupted snidely, his lip curling. “And you remember it? I suppose my brother could give you every bloody dragon’s name up to Aegon the Conqueror’s.”

“He’s mine so of course I do.”

A laugh erupted from the man, but it faded when Jon didn’t play along. Then he was peering at him, sweeping across Jon’s features as though looking for something—and his face went pale, and he opened his mouth disbelievingly, “Prince Rhaegar?”   

“What?” Jon said, squinting, not knowing what he had anything to do with it. “No. It’s not because I have Targaryen blood, but what happened to me after I went missing.”

The man didn’t look convinced, but that was too bad because Jon was tired of explaining it. 

“You have two dragons?” Jaime said after a pause and then laughed wildly, holding his sides. With Jon’s frequent visits, they didn’t bother tying his arms anymore. “Your brother really could have used you back then.”

The words felt like a blade sliding between his ribs. “I know.”

“He was a brilliant commander. Not a bad swordsman, either.”

“I’m surprised to hear you admit that.”

“I’m not too proud to admit it,” the man said, leaning back in his chair. “He beat me—perhaps not fairly—”

“I’ve heard otherwise.”

Jaime shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He raised his right arm, where the flesh ended below his wrist. “My days of glory are over. I’ll be confined to this tower until Daenerys Targaryen decides I’m more useful dead.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be free?” Jon asked.

“No,” said Jaime dourly. “Not for her price. What kind of question is that, anyway? You already know my answer.”

“The kind where it's uncertain whether a man would have rather died with his love than live without her.”

“Even if she was my sister?” Jaime said challenging.

Jon kept himself from reacting to that. “I didn’t say romantically. Though I won’t pretend to understand that part of your family’s torrid history.”

Jaime didn’t respond instantly. He looked toward the window, too high to climb to and barred even if he managed it. The room was nice, comfortable even, but no less a jail cell. “Gods—you are different from your father. Any one of your family would have my head to an axe.” 

Jon knew he meant the Starks, and he couldn’t deny it. It wasn’t that the Lannister’s confession didn’t bother him, but the man was worth far more alive than dead. “I assume you’ve heard of the undead marching on the wall.”

The man scoffed. “Not this again.”

Jon peered at him. “You’ve seen me do magic, and you believe me when I tell you I have two dragons, but White Walkers are too much for you?”

“It doesn’t matter even if I did believe in those things,” the man muttered.

“Why—because if the White Walkers exist, then you’ll have a duty to take up the sword again?”

Jaime smirked. “You’re a funny man, Snow.  Don’t you know by now that my oath means nothing?”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself of that?” Jon replied evenly. “Wouldn’t you rather fight for the realm one last time than waste away here?”

“The realm hasn’t done shit for me.”

Jon shrugged, rising from his seat. “Think about it.”

“Absolutely not,” Daenerys was saying, while Tyrion Lannister stared at him at a total loss for words. 

“Why not?” Jon said patiently. “We could use his expertise at the wall. Between all the wars and outright murders in the past decade, the number of good military and field commanders is at an all-time low.” 

“But you—”

“I have never led that many men before,” Jon reminded them. “My memory of strategy at these size forces has since faded from my education as a child, not that it would make a difference. Both of us will be on the backs of dragons—we’ll be occupied enough.”

Lord Tyrion seemed to regain himself. “But don’t you hate him?” 

Hatred was irrelevant when it came to an army of the dead. Jon wished they would understand this, but there was no way for them to understand until they saw what was marching on the living for themselves. 

“I’d rather have him fighting on the side of the living,” Jon replied, and when it was clear it wasn’t enough, he added, “Hate is a strong word for a man I had never met before until recently. Besides, is it not one of his options—taking the black?”

“It is,” Tyrion grounded out. “But if he bends the knee, he won’t need to. He won’t inherit, but he’ll live comfortably enough. That was the deal,” he said while looking toward his queen.

Daenerys nodded shortly. “It is, but my Lord Hand, do you truly expect him to ever do so?”

Tyrion did not answer and she continued without it. “Our deal was thus; Jaime Lannister may live if he acknowledged me as queen, or he has the options all condemned men do: take the black or die by execution. I’ve prolonged this only out of my friendship with you.”

“I know,” the man replied wearily. “If you would just give me more time—”

“We’re out of time,” Daenerys said, her voice deceptively soft. “We will be marching north soon enough. I think it is a fine idea for the Kingslayer to decide whether he will march with us.”

“But if he bends a knee—”

“He won’t,” she said, fingertips gliding over the table. “That would be a betrayal of love.”

Her ability to find the exact heart of a matter was terrifying. Jon wondered how many of his weaknesses she recognized. “I must apologize to you both, but my sister wished for me to join her this afternoon,” Jon said, lying through his teeth. Daenerys and Tyrion would likely be talking in circles for hours, and he had no intention of patiently slogging through it.

Lord Tyrion jumped on the new topic with vigor. “Yes—how is she doing? I’ve been meaning to ask, but she’s surprisingly hard to find.”

“She wishes to return north soon.”

The man nodded. “It’s truly a miracle, moreso that it was truly her. I half expected it to be another imposter—there have been several of them over the years.”

Jon smiled tightly. “It is indeed, but I am very glad of it.”

“Understandable. You must not keep her waiting then.” 

“Thank you, my Lord,” he said and dipped his head. “Your Grace.”

Though it was not done with intention, his sister’s arrival signaled the end of their time in King’s Landing. They had lingered much too long already, but there was always some new distraction that made it hard to think beyond the city’s walls. Soon they would have to return north where winter had begun in true, and the lingering summer of the south would only linger in their memories. 

Arya rarely left her quarters since she had arrived—or at least that was how it seemed to the rest of the keep. Jon wasn’t surprised to knock on her door and hear no answer. He left the Red Keep and immediately ran into a bit of luck; a familiar girl wearing servant’s grab was walking toward Fishmonger’s Square. She had upgraded her disguise since resurrecting her identity again, but Jon was relieved to see it was still her face. 

He began to follow, weaving between vendors and buyers until she exited the square. Jon realized they were headed for the Street of Steel, which he had visited several times out of curiosity—though he certainly did not need any more blades. 

Her pace slowed as they arrived and then drew to a halt, overlooking one of the shops. A man was ducking in and out of the smithy, talking to several customers. He appeared strong from working steel, and while Jon didn’t recognize him, he could guess who he was.

“Is that your friend?” Jon asked as he joined her. 

“I knew you were following me. Don’t you know that’s rude?” Arya said bitingly as she turned back toward him.

“You were following me for weeks.”

“Not all the time,” she said, eyes shifting back toward the street below. 

“So between following me, you were stalking him —”

Jon didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence as she stepped on his foot hard, making him grunt in pain. 

“I wasn’t stalking him,” she told him sullenly. “I was just making sure he’s been doing all right. We didn’t separate peacefully.”

“He seems to be doing well for himself. I’m sure he’d at least want to know you’re alive.”

“I don’t want to make trouble for him again.”

“Hm,” Jon said and was quiet for a moment. “He’s handsome.”

His sister shot him a look. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Jon didn’t believe it, but he decided to be merciful. “What’s his name then?”

“Gendry,” she said, and then with her voice hushed, she added, “He’s the bastard son of Robert Baratheon.”

Jon ran a hand down his face. “Oh, of course he is. And he’s staying in King’s Landing?”

Arya shrugged, but her tone was clipped. “He’s stubborn.” 

Jon stood with her for another few minutes, waiting for her to do anything else but stare at him—and gave up. “Your wish to speak with him is evident.”

“Is that really something my brother should be encouraging?”

It wasn’t, but the relief Jon had felt upon realizing part of her disappearing act was due to a boy and not murder more than made up for it. “I was looking for you. We’ll be leaving soon for Winterfell.”

“Will we,” Arya said under her breath.

“Indeed,” Jon said evenly. “I’ve told the queen and Lord Tyrion all about your overwhelming desire to reunite with the rest of our family. Your surprise return has given us the perfect opportunity, in truth.”

Arya sighed. “You’re surprisingly shrewd when you need to be.”

“My excuses to escape court are well practiced.”

She snorted. “Very well—but that can’t be the only reason you sought me out.”

“We have two options for travel,” Jon told her. “We can march with the queen and her armies north. Your other option is on the back of a dragon.”

That got her attention. “We could fly home?”

“Aye. Is that your choice?”

“No, I think I’d rather spend weeks on the road with Daenerys Targaryen.”

Jon laughed. “She’s not that bad.”

“She’s overbearing.”

“She’s queen,” he corrected. 

“Exactly,” Arya sniped. “She’s used to getting what she wants.”

Jon acquiesced that she wasn’t wrong about that.

Rhaegal called to him upon entering the Dragonpit. They hadn’t flown together in several days, and Jon could feel his restlessness growing. The dragon had fully recovered, excluding his patches of gnarled scarring, and Jon couldn’t help but think he could easily make the journey north. 

It took no time at all to reach the ocean. The tall grass growing along the coast was flattened as they flew past. Rhaegal dove toward the beach, skimming the water with his claws. Jon yelled when it sprayed him with water, but he was laughing moments later; he felt freer up in the sky. Jon imagined they could fly across the sea to cities he had only heard of, to feel a false summer heat upon his skin again. He would never do it, not with the dead marching on the wall, but it lightened his thoughts nonetheless.

Rhaegal took them higher, steadily gaining height as the clouds turned to mist, and they made it to another world altogether as the land below them disappeared. They flew through mountains made of weightless clouds, and then there was the sound of a pair of massive wings flapping under them. Jon looked down to find Drogon rising through the clouds to meet them, his rider flat against his neck. 

He was not surprised to see her; Drogon had been missing from the Dragonpit when he had arrived, though he left on his own often enough. 

“I see you had the same idea,” she called from her dragon’s back, and then Jon found himself following when Drogon dove through the clouds again with Rhaegal chasing after. 

They were further out at sea than Jon had realized. The two dragons flew toward the coast, reaching it in a matter of minutes. Rhaegal screeched when Drogon reached the cliffs first, and he landed on the grassy bluffs with his tail swinging furiously. 

Jon dismounted, laughing at his dragon’s obvious sulk as Drogon took off again and Rhaegal snapped after him.

Daenerys was laughing too. “It’s all in good fun,” she said as she came closer. He had rarely been truly alone with her; he wondered if this was evidence of her growing trust in him. “If Viserion were here the two of them would join forces just to annoy their brother.”

Jon once knew that feeling well. “That sounds familiar.” 

“You’re very close to your siblings,” she said shrewdly. 

“I was, Your Grace.” He cleared his throat. “I’d like to think we can be again, but we were apart for so long.”

“How is Lady Arya?”

Jon was quiet for a moment. “Different than I remember.”

“Yes, I believe that.” 

The two dragons were still nipping at one another, diving in and out of the clouds. Their roars grew fainter with distance. “They’ll return,” she assured him, and Jon shook his head.

“I’m not worried. If worst comes I could summon Durnehviir.”

“Very convenient.”

“He doesn’t always think so,” Jon said. The laugh that came after startled him. The times he felt genuinely comfortable in her presence were slim.

“It’s funny,” Daenerys began, “thinking back to our first meeting.”

“Oh?” Jon said, an undertone of caution in his voice. 

“I wondered when we first met if you were there to kill me.”

His head swung toward her. Daenerys was watching him with a challenge in her gaze, but it was not the kind Jon feared from her, but something more familiar. “I never had any intention of doing that.”

“I know that now,” she said, her mouth quirking. “You’re a good man. You’ve shown me that time and time again.” Her gaze turned toward the sea. “The moment Durnehviir landed on my boat, naming me dragon queen, I felt all my plans go up in smoke. My ancestral home was already occupied. And you, so polite, so careful not to offend me—I thought it was a trick at first.”

Jon snorted. “I’ll admit that I tried to leave before your ships could notice us. Durnehviir had other ideas.” 

“I’m glad he did,” she said, brows raising. “But that means you went from liberating Winterfell to traveling past the wall and then flew straight to Dragonstone afterward. You’re a busy man, Jon Snow.”

“It was what was required of me,” he said. After a pause, he added, “Sansa was not pleased with me.”

She laughed. “I would very much like to meet her. Though I assume she does not feel the same way.” 

“She will come around once she knows you,” Jon said, hoping it to be true. It would simplify things, certainly, but he didn’t have any expectations it would end up that way. Sansa, he had come to remember, rarely changed her mind easily on anything. 

For a few moments, there was only the sound of crashing waves, and winds rustling the grass. 

“I feel as though I can trust you,” Daenerys admitted quietly. “It is not a feeling that comes to me easily. Perhaps it is because we share a certain kinship—there is no one else in the world who understands what it means to be bound to a dragon.”

Perhaps it was a foolish confession, but he had felt her sincerity. “I feel the same way.” 

In Skyrim there had been only one other, and their relationship had been a frantic race against one another in the theft of souls and bloodshed. Jon had never thought he would meet another.

She turned her head back to the ocean. “You told me before that there had been one other like you in Skyrim.”

Jon exhaled. “It was by his own folly that his fate was what it came to be. He thought himself above even the gods. I was simply the blade employed.”

“Is that how you think of yourself—a weapon?” 

“Only when necessary,” Jon answered steadily. “I don’t like to kill, Your Grace, but I’m skilled at it nonetheless.”

“Then I suppose I’m glad your ire is not pointed at me,” said Daenerys. Then she smiled. “Enough of that. Let’s talk of happier things.” 

A strong wind blew in from the waves, drawing his darker thoughts along with it. “I confess I do not know of a topic to speak.”

An impish glint quickly appeared in her eyes. “I haven’t seen you with Lady Serana lately. How is she?”

Jon grimaced. “She’s well.”

“Is she? I’ve heard the two of you have been avoiding each other,” Daenerys said delicately, and Jon realized with mounting horror that she was gossiping, the court’s favorite pastime. He had been confronted with the same in Solitude: everyone wanted to know everyone else’s business. Jon had cause to make his visits there as brief as possible.

“She has her reasons.”

“How intriguing,” Daenerys said lightly. “Surely it would be a relief to speak of it to someone?”

Jon kept quiet, offering no more ammunition for her entertainment. 

“Oh very well,” Daenerys said, her voice light with humor. In the distance, Drogon had turned back and was advancing toward them, with Rhaegal just following behind. “I’ll let you keep your secrets.” 

Chapter Text

They had been at a tavern, just weeks before he had killed her father. “You fall in love with the wrong kind of people,” Serana had told him then.

Jon remembered laughing until her words had registered. “What do you mean?”

“You’re attracted to competence, to power, to those you cannot have because they are just as likely to put a blade through your heart.” 

She had smiled, and in the dull light of the inn, Jon couldn’t tell if it had been real. He wondered if she had known even then. 

Falling in love with her had been slow, over months and then years as they learned to trust one another. Now it simmered under his skin like a low but everlasting flame. His chest ached when he saw her. They had no future; Jon repeated the words in his head every time, but he invariably forgot. 

Durnehviir seemed to think it was terribly amusing. He caught the tail end of one of their stilted conversations sorting out their plans for departure. He waited until Serana had left the Dragonpit and Jon insisted on staying. 

“What are you going to do, Thuri?” He asked and Jon groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“I don’t know,” Jon told him, but he did. He did.  

He took the longest possible course back to the Red Keep. Filled his mind with the dead marching on the wall, and when that wasn’t enough, he began to flip through old cases in his mind; a missing boy in Rorikstead taken by vampires; dug up corpses found in Falkreath; an old woman accused of necromancy; a man murdered for a ritual. 

It was still not enough. There was a buzz coursing through his veins, threatening to simmer over. Jon arrived at the Red Keep’s training yard to run a few drills, but he couldn’t help but think about her even then; for many years, his sparring partner had been her. 

With the sun setting, Jon returned to his rooms to find them already occupied. Any progress he had made went up instantly in smoke.

“Serana,” Jon greeted all the same, and then moved past her to take off his cloak. “I don’t suppose you simply came through the door.”

He could feel her eyes upon his back. “I’ve been exploring these so-called hidden passageways.”

“Ah,” Jon said, still not looking at her. 

There was a silence as he sought for anything else to pay attention to: the imperfections of the walls, another of his cloaks cast off onto the end of a chair.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” Serana said into the silence.

“But you wanted to.”

She made a noise in her throat. “It’s not about what I want.”

“Why not?”

“Why can’t I want you?” Serana asked rhetorically. “Isn’t it obvious, Jon?”

“It’s not,” he said. A lie; of course he knew.

She strode toward him, close enough to touch. He reached for her excruciatingly slow, giving her enough time to evade him. She didn’t. Jon’s hands settled against her skin, cupped her face, overwhelmingly tempted to kiss her again. 

“It would not be fair for either of us. Why set ourselves up for pain later?” She whispered. 

It was not as though he didn’t understand. They had both clung to the same rationale for so long that it became the shadow behind his every thought of her. It was his oaths and her trauma and the doomed nature of love between someone like him with a finite lifespan to her who had forever.

“There’s a part of me that always thinks—why does it have to be an issue? I could just as well turn you, and then I would have you forever.” Serana’s voice quieted even as she watched him with open hunger. “Isn’t that terrible? I love you, but that is why I cannot have you. I can’t be what you want.”

“You don’t know what I want,” said Jon.

“I do,” she said. “You’re going to grow old without me. I’ll stay exactly like this long after you’ve gone, when everything I have left of you is memories.”

“I know,” he said hoarsely. 

“It should be easier to give you up knowing that,” she murmured. “I’ve told myself this for years. But I still want you.”  

“I know,” he repeated. He breathed out slowly. “I’ve loved you for years.”

Her eyes shut for a moment. “It should scare you.”

“It does scare me. The thought of losing you is terrifying.” 

Her eyes snapped opened. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. 

Jon sent her a pained smile, releasing her. “But it is what I feel.”

Her voice grew heavy. “Don’t you tire of this? Waiting for me?”

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“What are you doing then?”

“Living,” he offered and nearly laughed at her expression, the sheer absurdity of the situation. A former vigilant and a pure blood vampire. “My whole childhood I knew would I eventually enter the Night’s Watch. I would swear an oath to take no wife and father no children. I would merely be a shield against the crown’s enemies. Back then being a bastard was a chain around my neck—Lady Stark ran Winterfell, and Winterfell was my whole world. The Night’s Watch would allow me to escape her ire, to do something honorable with my life.”

Serana turned her face away. “I don’t see how this is related.”

“It is because I ended up in one the most honorless parts of Skyrim. I ran packages for the Thieves Guild. I had no honor then, but it allowed me to survive,” Jon told her. “I learned something from that, and that’s nothing to say of the order of the Vigilants of Stendarr. I joined them because it was honorable, and quickly realized what it meant to fight against a god of corruption. Life is complicated. It’s short. Why does it matter if it's fair or not when both of us want this?” 

If Jon held it in any longer he’d be eaten alive by the truth. He reached for her wrist, pulling her attention back to him. “Tell me that you do not want this. I’ll not speak of it again.”

Serana had no answer for him. 

Jon kept himself busy in the days after; they would leave by the week’s end, and on such short notice, there was more to do than he had time for. He visited Jaime Lannister one final time before they left. 

“I’m not in the mood, Snow,” the man called when he entered through the door, but Jon wasn’t there to make niceties. 

“You’ll be glad to hear I’ll be leaving then,” Jon told him, taking a seat across from him. “You know why I’m here.”

Jaime’s expression was mild. “Your ridiculous plan, I’m sure. As I told my brother, I’m not interested.”

Jon exhaled. It wouldn’t be so simple. From their first meeting, he had known the man wanted to follow his sister into the grave. 

“You look troubled. Could it be love?” the man drawled when Jon had gone silent. “I’ve been meaning to ask—I assume you and the queen have become quite close, considering she’s letting you ride her dragon.”

Jon did not appreciate the connotation. “Do not speak of her that way. It isn’t appropriate.”

Jaime laughed. “That’s never stopped me. I’ve loved twice, neither of which would be considered appropriate. Cersei, as I’m sure you’ve heard rumors of regularly, and a woman who beat me into the ground more than once.”

“Who beat you?”

The man went quiet for a moment. “Brienne of Tarth.”

“She’s pledged to my sister,” Jon said, narrowing his gaze at the man.

Jaime smiled wryly. “Yes, of course she is. She’s been committed to protecting the Stark daughters for years now as a promise to their mother.”

It was an opportunity if he was telling the truth. “You could see her again,” Jon told him. “Queen Daenerys will be stopping at Winterfell.”

The man scoffed. “Enough. You and my brother need to give up already. My time is over.”

“And I’ll ask it again—would you rather waste away in here, to die to the executioner’s block, than go north and fight?”

“I won’t bend a knee.”

“Because it would be betraying your late sister? You killed her because she was about to do something unforgivable. Why follow her into the grave?”

“Get out,” Jaime growled as he stood abruptly, jerking his head toward the door. “I’ll be glad of it when you’re gone—sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Jon didn’t move. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s had to kill someone they loved because they had become monstrous? I’ve spent half my life doing that.”

He sneered. “Congratulations.” 

“No one talks to you about this because it's uncomfortable, and that’s a shame because we could use you when the Night King reaches the wall,” Jon continued steadily.

The man’s gaze turned uneasy for a moment. Then he said snidely, “Brienne did.”

“Then go north,” Jon said and stood, heading for the door. There was nothing left for him to say; Jaime would either go or he wouldn’t.

“Wait,” the man said suddenly. Jon turned back, and Jaime added, a touch sullenly, “You never told them—about the past. About King Aerys.”

Jon held his gaze. “It was not my story to tell.” He turned again to open the door. Without looking back, he called, “I hope to see you in the north.”

Then he crossed the threshold of the door and left for good.

Jon went in search of Durnehviir, but the dragon was nowhere to be found, though two of Daenerys’ dragons were hunkered down around the Dragonpit. 

Rhaegal was shaking off in the light rain, unaccustomed to such weather. Jon wondered how he and his brothers would fare when the temperature dropped, and snow covered every bare patch of earth on Westeros. He walked over to where the dragons lay and began to murmur nothing of any real importance, the rain dampening his voice. Viserion eyed him grudgingly, but he did not move any further away from his brother. 

Jon did not know whether bringing Rhaegal north alone would be cruel, or if the idea would be received positively. It would not matter if Daenerys gave her permission or not, however; a dragon did what they wanted. 

He stopped by the Street of Steel on his way back and found his sister there. More surprising was that she was talking to the smith, smiling as she gestured wildly, no doubt relaying some story. Jon had rarely seen her so animated since their reunion. 

When they had finished talking, Arya walked away with a spring in her step. She did not appear terribly pleased to find Jon waiting for her, however, his efforts to hide his amusement insufficient. 

“So you spoke to him after all.”

“I told him we’ll need more smiths up north, especially with all that dragonglass coming from Dragonstone. How’s that going, anyhow?” Ayra asked pointedly.

“What did he say?” Jon asked her instead, more invested in whether the man his sister may have been sweet on once would be going home with her. 

She made a face. “He’ll come, of course.” 

Jon nodded. “Sansa received a raven from Ser Davos telling her that they were about finished with loading the dragonglass onto their ships. They should be close to returning north if they haven’t already.”

“Good,” she said, and Jon looked toward her when she said nothing else.

“What are you going to tell Sansa about your blacksmith friend?”

Arya clicked her tongue. “That she should be happy enough that I’m alive at all and to mind her own business.”

Jon laughed. “I would like to see that.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Arya said daringly. “I’ll tell her that you knew already, and encouraged me.”

They looked at one another, and then both of them were laughing like they were children again, merry after some collaborative mischief as they walked back to the Red Keep. 

He told Serana about it that night, after they had finished planning their journey north, his spirits still high. “Sansa would truly kill me for encouraging her,” he told her, shaking his head. “But she looks so damn happy talking to him.” 

“Considering Arya is a deadly face-changing assassin, I think she can make her own choices just fine.”

Jon let out a bark of laughter. “Gods, that just reminded me—when I was old enough, my mentor told me something like, you’re a comely young man, you can use that.” 

“That’s terrible,” she said, and then her voice turned drier, “but that does explain some things.”

“Does it?” 

“I’ve rarely met a Vigilant so accepting of acting as my thrall when needed.”

It was difficult to pretend as though he wasn’t utterly besotted when she hadn’t stopped teasing either. “Sometimes it’s the only way into a coven.”

“Of course,” she said, chin tucked in her hand. “I don’t doubt your reasons.”

“What I’d like to know is why that was always your first suggestion,” he said, bantering along with her—until the smile slipped from her face.

She did not answer immediately. “It was a ploy,” she said, and there was something dangerous in her gaze. “To get to touch you.”

Jon’s mouth felt dry. “Oh.” 

“Yes,” she said. “Oh.” A silence fell between them. Serana had taken to wearing southern fashion, striking dresses with open shoulders and plunging necklines. It was a style rarely worn in Skyrim except among vampire covens. It suited her.

“What are you looking at?”

Jon’s eyes shifted back to her face. “It’s a nice dress.”

Serana laughed, reaching to pull at the bright fabric over her stomach. “I admit I chose it for its color. The styles here are very bright and striking—uncommon from what I saw at Winterfell.”

“Most in the north think it's frivolous.” 

Serana snorted, gaze turning back to him. “It is frivolous. There’s a certain fun to be found in that.”

“I can appreciate the sentiment,” Jon said steadily, not looking away from her.

Her lips quirked, seemingly amused by his transparent meaning. His pulse jumped as Serana rose from her seat to close the gap between them, reaching out to lean against his shoulders. Cool breath fanned against his neck. Her other hand slid up to glide over his jaw. 

“I’m at war with my instincts when I’m close to you,” Serana murmured. “I want you to kiss me, but there’s a part of me that wants to bite you just as much. I don’t think you’d take that very kindly. I don’t know how others of my kind stand it.”

She was overestimating him. “I assume with practice,” Jon answered, voice going low.

“You think?” She said, and then she was kissing him. She kissed like she was hungry, open-mouthed, fingers curling against the base of his throat. Her teeth were sharp as expected—catching against his bottom lip. Jon made a noise, but it was not in pain. She reared back all the same. Serana breathed once, hard, pupils glittering like stars. Her eyes, Jon noticed, were on his neck. 

His lip wasn’t bleeding. He wondered if she had meant to bite at all. 

“Sorry,” she said, but she didn’t sound very sorry; a smooth quality to her voice that nearly shimmered with power. Glamour had not worked on Jon for a long time, though he knew she was not using it consciously. In this state, he was as close to prey as she would ever have him. 

“Don’t apologize,” he murmured, reaching for her again. He kissed her jaw and pressed kisses against her face, fingers lacing through her hair. She shifted, half-sitting in his lap, bodies flush together. His head found the back of the chair. Serana made a noise, and her mouth found his neck. He heard her inhale sharply, and then she stumbled off him, drooping onto the couch across from him.

“Was that all right?”

“Yes,” said Serana softly. “It was good. It’s just I’m only ever that close to someone for feeding. It’s hard to separate that instinct. That and…everything else.”

Relief washed through him. “I’m glad.”

Her expression was soft. “How would I put it—desire as appetite, as hunger, is easy for me. Desire for desire is harder,” she said, a corner of her mouth lifting. “That sounds absurd, doesn’t it?”

It was very vampire-like. “No,” said Jon, and reached for her again.

He did not let himself think of the past or the future. For now, their present was enough.

Chapter Text

Jon hadn’t been sure Rhaegal would follow him north. In some ways it would have been easier if the dragon hadn’t; he had told Daenerys once that his bond with Rhaegal wouldn’t mean taking him away from her. It had been a reckless promise. When Durnehviir took flight from the city, Rhaegal followed. Jon hadn’t searched for her below, looking only north. 

Daenerys had seen them off with little fanfare. Looking back, Jon was certain she had known that Rhaegal would be leaving—but it wouldn't be forever. Soon enough her armies would be marching north, and then there would be war between the living and the dead. 

The nights grew colder, though winter had yet to reach south. They stopped during heavy rainfall when the threat of lightning was too great. Jon began to ride with Rhaegal instead to give the other two more room upon Durnehviir’s back, who had reluctantly agreed to carry them. Nearly a week into their journey, they touched down near a copse of trees, gathering underneath their branches for shelter as a storm lagged after them, shaking the sky with far-off thunder. There was nothing else around for miles except ragged brush and frost-burned grasses.

“You’d think with all your magic someone would come up with an easier way to do this,” Arya grumbled as she began to set up a cover from the rain. 

“It surely exists,” Serana answered dryly, lifting her hood. With the sky as dark as it was, she did not need to fear the sun.

Arya perked up. “Can you use it?”

She shook her head. “Alteration was never my topic of study.”

“A school of magic,” Jon added when Arya looked at her quizzically. 

“Weren’t you on the road constantly? Were there that many inns on the roads in Skyrim?” 

“No more than here,” said Jon. He hesitated before adding, “Many of our jobs brought us to occupied forts or castles—or a target’s residence. Once our job was finished we’d often just sleep there. Waste of beds otherwise.”

She blinked as she took in his meaning, and then shook her head. “Father would be horrified by us.”

Jon merely grunted.

“I think about it sometimes,” Arya continued, “If he knew what I had done to the Freys he wouldn’t be able to look at me.”

Jon had to think through his response carefully—because perhaps she was right. None of them had survived by being particularly honorable. “I think he would be glad of us surviving.”

“And having lived long enough to reunite,” Arya added.

“That too. I just wish—nevermind.”

“I wish I could have seen Rob and Bran again too,” she said, voicing his thoughts. “And Mother, even if she wouldn’t recognize who I’ve become.”

“Aye,” Jon said heavily. The wind picked up as the rain began to pour down harder than ever, and they went back to work to get their temporary shelter as waterproof as possible. Durnehviir, in a rare moment of benevolence, positioned one of his wings to cover them as they slept. 

The morning brought clear skies again.

“Let’s spar,” Arya demanded of both of them as soon as she was up. Serana was still half asleep and waved her off, which left him to fight. 

“What do you use?” Jon asked her. The ground underneath his boots was soft, the grass flattened by rain. 

Arya shrugged as she stretched. “A bit of everything thanks to my training. Partial to shorter blades though.”

“Not one of your strengths,” Serana called. She leaned against one of the nearby trees, seemingly content to simply watch them spar.

He shrugged. “My training with the Vigilant focused on weapons with a longer range. Tend to prefer greatswords, though I’m still serviceable with other swords thanks to Ser Rodrik.”

“Hm,” Ayra said, taking a stance before him. “Not a good matchup for me.”

“No,” Jon said easily and laughed as she scoffed at him. “You said it, not me.” 

“You’re my brother, you’re supposed to go easy on me.”

“Is that how it works?” Jon said and she laughed too before it faded into contemplation. “What is it?”

She shrugged her shoulders, but then she was smiling. “You just believe me. I told you I could fight and you accepted it without asking. No one ever does that.”

He looked at her for a moment. “You would have liked Skyrim.”

She held his gaze. “I think so too.”

“I would have supported you,” Jon said, and then added lightly, “as long as you didn’t join the Dark Brotherhood.”

Arya laughed. “But the Faceless Men are acceptable?” 

“They haven’t tried to kill me yet,” Jon said, and then they began the spar in earnest. He felt more at peace than he had in months as they exchanged blows. 

Sparring was simple—everything else in front of them was not.

Winterfell looked the same upon their arrival. There was no uncredited dark magic or unfamiliar banners waving over the walls this time. Sansa met them in the Godswood when the two dragons touched down between the ancient standing trees.

Arya had said a lot about their sister on their return flight, but it had been with the nervous energy of uncertainty. When she slid off Durnehviir’s back, the two only stared, as though unsure of how to greet each other.

Then Sansa rushed forward, abandoning decorum to embrace her sister tightly, something between weeping and laughing escaping her lips. Arya stood stock still for a moment before wrapping her arms around Sansa, murmuring something that made Sansa close her eyes tightly. 

Upon returning to the keep, they found Rickon coming in from a hunt, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“There are two dragons—” He managed to get out, before he saw Arya walking beside them and came sprinting across the snow, rushing into her arms with a sob.

Jon stood apart from them, watching the scene with a strange feeling in his chest. It was as though he were intruding on a moment not meant for him. Perhaps it wasn’t; Rickon had been but a babe when Jon had fallen through the gate to Nirn, and the relationships Rickon had forged with their sisters were a mystery to Jon as much as his brother was. 

“Are you alright?” Serana said, voice quiet enough for just him to hear. She squeezed his arm. 

“Yes,” he murmured back. It was just a lingering regret of the years he had missed without them. “I’m happy.”

“Good,” she said. “I better go meet with my mother.”

The feeling disappeared with that declaration. “Good luck.”

He watched her leave and nearly yelped when he was pulled into a surprise hug. He looked down and found Rickon staring up at him. 

“Thank you,” his brother said, eyes shining, more alive than he had ever seen him. “Thank you. Thank you.”  

Jon placed his hand over Rickon’s head. “It was the best surprise, wasn’t it?”

Rickon nodded. “When Sansa read that letter, I couldn’t believe it.”

Jon looked up, finding Arya smiling at their younger brother, a softness unclouded by grief. Sansa was smiling at her with a tenderness he hadn’t seen from her since discovering Rickon in the crypt. “I could hardly believe it myself.”

Jon had changed his mind; this was a moment he was allowed to have, too. 

Having Sansa and Arya under the same roof again was a nightmare, but not one he would ever be willing to give up.

“You’re both acting like children,” he told them one evening, amid an argument on whether Arya had to start dressing appropriately as a daughter of Winterfell. “There’s no point in making her wear something impractical when war is coming. And Arya—stop antagonizing her.”

“I don’t want to hear that from you,” Sansa told him snippily. “When the queen, her retinue, and our Bannermen arrive we must look presentable.”

“I think we’ve done pretty well—” Jon muttered, and then quieted under her glare. 

“Daenerys has seen me in trousers already,” Arya replied scathingly. “She wears trousers when she rides Drogon. Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re not going riding. Don’t you remember how we dressed when the King came? It’s expected of us. You’re not a child anymore, people won’t overlook these kinds of things. I know you’ve been running wild all this time—”

“Is that what I’ve been doing?” Arya demanded. “Do you think I’ve enjoyed—”

“That’s not what I said. But you decided to return as Ayra Stark, and certain duties come with that.”

“I’m not getting married!” Arya howled, jumping from her seat in an instant.

“I said nothing of the sort,” Sansa snapped, and under her tone, she appeared hurt.

“No one is saying that,” Jon said with emphasis. 

A short laugh came from behind them, and they turned immediately toward the sound to find Rickon.

The tension dropped from Sansa’s voice immediately. “Oh, I’m sorry—we didn’t see you there.”

“I remember this,” he said, coming to sit with them. “You both were always arguing.”

Sansa seemed to grimace, clearly not appreciating the reference to their childhood, before smiling at their youngest brother. “Well—not all the time.”

Arya fell back into her chair. “It was,” she said heavily. “We argued about everything. It wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.”

The room quieted. 

“Reunions are funny like that, I suppose,” Jon said softly. “It's easy to fall into familiar patterns.”

Sansa shook her head. “I don’t want to be like that again.” She turned toward Ayra again, expression unusually open. “I apologize. I let my temper get the better of me.”

Ayra nodded grudgingly and then exhaled. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

There was silence. Then, “I can make them practical.”

Arya went stiff again. “Sansa.”

“You need at least two—”

Jon closed his eyes in exhaustion. 

Much later, he found himself looking across the room. There was someone standing in the window, looking out into the dark—though perhaps to her it was as clear as day. 

“I heard Arya has accepted having some dresses made for her.” There was a smile in her voice.

“I think the whole keep heard.”

Serana laughed outright. “Arya did mention they used to argue, but gods.”

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Jon said, somewhat helplessly.

She came to sit across from him, tucking her skirts underneath her. “You can’t. Much like you could not mend my relationship with my mother.”

Jon made a small noise in his throat. “What do I do then?”

“Keep them from killing each other,” she said dryly and snorted. “It’s better than the alternative, I think.”

“Which is?” He wondered what could be worse than the two of them constantly at each other's throats.

She met his eyes, the color of liquid gold. “Apathy.” 

“Ah,” said Jon. There was that. 

It was the first time they had been alone since King’s Landing. It had taken a week to fly back to Winterfell with the bad weather, and Arya had never been far. 

A strange silence sprung between them, as though both were out of things to say. Jon kept looking at her, his thoughts wandering. He suddenly wanted to kiss her. To run his mouth along the curve of her jaw, down to the base of her throat, and down further still. 

Serana looked away, a spot of color in her cheeks. 

“It’s strange. It’s not as though no one has wanted me before—but I’ve never wanted them back, not like this. You look at me as though you love me.”

“I do love you,” Jon said easily, and she buried her face in her hands. 

“When we first met I thought you’d be the death of me.”

“I never intended to kill you.” 

She looked up. “That’s because I was glamouring you. In between deciding whether to eat you or not.”

“Ah, but I’ve long demonstrated my resilience against glamour.”

“So you decided to escort a vampire home all on your own?”

Jon barked out a laugh. “Now you sound like Isran.”

She made a face before her expression smoothed out. “What were you really thinking back then?”

He watched her for a moment. He remembered wanting to know what had been worth butchering every Vigilant who had raised him. The Dawnguard had thought the crypt to be some kind of weapon. Instead it had been a woman. “I wanted entry to Harkon’s court.”

“You’ve said that before. Certainly there’s more.”

“I was curious,” he continued. “I knew you must have been starving, but you held a conversation with me instead of attacking.”

“Hm,” she said.

In truth, it had felt like fate. “I already know how you felt at the time. Your temporary manservant leading you home.” 

Serana smiled, canines flashing in the candlelight. “If I had felt that way by the end of our journey together, I would have never sought you out after.”

His voice softened. “I felt the same.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then he drew up, crossing the room to her. She reached up, pulling his face down to hers. It was a chaste kiss, and then less so, until he was nearly in the chair with her, fingers folding through her hair. 

Behind them, the sound of the door opening felt very distant until he heard a new voice, a soft sound in surprise. He untangled himself inelegantly only to find Sansa staring at them from just inside the room.

“My apologies,” she said after a moment, her voice perfectly polite, before she left through the door at a leisurely pace.

Jon collapsed back into his chair, his groan was muffled by his hands.

Serana chuckled. “You’ll never know peace now.” 

“You won’t be safe from it either,” Jon immediately retorted.

“She’s nothing if not politically minded,” Serana agreed. “You should be glad you have me to stave off any of her attempts on Queen Daenerys.”

“She’d have me arrange an accident after a few months no doubt—” Jon sighed. “That’s unfair of me to say.”

Serana’s eyebrows rose. “Is it not true?”

It was terrible. Jon laughed. “Gods—she would!”

Sansa finally cornered him alone a few days later.

“I never would have expected this from you,” she told him, a hint of a smile in her features. Despite their arguing, there was a new lightness about her since Arya had returned. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon answered, but she only looked at him knowingly.

“When we were young I thought it would be me,” she said with a wistfulness in her voice. Her gaze moved to the flames moving in the hearth. “I imagined some whirlwind romance with the prince or a knight before I knew what falling in love meant. I think most girls daydream about such things. It's better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Reality,” she said, and while her voice was soft her expression was not. “Real life hurts.”

He clasped her hand between his for a moment. “Aye.”

Sansa laughed softly. “It’s clear both of you have affection for the other that goes beyond simple companionship.”

Jon made a face, knowing exactly what she was referring to. “She’s immortal.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“She’ll never age,” Jon further clarified. “I’ll die someday and she’ll look exactly as she does now forever.”

Sansa’s eyes found his face again. “So you would ignore the happiness it would bring you both to starve off a grief long into the future?”

“We’re taking it slow. It’s—it's different in Skyrim,” Jon settled on.

“I want you to be happy,” she said, and he knew she meant every word.

“I am happy,” Jon told her. 

Her fingers clasped together. “I just hope…you didn’t regret returning here.”

“Of course I don’t,” he said. “You, Rickon, Arya—”

“But everyone else is dead,” she interrupted and released a shuddering breath. “And those of us who remain have changed.”

Jon looked at her for a moment, gaze steady. “That is a part of living, I think. Though I wish none of you had to live through these circumstances, that doesn’t mean I’m not glad to know this version of you.”

Sansa looked away for a moment. “I could say the same of you.” She offered him a strange smile when she turned her gaze toward him again. “I do wonder if it’s better to experience love than to always wonder what could have been.”

Jon stared at her. Then, “Do you feel that way?”

“No,” Sansa said after a beat. “It was just a fleeting feeling, and it was never real.” She tried for another smile and failed.

“Sansa I—” Jon stilled, not knowing what to say. He did not need to ask if they were still among the living; something in her expression told him enough. 

“It wasn’t love,” Sansa said when he came up with nothing. “In truth, it was nothing at all. She—they were kind to me when few were. I had been too naive then to understand it was mostly politically motivated. Fabricated.” She stared hard at her hands. “But perhaps, not all of it.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said. There was still so much they hadn't shared about their time apart, secrets kept silent by grief. 

Sansa shook her head. “It’s in the past,” she answered, and that was that.

Durnehviir traveled north in brief stints to study the wall. Jon took to flying on Rhaegal more often, but the uneasy peace could not last forever. It was the calm before the storm, but he could already see it on the horizon in his mind; the Night King; the White Walkers; an army of the undead.

Rhaegal flew south one day with an urgency in his flight, and Jon heard them before he spotted them in the clouds above. A familiar low call, then two familiar dragons dipped below the veil. Far in the distance, Jon could just make out the beginning of Daenerys’s forces marching north. War had arrived. 

Chapter Text

He was in a dream again, hunting down a scent that had long since faded. There was nothing but the path forward, the scent he was seeking, and the long journey that awaited him afterward. 

A raven was croaking somewhere outside when he woke. Jon lay still for a few minutes, bleary-eyed as he always was after a wolf dream. He never recognized the location, whether the wolf was somewhere in Winterhold or north of the wall; if it was real or a symptom of his unease. 

It was still dark when he forced himself from the bed. Dark when he went to break his fast, and then darker when he journeyed outside. It took longer and longer for the sun to rise; he wondered if there would come a time when it wouldn’t rise at all, like in the stories Durnehviir spoke of. 

It had taken a week for Daenerys’s armies to arrive since he had caught sight of them on his flight. Winterfell was suddenly a maddening hive of activity that extended far past Winter Town. Farther still the dragons had seized a territory of their own, often dragging carcasses back from their hunts. 

Durnehviir was still at the wall, but they’d be marching north soon enough. A raven from the Night’s Watch had rangers frequently crossing wights in their travels close to the wall. Winter had hit them hard, colder than had been recorded in centuries. It felt like an ill omen, though from the literal sense it likely was.

He met Daenerys walking along the outer wall, watching their dragons squabble over the spoils of a hunt far in the distance. “Good morning, Your Grace,” Jon called. When she motioned him closer, he added, “I hope your stay here has been pleasant so far.”

“I never imagined a place could be this cold.”

“The winters south are surely milder,” he said, coming to stand a polite distance away. “I’ve thought about flying south to escape Westeros’s winters altogether.”

There was a twitch of her lips. “You wouldn’t.”

“No,” he agreed, “but even the thought of it warms me a little.”

Daenerys laughed, and then her gaze shifted again, turning toward the landscape compacted from northern winter months. “I’ve never seen this much snow. It’s beautiful.”

“Aye,” Jon said. It was a bitterly cold and desolate place, but beautiful all the same. Winter in The Pale had been as close as he could find to his homeland in Skyrim.

“There it is—that faraway look again,” she said and pulled her cloak tighter. “Tell me about it.”

He looked down at her. “It’s hardly interesting, Your Grace.”

“Tell me anyway.”

A streak of annoyance ran through him—then settled. “I hadn’t realized what having no place to return to meant until I’d lost it.”

It was times such as these when her expression took on a familiarity that Jon recognized in himself. “For me, it was a house with a red door and a lemon tree planted outside. When I was young I believed we would live there forever,” Daenerys said before her mouth quirked. “Now I suppose I will have to learn to love King’s Landing eventually.”

“I suppose I didn’t help in making your opinion of Dragonstone a positive one either.”

“Dragonstone feels like a ghost. You must have felt it too.” She looked up at him again. “I’ve always wanted to ask—how long were you on Dragonstone before I arrived?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably. “Not long.”

“Really?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Your Grace.”

She stilled and then smiled. “Yes, you would. Everyone does.”

“Only a week or two,” Jon amended. “I searched for dragonglass and not much else.” 

“Hm,” she said. “You never went inside the castle?”

Jon swallowed as she tilted her head, still smiling in that way that made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. “Do you want the truth?” He asked her.

“No,” she answered idly. “I’m simply amusing myself.”

Jon sighed heavily. “I see.”

She laughed. “When you’re in my position everyone takes your words very seriously.”

It wasn’t difficult to imagine why: death by dragonfire was a miserable way to go.

Daenerys continued speaking, her amusement fading. “Your sister…I don’t need to worry about her, do I?”

This was no doubt the real question the queen had for him. Sansa had welcomed the Queen gracefully, but coldly. Jon grimaced, hiding his expression by looking away from her. “No, Your Grace.”

“Hm,” Daenerys said. “I suppose I don’t need to be loved by everyone.”

It was clear she meant it as a joke, but Jon couldn’t bring himself to laugh. It was just as much a threat. In truth, he did worry about what Sansa might do if she felt threatened. He had experienced enough of it himself. 

“I’ll talk to her,” he promised.

Durnehviir had yet to return. In the coming days, Jon hoped to find the dragon on the horizon, wings in flight toward Winterfell. He could not trust the dragon’s counsel completely, but he wished he had it once more, a remnant of a time when he had taken the advice of another dragon when the end of Nirn had been nearly upon them. 

There were many things to worry about, not just outside of Winterfell and farther north, but within its walls. He found himself standing in front of the door that led to the way back to Skyrim more often than he liked. Not because he thought of crossing through it, but because it represented an entire life he had left behind for the chance to return home.

And now, Jon thought rather bitterly, he wanted her to do the same.

“Are you going to stand out there or come in?” A voice called coolly from through the door.

Jon let himself inside. The room was nearly empty but for Valerica herself. Her undead thralls had long been put out of commission: with more activity within the keep, the chances of them being discovered had increased considerably. All that remained was the portal.

“Does it unsettle you still, Dragonborn?”

Jon turned his back on it to face her. “It feels unnatural.”

“Very astute. It is unnatural,” she replied blandly.   

“I’m very grateful for your assistance in all this,” he said. His words of gratitude fell flat. He did not want her here, though she had done nothing to deserve the distrust. In the time he had known her, Valerica had never once attempted to hurt him. Perhaps it was because everything he knew of her was filtered through her daughter, who swung between grudging acceptance and resentment every time they interacted. 

“I’m sure you know I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know,” he said. 

“In any case, you had good timing. I will be closing the portal tomorrow,” Valerica told him briskly.

“You’ll be staying then?”

She stared at him for a moment. “For now. Eventually, I plan to leave south toward more intriguing climates.”

It was as Serana had said, though that conversation felt like it had been ages ago. “I see.” Jon shifted his balance and then swallowed. “Serana—”

“You’re a fool if you even need to ask.”

He grimaced. “Perhaps.”

“If you truly need reassurance, then why don’t you go ask my daughter yourself?” Valerica left him in the room feeling a touch irrational. 

It was irrational. The plan had always been for the portal to close before they went to the wall. Serana had told him she would be with him then, even if she could not pass through to fight. Her meaning had been clear, and yet it was hard to be satisfied with just that. 

Jon exhaled and continued on his way, flexing his fingers at his sides. When he reached the war room, it was already packed with people. 

“Jon Snow,” Daenerys called from the table with a mild smile. “We’ve been waiting on you.”

He dipped his head. “My apologies, Your Grace, I got caught up in something. I hope I did not make you all wait long.”

“Not at all,” Sansa said, with a false tranquility to her voice. Clearly nothing had changed when it came to Sansa and their new ally. 

Around the table stood familiar faces: Arya to Sansa’s left; Brienne of Tarth to her right; Theon, who had returned from traveling with his sister; and some of their Bannermen. The Lannister brothers stood at the other end of the table where Daenerys had brought her own company. Missandei and Grey Worm stood at her side, and several other southern lords Jon had never met formally. 

They had not gathered to plan for a war, but for what came before it. The wall offered little food, with winds often heavy enough to douse a fire. Whether the Dothraki’s horses would even survive the journey to the wall was up in the air; they had come from a much hotter climate. Losing them would be a tactical disadvantage. 

The arguments Jon had expected began. Sansa knew down to the last grain the resources they had—not nearly enough to feed the army at their door. They did not have enough to feed that many horses either. The horses could be calculated into their food reserves eventually, but they needed to move quickly. They did not have the grain or hay to feed them for long. 

They had been routing what supplies they could to the wall, but it wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t need to remember his lessons from his youth to know that. Daenerys’s forces would also require warming clothing unless they desired to die of frostbite. 

On and on it went as their options were discussed in great detail; it was not Jon’s forte. He had spent most of his time in Skyrim following or ignoring orders and had stayed out of the civil war entirely. Planning logistics for food and shelter for a great number of people had rarely come up. Here he was a dragonrider to move across the board. 

“Does it not bother you?” Sansa asked him later after the session had finished. “By the way she spoke, you’d think we’re simply pawns in her war.”

“I won’t follow senseless orders, but if they’re sound there’s no reason to ignore them,” Jon said. Most of their active fighters at the wall would be her forces: the north was rallying to them, but they would not have the same numbers the south boasted.

A pinched look grew on Sansa’s face. Arya bumped into her side as they walked, interrupting whatever dark turn her thoughts had gone. 

“Don’t you remember—our brother’s a rule-following sort.”

Jon made a face at her. Some in Skyrim would say quite differently. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“I’m surprised Lady Serana didn’t attend,” Sansa said after a brief pause.

“Too many people,” Jon said, though that was only partly the answer. They had no explanation for her knowledge of the arcane, and while Daenerys knew where the vampire had come from, others did not.

“I intended Rickon to join us. If nothing else he could have learned something but—”

“He took off the moment she brought it up,” Arya piped up as they passed by a window. “He’s even wilder than I was at that age.”

Jon exhaled. In truth, he did not know what they would do with their wayward brother. Rickon had shown at every point he had no great intention to become Lord of Winterfell, content to have Sansa rule in his place. It wouldn’t be a problem in the short term, but in the long run, Jon wondered if Rickon would decide to make his sister’s role more permanent. It was a thought for another time. 

“More importantly,” Arya began, returning him to the present, “Shall I expect you and Serana to be married soon?”

Jon shot another look at Sansa, but her expression was serene. “We have not spoken about it, but I suspect not.”

Arya snorted. “My brother, the scoundrel.”

“That is—” Jon scowled when she grinned a moment later. 

“I’m just curious,” she continued without shame. “You’re allowed to tease me, but I’m not allowed to do the same?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Clearly.”

Something suspiciously close to laughter escaped Sansa’s mouth. “Is this how we sound when we argue?”

“It’s a bit more vicious,” said Jon and sidestepped Arya’s immediate retaliation.

Rickon met them in the solar a few minutes later, cheeks red from the cold.  He had been training with their master-of-arms, and regaled them with a long, rambling story of getting to watch a few of the men sparring. His eyes were bright, and Jon found himself smiling the whole way through it. 

It hit him then: this was going to be one of the last times they were all together before they marched for the wall. Arya would be going north, but Sansa and Rickon were staying at Winterfell. He would be leaving them again. Jon wondered if they ever had judged him for it. He had left Skyrim on a chance to return home and had spent considerably very little time in Winterfell afterward. 

He could promise to stay after returning from the wall, but there might not be an after. They had no idea what truly awaited them. The Night King’s full powers were a mystery, and overconfidence killed as easily as being unprepared. 

They would have to make the best of what little time they had left. 

“I heard you ran into my mother earlier.”

Jon nearly stumbled over the entry. It was not the conversation he had been expecting to have that night. “Is that what you wish to talk about?”

“No,” Serana said, her expression tempered with a strange intensity. “Do you truly think I’d just leave like that?”

They had been talking then. “Is this entertaining for her?” 

“Possibly. Is it true?” 

“No,” he said, coming to sit beside her. “Of course not.”

“Hm,” Serana said, watching his face. “And yet I believe you’re lying.”

“I’m not—” Jon stopped, exhaling. “It was senseless.”

“I don’t think it is,” she said, her tone softening. “I once wondered if we defeated my father whether you’d be done with me afterward.”

He looked up at that, searching her expression. “You did?”

She shrugged inelegantly. “It would make sense. You hunted vampires, and you had defeated my blood’s coven of them. What was my place in that afterward?”

“My dearest friend,” Jon said, and ignored the heat that immediately climbed his neck.  

Serana stared at him for a moment before the corners of her mouth turned upright. “Really?”

“Aye,” Jon said without hesitation.

“Even then? How flattering.”

“Serana.”

She laughed as she approached him. “I couldn’t help it. You appeared so earnest. I do adore that about you.”

“My apparent inability to lie?” Jon said wryly, regaining his senses. 

“You’re not afraid to love,” she said, quieter this time.

“It took me a while.” He went silent for a moment. “It’s strange to think about it now. Skyrim changed me in ways I only recognize when Sansa tells me how odd it is.”

She reached for him, fingers curling around his cheek. “But you’re happier here.”

He blinked at her, tawny eyes staring back steadily. “There’s a war coming.”

“And yet I hear you laugh daily. You could go days in Skyrim without doing so.”

His neck began to feel warm. “I was happy then—with you.”

Serana poked his cheek. “Perhaps, but you were always looking back on what could have been. You never got a chance to say goodbye.”

Her words brought on a sudden chill. 

“Aye. There was that.” He stared past her, his eyes never quite focusing on the stone walls or the old tapestries. “It was worse than I had ever imagined. I truly thought the worst that would await me was that they hadn’t cared when I disappeared. Gone on to live their lives without me.”

“I don’t think they would have done that even if it were possible. It’s clear they mourned you.”

There was quiet. Then, “I would choose it, you know. Not coming back in exchange for their lives—even if they did forget me.”

“I know,” Serana said, and exhaled. “I know you would.”

They stood there together in silence. 

“I’ve never really apologized, have I? For leaving you back then,” Jon started. 

“You did,” Serana said swiftly, “but you didn’t need to. We held no promises to each other.”

“It was very rude,” Jon said.

Her mouth twitched. “Well—it was that. Not even a note until that terrible message you left with Durnehviir to my mother.”

“Aye, it was awful,” Jon said, wincing a little. “I felt ashamed.”

“Before or after you sent that message?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” he said wryly and got to listen to her laugh again. He reached for her hand when she had finished, pressing it to his mouth with a kiss. Serana went still.

“I’m very glad you’re here,” he said. 

Chapter Text

They lay together under a dark winter sky, the moon blocked by clouds. Even wrapped in a fur cloak, Jon’s teeth were chattering. 

“It’s freezing.”

Serana smiled at him. “I thought you were a northman. I would think you’d be as comfortable as I am.”

“Unfortunately, my heart’s still beating,” he replied wryly. 

“I believe it was your idea to come sit up on the roof.” 

“I remember always wanting to come up here,” he said, gaze shifting back to the muted sky. “Lady Stark’s reaction to her own children’s climbing antics kept me grounded.”

“She probably thought you would all get yourselves killed,” Serana drawled. 

Jon chuckled. “We would have probably stopped after one of us broke something.”

She shifted, head coming to lay upon his chest. “I did the same as a child.”

“I believe it. Exploring the castle's depths, making friends with rats—”

She rolled off him, but she was laughing too.

“This was supposed to be romantic,” she complained half-heartedly. In the dim light, he could see her lean up, hand holding up her cheek. “Where’s my seduction, Jon?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It got left behind when I forgot how bloody cold it was out here.”

“Come back inside then,” she said, her gaze heavy. “Make it up to me.”

His throat suddenly felt dry. “Alright,” he said, and he did.

Jon was running on a high that was quickly shadowed the next morning when he remembered what he had to do. 

He found Sansa in the solar alone after lunch, shutting the door behind him with an audible click. 

“I suppose I know what you’re here for,” said Sansa, a sour note in her voice. His sister sat behind the desk their father had once called his own, appearing for all the world to be perfectly in control. 

He took a seat across from her, rapping his knuckles on the desk. “She’s taken notice of your lack of goodwill.”

“Has she?” Sansa answered swiftly. “And yet you’re here, and she is not. I suspect I will stay unburnt for the time.”

Jon sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You decided your opinion of her before you even met her.”

“I don’t need to meet a conqueror to know what they are.”

“True,” Jon agreed. “A dragon will always be a dragon even if it is dressed in a human shape.”

“Is that what you think of her? A dragon like yourself?”

“No,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “but I won’t pretend she isn’t dangerous.”

“You attempt to convince me otherwise.”

“I only wish to make her time here go smoothly—is that not what you wish for as well?”

“I don’t want her here at all,” Sansa said coolly.

That much, at least, was obvious to him. “I suppose I want to understand why you’ve decided to hate her.”

“I don’t hate her.”

“Truly? I would have guessed otherwise.”

Air hissed through her teeth. “It’s not so simple.”

“What changed?” Jon said, leaning forward. “I thought you had accepted the necessity of her involvement.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Explain it to me then.”

“I don’t feel it necessary to do so.”

“Sansa—”

“Let it go, Jon,” she replied, a warning in her voice. “You know quite well I won’t cause an incident.”

Jon wished that he could. He wanted nothing more than to shift his attention to the biggest dangers that lay before them. Unfortunately, that did not just include the Night King and his army. It included his sister. “That isn’t good enough," he told her. "I’ve heard rumors amongst the men that aren’t the type of thing I want to hear when we will be relying on each other to survive the coming fight.”

“And you think they come from me.”

“I do,” Jon said. “They feel familiar, in truth. Tell me why.”

Her mask had fallen: Sansa appeared close to leaping from her chair, if only to escape the room. “I don’t understand why you can’t see her for the threat she is. Let’s say you defeat the undead together—what then? Do you think she will simply return south without taking more from the North?”

“I understand more than you know," said Jon tightly, "but that’s not why you’re doing this.”

She went silent. Then her words came in one breathless rush. “She’s everything I thought I would be. Everything I wanted for my future she has taken. She reclaimed her home on her own, conquered King’s Landing, took the throne—and now she walks through this keep as if she owns it.”

“She’s been civil.” 

Sansa sent him a scathing look. “No, she hasn’t.”

Jon exhaled. “You know as well as I do that she could be far worse—if she had been, I wouldn’t have brokered an alliance.”

“You would have had to,” Sansa retorted. She was picking at her nails and causing the skin around them to redden; Jon did not know if she noticed the behavior. “As you say, we need her dragons and armies and Highgarden’s grain.”

“It was her or Cersei,” he added, and she made a face.

“I had to tell her Winterfell is yours,” Sansa said tightly after a pause. “Just as Father did when Baratheon came and led our family to ruin.”

He paused to look at her. Underneath the tension in her features, there was something close to fear. But how could she not—how could anyone not fear someone who held the loyalty of dragons? Jon had felt those same eyes land on him time after time in Skyrim, wondering with that same brittle fear if he would ever turn on them. 

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking down at his hands. “You might have liked her in other circumstances, I think.”

Her tone soured. “I doubt it.”

“She wants you to like her.”

“All queens do.” 

Jon looked up at that. “Can’t you try—for me?”

“I will be courteous, but nothing more,” Sansa said flatly.

Her courtesy couldn’t hide the blade behind her words. He wondered if it was jealousy, the bitterness in her voice as she told him she has taken everything. Wondered if he could do anything to change her mind at all. 

“That feeling will eat you alive,” Jon told her.

“What does it matter?” Sansa snapped, her composure disappearing. “I don’t need to like her, Jon. Do you think all the Southern lords liked Robert Baratheon? He wasn’t putting them to death for it.”

“But she isn’t Baratheon in your scenario. She’s Cersei.”

“Cersei set her world on fire to quench her own anger.”

“And you think that will happen again?” Jon asked her steadily, and she laughed, a flat humorless noise.

“I know because I—I would. I’m a thorn in her side, I’ve made it clear before we so much as met. Finding a reason to get rid of me is just part of the game.”

“The game,” Jon said, and sighed. He abruptly felt drained. “I’m truly tired of hearing it. I don’t think Queen Daenerys would harm us unless we gave her reason to.”

“Or if she’s driven to it.”

“Everyone has a limit until they break down, to turn against their better nature.”

“It doesn’t take much,” Sansa said curtly. 

So don't drive her to it, he resisted saying. He nodded. “Sometimes that’s true. Other times it takes a lot—I spent most of my time in Skyrim handling the aftermath of that limit breaking in people. I think I have a pretty good measure of how far you need to push someone to have them fall over the edge. Daenerys Targaryen strikes me as someone who needs to lose nearly everything for that to happen.”

“She could lose everything,” she replied, a tautness to her voice. “You’re going to put the dragons she calls her children at risk. She will take her advisors she calls her dearest companions to the wall—to mortal peril. The worst could happen, Jon.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Aye,” he said steadily, “that is possible. That doesn’t mean she needs to be put down like a mad beast. It’s easier to think that way, but you’ll look back in a few years and wonder if you could have helped them after all.”

“Speaking from experience?”

“Yes,” said Jon curtly. “Enough with your schemes. If anyone caught wind of this, you’d be putting not only yourself but Rickon and Arya in danger. If the queen survives the fight for the living, then I will ensure she returns safely south.”

“What if she turns against us? Will you let her burn—”

“Gods Sansa,” Jon snapped. “Of course not. I thought we’d already had this discussion. I will do what needs doing, but no more than that.”

“Fine,” she bit out and rose from her seat, chair legs screeching against the floor. The sound haunted him long after she had left.

Winterfell was a dark speck in the distance with snow cover as far as the eye could see. Frigid winds nipped at his skin as Rhaegal flew higher, his pace unhurried. Jon had taken to flying when his problems began to feel overwhelming, a false rush to temper him. 

He itched to turn the dragon north, to reach the wall with a mere fraction of the days it would take to travel by foot. Even if he was only one man, he could scout for the Night King’s army, gaining greater intel than a man riding horseback. He could cut down any solitary White Walker he could find. He would leave behind his worries at Winterfell, abandoning every other duty for just one. In Skyrim, they would call him a hero. Here he would simply be a coward. 

Jon groaned, the cold air clearing his head. The conversation had not gone as well as he’d hoped, but it wouldn’t be the end of it. Sansa did not so easily yield. 

He retired to his rooms after the flight, basking in the quiet until there was a knock on the door. 

“Your sister seems agitated,” Serana said in lieu of a greeting when she entered.

Jon did not need to ask which of whom she was referring to, falling back into a chair by the fireplace. “She fears the past repeating itself.”

Serana gave a half-shrug, slipping into the chair beside him. She was quiet for a moment. “Do you believe madness to be contagious?” 

“If Sheogorath is involved.”

She snorted. “I’ve heard it several times since the queen has arrived—the Targaryen madness.”

“Power often precedes madness.”

“Do you believe it then?” Serana said, her eyes finding his. “Some of your men certainly think so.”

Jon grimaced. “Do I think that Daenerys Targaryen will go mad without cause, covering the north in dragon fire? No.”

“It is a bit silly isn’t it?” She replied. “But then everyone has a breaking point.”

“That much is true,” Jon agreed steadily. “I felt mine when the last of the Vigilants in Skyrim fell in a temple to Molag Bal.”

Serana stilled. “You never talk about that time of your life.”

“I don’t know how to talk to you about it,” he told her. “But I would speak to you of it if you wished.”

“Not if it causes you pain.”

Jon leaned back against the chair. “It used to hurt more, in truth. I occasionally wonder what Lord Stark would think of me if he knew everything that I've done since leaving Winterfell.”

“I wish I could have met him. You speak so highly of him.”

“I don’t think he’d recognize me,” Jon admitted.

She shook her head and leaned forward, placing a hand over his. “I don’t believe that. You’re a good man, Jon, even if you do not recognize it.”

“I try to be,” he said, but there were so many deaths pressing down on him. If one day they might try to bury him in their madness, Jon could not blame them. “I don’t know what to do. I think Sansa is planning something.”

“Oh—did you only just realize?”

Jon sent her a look, and Serana sighed. “She’s terrified, I think.”

“That’s not all she feels,” he muttered, watching the fire sway and crackle. “Fear and jealousy can be a dangerous mix.”

“You would know.”

“Aye. There’s no easy way of fixing it. Sometimes during war—if they could only fight together, cooperate somehow, perhaps Sansa could find a path forward that isn’t so grim.”

There was a silence. Then, “Another solution is needed. If not from you, then by another.”

Jon grimaced. He already dreaded the task ahead of him.

“I don’t think her distrust is unwarranted,” Arya told him the next day. They were outside of the walls of Winterfell, boots falling through layers of compacted snow with every step. “I’m not sure I understand quite what you want me to do.”

“This isn’t just about Sansa,” Jon said shortly. “Soon we will be relying on one another in battle. Our forces must be able to fight while three dragons circle above their heads. They cannot do that if their primary worry is whether fire will rain down upon them courtesy of the queen.”

“And you think this issue was designed by Sansa.”

His exhale came out as a cloud in the cold. “Did I ever tell you about the time before we took back Winterfell? The entire march back I was dogged by rumors that I was a Targaryen bastard.”

“You did have a dragon.”

“Aye,” Jon said heavily, “but I was not cast out. Durnehviir was a northern ice dragon according to the rumors then—news to me. I had no part in the theatrics but they came about that way anyway. My ties to the Starks weakened compared to whatever dragon blood I must have had, and had Rickon not survived, I have occasionally wondered where that would position our sister.”

Arya stopped to look at him, concern clear in the lines of her face not covered by a thick scarf. “What are you saying?”

He shook his head. “She did not know if she could trust me back then, I forgive her for it. But Sansa is ambitious, she always has been. Her ambitions now are just as much about the protection it would give her.”

Arya was quiet as they walked for a few minutes. “I’m not sure I believe there’s a better option alive to take the throne if Daenerys Targaryen dies. Gods—I think Gendry would rather fall in battle than that.”

A thought occurred to him. “You know…”

“Finish that sentence and you’ll regret it.”

He wisely did exactly that. For once the sky was clear with not a speck of bad weather in sight. “It would be rather funny.” 

“I think she would kill me,” Arya said matter-of-factly, the idea of her as queen, and then they were both laughing. “I want to live,” she continued after they had finished. “I want Sansa to reach a place where she doesn’t need to fill her words with thorns to feel safe. I want Rickon to have the same. I’m willing to kill for that.”

Jon understood the sentiment well. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. After the war against the Night King, I want peace.”

“Did you get that in Skyrim?”

“It was an impossible thing to wish for.”

 Arya exhaled. “It was a bit like that with the order. I decided not to kill a woman, but a life was still owed. Mine would have been just as well.”

He tried not to let that unsettle him. Wondered how close it had been that they would have never reunited. “I’m glad you made it back.”

She didn’t answer immediately, face turning toward the sky. “I thought I would be returning to nothing but a list of names, but instead I found half my family waiting for me.”

Soon they would be going to war where there were no guarantees. He breathed out, slow and heavy. Far ahead of them were Daenerys’s dragons, asleep in the morning sun. “I hope we can have that again. For now, we must solve the issues that are right in front of us. We must survive the march north as best we can, defeat the Night King, and ensure that afterward, should we win, the North doesn’t fall straight back into another war. We need Southern alliances to survive the winter—Sansa knows that.”

“I don’t think I can help with that,” Arya said bluntly. “I think Sansa sees us as being cut from the same cloth. I love her but we don’t understand each other, even now. You need to find someone who does.”

It came to him immediately, and he rubbed his face with a haggard air. “I hate politics.”

“Aye,” Arya said cheerfully. She patted him on the back. “I believe in you, brother.”

Jon had not been alone with Tyrion Lannister since he had been in Kings Landing. The man had been busy, Jon knew, with things that did not interest him. 

“What can I do for you?” 

“You have been in Daenerys Targaryen’s court for some time now,” Jon began, not entirely sure of how to phrase it. “You must have some positive opinion of her.”

The man snorted. “Indeed.”

Jon grimaced. “Sansa trusts you as much as she does anyone else. She needs a reason to trust that...our allyship will endure through the winter.”

Tyrion leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I wondered if you might come to me with this.”

“Is it so obvious?”

The man was quiet for a moment. “She was very quiet in Kings Landing," he began. "Being outspoken would have likely gotten her beaten courtesy of my late nephew. Her survival depended on learning how to appear not to be a threat. Back then, Sansa hadn’t quite mastered the final step of such games—the knife you stick in the back of your enemies when they aren’t watching you.”

Jon watched him steadily. “She told me she learned from watching Cersei but I think she learned just as much from you.”

Tyrion laughed humorlessly. “I’ll take it as a compliment. In truth, I do not know this version of your sister very well. I don’t think she’d be receptive to a lecture. ”

Jon leaned forward, elbows bracing against his legs. “I’m not asking for that. Just talk to her about the type of leader Daenerys Targaryen is—about who she is. Sansa worries that she will be another—”

He broke off, but the Tyrion only chuckled. “Cersei. Yes, that doesn’t come as a shock. But enough about her. Let’s talk about you.” He raised his glass. “The things they say about you up here, Snow. I wonder how much of it is real.”

Jon attempted not to bristle. “It cannot be that interesting.”

“On the contrary. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened to Westeros in years other than Her Grace. Late Lord Stark’s bastard son—already a surprise by anyone who knew the man—disappeared as a child and returned with a dragon to take back Winterfell when all hope seemed lost. Songs will be written about you if they haven’t already.”

Jon felt his expression stiffen. “I care not about any songs. Soon we will march north to fight an enemy we do not know the face of. We have more important things to talk about.”

“Songs are important, Snow,” said Tyrion idly. “It is how information moves between common folk. A tale of your victory is as valuable as a tale of the strange magic you used to do it can be your undoing.”

“Lord Tyrion,” Jon said, a sharpness to his tone. Then he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “My apologies. I know you mean well.”

“Do I?” The man said, but his voice was light. “I will talk to her, of course. Our interests are the same in that regard, though I cannot promise anything.”

“I'm grateful,” Jon said, swallowing the rest of his words. He did not like these games, but he would play them anyway.

Chapter Text

Durnehviir returned with ill tidings at dawn. Jon had woken early from a dark dream caked in sweat, as though he had already known of the dragon’s return. It was a frigid walk to where he had landed in the dark, a dark shadow looming across the snow.

“Thuri,” Durnehviir greeted him.

Jon nodded in return. “What news?” He asked, a shallow diversion from the tension suddenly running through his frame. If the wall had fallen, Durnehviir would not be so calm. 

The dragon paused, then shook his neck, raining snow from his body. “They are drawing closer to the wall. It is a good thing your people have yet to starve from a long winter. They will still have the strength to fight.”

“Will it be enough?”

“You will have three fire-breathing dragons. That improves the odds.”

One was riderless; the other unprotected on its belly. The odds were still not in their favor. “The wall?”

“Holding. Long enough for our forces to reach it in time, though I believe its fall to be inevitable.”

“Why?” Jon said. He kept his voice as calm as he was able.

The dragon looked at him for a long moment. “Because he marches on the wall. Surely he has reason to believe he and his forces can pass.”

Jon closed his eyes. “We are expected to begin our own march in three days time. It will have to be enough.” He opened them again, exhaling. “Sometimes I wish I had thrown myself upon the College of Winterfell’s steps and begged for tutelage.”

“You would be a different man then. It is not time for regrets.”

A smile pulled at his mouth. “I would be a shit mage.”

“You’d forget yourself and run straight into a fight to be skewered,” Durnehviir agreed, a trace of humor in his voice. “But if there is one thing I’m confident in, it is your ability to survive. Do you think this threat is as dangerous as Alduin?”

“You know it is different. Alduin was one dragon, a single target. This time it's a question of whether we even can reach the Night King.”

“It is true,” The dragon said. He lowered his head to meet Jon’s eyes. “If you do succeed, however, if you do win against this terror, what then?”

There were so many variables. He did not know whether Queen Daenerys and her dragons would survive. A vacuum of power that size could cause another war to break out. If she did survive, he would still have probable famine and the north grieving the deaths of their loved ones to contend with. He did not know how long Serana would stay when it was over. 

“I’ll return here,” he said. 

Nothing was certain except for the promise of death. Even if they did everything right, if they reached the Night King in time and Serana’s theory was correct about his army falling with him, many would die before then. It was the reality of war. He had always been on the sidelines of the civil war in Skyrim. The war against monsters and gods and the wars of men had always felt separate. Now they were colliding not in Skyrim, but in the homeland he had once thought lost. 

Despite his best efforts, the knowledge had him on edge as the march to the wall proceeded as planned. He was just one man. He could not ensure everyone’s safe return home. Jon had to believe the Night King could be defeated, but they still did not know the mechanics that would give them the win. Would dragonglass work against him, or would it shatter along with their scant few chances for victory?

He had kept his use of Dawnbreaker to a minimum over the past months. He had no insurance that it would work either, but it was better than nothing. 

“If the wall falls,” Jon had started that first night marching north. “If it falls then—”

“Then we will make sure that we are as ready as we can be,” Serana said firmly. “We’ve been over this.”

They had, but his thoughts kept circling back to Durnehviir’s warnings. The Night King must have the capability of gaining passage: there would be little reason to march on the wall with his masses of undead otherwise, but they didn’t have enough information to even begin to build a theory on the method of the wall’s undoing.

Sansa and Rickon had seen them off with the poignant knowledge that it may be the last. In the end, the tension from his and Sansa’s prior conversation had dissipated in the face of that. Lord Tyrion had also spoken to her, though Jon did not know the outcome of that conversation. Regardless, even if her dislike of the queen endured through the battles to come, it would mean they had survived the Night King and his army of the dead, and that would be a victory in and of itself. 

He planned to fly ahead on the morrow, to take stock of the situation at the wall. Serana wanted time to study the wards herself, so she would be joining him on the flight north. 

“It’ll be like old times,” he murmured unthinking, and clarified when she sent him a glance from inside the small tent. “Us off on some life-threatening adventure together.”

Serana snorted. “I could nearly pretend we’re still in the Forgotten Vale, stumbling around blindly.” 

“It was nice there.”

She shot him a look. “Your idea of nice sometimes leaves something to be desired, Jon.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mean the parts when we were being attacked by Falmer and frost giants and dragons. It was—”

“Beautiful,” Serana finished. Her voice trailed off. “There was something about that place, so left behind in time. Maybe the betrayal of it when we reached the end. The prophesy making a fool of all of us.”

They went silent. Jon had been lying under several layers of furs in an attempt to stay warm. Despite it being late, there was an audible bustle of noise and activity outside his tent. Jon did not envy them, knowing the provisions that had been provided to him were far better than average. It did not stop a chill from slipping in. 

Serana laughed abruptly. “If I were mortal, I could offer you warmth during these frigid nights. Instead taking refuge under those furs would only make you colder.”

Jon didn’t hesitate and patted the space beside him. “Join me anyway if you’d like.”

She stared at him for a beat, before removing her cloak and moving closer. “I would,” she said, her voice quieting. 

It was nothing like sharing body heat with another person. Her skin was naturally too cool for that. Anyone else and he’d worry they were at risk of frostbite or deadly sickness. He wondered if he would ever grow used to it, but there was something to the idea of sharing his warmth; chasing away her eternal winter. Jon pulled her closer until her back was flush with his chest, his arms crossing over her waist. She threaded her fingers through his. 

“Do you still think we have a future together?”

Jon knew what she was truly asking was whether he still desired such a future with her. He didn’t even need to think. “I do.”

Serana squeezed his hand. 

They arrived amidst a storm. By the time Durnehviir had landed, Jon was chilled to the bone from the frigid winds. Serana, of course, was in perfect condition as they entered Castle Black. The dragon had immediately gone back to studying the wall. Jon was certain it was his obsession, a new category of magic to decipher. He had hoped the men of the watch had grown used to his presence and would make the transition to four of them more smoothly. Jon had managed to convince Rhaegal to stay with his brothers, as there would be more food readily available before reaching the wall.

There was no Sam Tarly to greet them this time, a voice of reason among a group of men reluctant to grasp a frightening reality. Instead, there was Alliser Thorne, whose open stares and pointed remarks his first time at the wall had felt like a bad omen. It was no different this time around: if anything the glee in his eyes as he led them further inside boded poorly. 

“Apparently he was a Targaryen supporter,” Jon muttered to Serana the moment they were alone. 

Instead of reacting with sympathy, she only laughed. “You’ll be living with this misunderstanding forever, Jon. You may as well grow used to it.”

“I refuse,” he said rather stubbornly and ignored her obvious mirth. “He’s a cruel man from what I’ve heard. I have no interest in getting to know the likes of him.”

“Hm,” Serana said and went to sit on the bed. As it was common with them, she had looped back around to his quarters when left to their own devices. It didn’t curb the rumors of them entirely: last he had heard, some of the men had taken to calling Serana his witch. It had raised his hackles, but the source of the rumors wasn’t from Serana being caught using magic but the unearthly quality about her: the pale skin, her eerie, hungry eyes.

“I can feel it,” Serana continued, jerking her head toward the door. “The wards against the undead are strong. I do not know what would happen if I attempted to pass through them, but I doubt I would escape unscathed.”

The fire in the hearth had begun to return feeling to his limbs. “What do you think he intends to do then? The Night King must have some method of crossing.”

Serana was silent for a moment. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ll have very little opportunity to stop it.” 

“We’ll just have to focus on one crisis at a time,” Jon decided. 

As he took on his newest role the next morning, however, it was clear it wouldn’t be so simple. As expected, all the issues discussed at Winterfell were rearing their head at the wall. There would not be enough provisions to last their armies forever, and the crossings north had slowed in the face of the number of deaths and disappearances occurring. They would be unable to sight the Night King until he was nearly at their gates—the constant ice storms making most kinds of reconnaissance nearly impossible. If the storms were of their enemy’s power, then it was deliberate to hide his own army’s movements. 

When he wasn’t preparing for the worst, Jon made frequent visits to Durnehviir. “I worry whether the death of this Night King will grant us victory,” he told the dragon. “There have been stories about the White Walkers forever. Why now? What is so different about this winter that would urge him south?”

“It is a question of whether these White Walkers came into the world naturally or through sorcery,” Durnehviir answered thoughtfully. “Have they always been here out of man’s reach, or were they created as the weapon of a being like a Daedric Prince? If that is the case, is this god willing to stay removed from this realm even if their creations perish? If this Night King falls, will another rise in its place? It could take thousands of years—in which case, you might as well take it as a victory.”

“We may not even have the tools to defeat him,” Jon muttered, clenching his fists. “If dragonglass isn’t the answer then we can only drive him back—an impossibility considering his forces.”

“Have hope, Thuri,” Durnehviir rumbled. “You aren’t alone in this fight. A solution may come to us unexpectedly.”

Jon exhaled. The sun was only beginning to set, but the wall cast a dark shadow across the land. The sight left him feeling strangely unsettled. It was even stranger to imagine how it would appear for the wall to fall. A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Are you all right being this close to the wall for long?”

“As long as you live, Thuri,” the dragon said, “I shall be able to return to this realm.”

“And if I perish?”

“I do not know for certain,” Durnehviir answered, “Perhaps I will be sent back to the Soul Cairn, or there might be enough magic here for me to remain.”

“What would you do if you did?” Jon asked him. “Would you help these people even without my encouragement?”

The dragon stared at him for a time. “If that is your final wish, Thuri, I would see it through to the end. You have given me life again, and I owe you a boon larger for it than you must understand.”

Jon exhaled. That was it then. “Thank you, Durnehviir. That is a relief to hear.”

“I do not expect you to die,” Durnehviir added. “You have survived worse. It is unlikely your fate to fall here.”

“There’s no telling fate,” he murmured back into the stillness. 

The top of the wall was just as astonishing as it had been the first time he had stepped foot on it. It provided a view far north with clear weather that couldn’t be beaten. Even with the snowfall reaching high up its borders, without magic involved, it seemed as though it were a barrier that could never fall. 

With wind, however, it was unbearable. Jon returned to the lift to go back down to Castle Black. Without Rhaegal, his recent habit of going riding when his thoughts became tangled was impossible. Going to the top of the wall had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now Jon was shivering with no more answers than he had before. 

He was met at the bottom with one of the last men he wanted to see—Alliser Thorne. “Lord Commander.”

“Jon Snow,” he greeted back. “You can be a hard man to find.”

They had only just left each other: only hours before they had been planning for the siege ahead. The difference, of course, was that they hadn’t been alone then. 

Jon began to move to his quarters. “I assume you have reason to be looking for me?”

“Aye,” the man replied. There was a sliver of a smirk pulling at his features. “I’d like to reaffirm my loyalty to the Targaryen family. It is good to have a dragon on the throne again.”

“I have nothing to do with that,” Jon said curtly, “Though I’m certain Her Grace will be glad to hear she has supporters this far north.”

“Surely not. You ride one of her dragons—the way I see it, you both have two of them.”

“I am not of Targaryen descent, as I’m sure you know.”

The man snorted. “The dragons don’t seem to mind your bastardy.”

Jon exhaled, slowing to a halt. “My father—”

The man chuckled. “Right. Your father. Lord Stark never had it in him—it was even his honor that got him killed in the end. He was not the sort of man to father bastards. Robert Baratheon was a fool to believe it.”

Annoyance sparked in his gut. “When I was young no one questioned his ability.”

“You didn’t have two dragons then,” Thorne answered easily. “You were simply a boy with northern coloring. Why question it?”

“Why question it now?” Jon muttered, looking over the castle. “I am a Snow, my father was a Stark—”

“The truth is obvious,” Thorne said and laughed. “You may still be a bastard, but it’s clear to anyone with a brain that you’re Lyanna Stark and Prince Rhaegar’s bastard son.”

Air hissed through his teeth. He did not wish to hear of it. Jon’s tone turned sour. “Be very careful, Commander. Jests like these can have consequences.”

“I served the Targaryens—”

“Loyalty to a mad king. How inspiring.”

The man sneered. “You’re a fool, Jon Snow. I am not the only one who sees the truth for what it is.”

“Lord Stark had no reason to lie.”

“He had every reason to lie. Have you forgotten what that Baratheon did to your kin? Their little bodies smashed to pulp—”

“Enough,” Jon snapped. The thought of it made him ill. “I do not wish to speak of this.”

“Mark my words, Snow, your ignorance will only cause you problems later. When the queen returns south victorious, will she be content to leave you here unattended?”

The same pointless conversations repeated over and over again, with Thorne of all people. “What of the preparations for Queen Daenerys’s forces? They should be arriving soon.”

There was a pause before the man answered. “Well in hand. Whether it will matter in the end or not however…”

Jon hadn’t expected hope from the man: there was very little of it to be found here. He answered with a short nod, gaze turning back to the wall. To think it could all come crashing down if Durnehviir was to be believed. He had seen wards fall throughout his time as a Vigilant, but nothing quite so striking. The wall appeared as though it would hold forever, but perhaps that was the deception the Night King was hoping to rely on. 

“There’s someone at the gate!” A man of the Night's Watch suddenly hollered from above. “Do we let them through?”

“Are they dead or alive, boy?” Thorne called back.

The winds howled. “It’s two people—one’s on a sled. He doesn’t look hurt.”

There was no way to tell for certain. “They could bring news of the Night King’s forces,” Jon said. 

Thorne grimaced. “Aye, or they could be wildlings desperate to cross.” He cupped his mouth, calling to the man again. “Ask for their identity.”

There was a longer pause this time. His voice sounded uncertain when his reply came. “It’s—he says he’s Bran Stark of Winterfell and Meera Reed of Greywater Watch.”

Jon suddenly felt unburdened by the cold. “Open the gates,” Jon commanded, head turning toward the warden. “If he speaks the truth then that is my brother.”

Chapter Text

His younger brother had been a smiling child, constantly getting into mischief. The boy at the gate had an expression as cold as the northern winter he had appeared out of. 

And yet it was Bran. He recognized Jon immediately, as though it hadn’t been a decade since they had last met. He shared dozens of memories of when they were young until Jon could not deny it—some of which had faded between his two crossings of the Weirwood trees until his brother spoke of them again—a piece of his childhood returned to him. 

But Bran also knew things he should not have, as isolated as he must have been in the far north. “You went to Dragonstone,” he told Jon later, once they had settled back into the castle. Meera Reed had retired to her temporary quarters with an unease about his newfound brother that Jon was quickly growing to empathize. “You found the bones of dead dragons and cave drawings of an ancient power that wakes with winter.”

“I did,” Jon acknowledged. It was one of the many statements Bran had made since his return that raised the hair on the back of his neck. It was an eerie kind of magic. “You’re saying you’re some kind of seer?”

“I can perceive the past, the present, and the future,” Bran replied, his tone bland. “That is what it means to be the Three-Eyed Raven.”

“I see,” Jon said, though he understood very little. He had heard similar words from warlocks moments away from blowing themselves up. He hoped his brother had a better hold on such a power. “Can you change past events?”

It earned him a flicker of pain that crossed over his brother’s face. “The past as it is already exists, even if it is manipulated in the present.”

“Complicated indeed,” Jon muttered. “Then you must know of the Night King and his weaknesses—whatever they might be.”

“What I know of now is essential to defeating the Night King,” Bran agreed, “but I’ve seen many things. The Night King’s creation long ago, and the slaughter of the Children of the Forest afterward. I watched when dragons danced. I witnessed the war in which you and Rob were born amidst, the mad king calling for a city to burn. I followed when father rode out to recover his sister, only to find her dying of fever after giving birth. Like the Starks, the Targaryen lineage has dwindled. Now there are only two left.”

“I think your numbers are off. Viserys Targaryen is dead.”

The boy studied him for a moment. “You are not so senseless. You know of which I speak. Does it not make clear of all that has happened to you?”

Jon shut his eyes wearily. The words of denial which normally bubbled to the surface in a heartbeat were nowhere to be found. “Lord Stark was no liar.” But to protect his sister’s child, he would take onto himself a stain upon his honor. It would have been a clear way forward to save Jon's life: no one looked too closely at bastards. He had hidden Jon away in plain sight and used his wife’s fury to cloak him. “I assume you have proof of this.”

“Rhaegal accepting you as his rider is proof enough,” Bran told him in that same vexingly mild tone. “No matter who you were in the time you were gone, in the here and now, dragons only yield to Targaryen blood.”

“You’re not the first to tell me that.”

“Then let me be the last. You must see the truth in it.”

Jon opened his eyes with a long exhale. “I think there was a part of me that knew already.”

Bran inclined his head. “How could you not at least wonder when the idea was offered to you repeatedly?”

Jon turned his head away. It was as Durnehviir had told him months ago: he silenced the truth because it would complicate everything. Bastard or not, Westeros preferred male heirs. The most dangerous position to be in was as a thorn in Queen Daenerys’s side. It would threaten not just Jon but the Starks as well.

It would not need to be Daenerys doing the threatening either: either with or against her, Jon would be embroiled in a fight for power he had no intentions of getting involved in. The Night King was his priority—it should have been everyone's priority now. Yet here his brother was, speaking a truth that could endanger them all. “It does not matter whether I'm a Snow or Waters in truth—I’m still a bastard."

“You are not. You never were.”

Bran delivered this news with such disinterest. Jon stilled, staring past his brother toward the barren wall. It did not matter. There was no proof, just the word of a seer glimpsing the past. ”Survival is the only thing worth heeding now."

“As you say,” Bran replied, inclining his head. “But do not think the matter will simply disappear afterward.”

There was a pause. Then, “Do you believe there will be an after?”

 “Perhaps,” said Bran.  

Bran unveiled another secret shortly after Daenerys and their forces arrived at the wall: the Night King’s weakness was Valyrian Steel. 

Durnehviir revealed another. 

“It is your brother,” the dragon told him later that same night.

Jon hadn’t been paying attention: his thoughts were still on the turn of events in their favor. “Hm—what is?”

“The Night King will attempt to cross the wall. You asked me what power would allow him to succeed. Your brother is the key.”

He looked up sharply. “Explain.”

The dragon considered him for a moment. “Something has changed. If I were to guess, your brother was marked. The wards have been transformed in some way with his return. I still cannot pass freely through them, but it is only a matter of time.”

“Could he have known?”

“I cannot presume. Does your brother seem to be on the side of the living or the dead?”

“The living,” Jon said. He paused before continuing. “He is much changed and not in the way of a boy growing into a man. He said something about a tree, three-eyed ravens—”

“Is he still your kin?”

“He told me he was not Bran Stark, not in the way I remember or wish for him to be. He is still my brother,” Jon decided. “I think the Greensight has changed him in a way that he cannot return from, but I believe he is on our side. His reveal of Valyrian Steel reaffirmed that. I suppose one might wonder if the enchantments that created the Night King will still work the same they did thousands of years ago.”

“If it is as he said—if this Night King was created as a weapon by the Children of the Forest by the way of Valyrian Steel and magic, then I don’t doubt that this steel would break the magic holding him together.”

Jon exhaled, his breath leaving a trail behind. It was too damn cold to keep trekking out to the dragon at night, but it felt unwise to speak of such things during the day. “There are very few Valyrian Steel weapons left. Some are here at the wall already, but ultimately only a small number of people will be carrying them. A few of us to reach the Night King against an army like his…”

“You do not know his true numbers yet.”

Jon shook his head. “He already had an army, and then he turned every Free Folk settlement he could find before they found a way to cross. I’m certain it will only grow during the battle itself as our men fall.”

“Will you give up then, Thuri?” The dragon said, his voice turning sly. “There are no doubt places in this realm he cannot reach.”

“Not a chance,” Jon replied grimly.  

The Night King and his army were visible a few days later from the top of the wall from afar. A break in the winter storms allowed a clear view of the terrifying army of the dead crossing the ice. The energy of Castle Black took on a more frantic quality. The Queen, though she did not show it, shared a similar unrest.

“Drogon feels a great reluctance to cross,” Daenerys told him as the feeble sun of winter began to set on the horizon.

Jon had felt through his bond with Rhaegal the same thing.  “They will," he said. It was a grim promise, not a comfort. The wards were failing. 

“You can feel it too then?” Tyrion asked as they walked together. His voice contained blatant curiosity. “This isn’t the time, of course, but I must admit I could interrogate you for hours. To be connected to dragons…”

Jon did not answer. It was still something he struggled with: his bond with Rhaegal felt right, as though he had been always meant to be a dragon rider. His experiences in Skyrim, however, left him wary of mental bonds even if this was different. Of the meddling of fate.

“It is unlike anything else,” Daenerys confirmed, “but it is not the time as you said. I fear for them in the coming battle.”

Jon did not know who to worry for more: Viserion without a rider, or Rhaegal, whose underside was still littered with scar tissue that had lost the near invulnerability their scales normally granted.

“There is that.” Tyrion sighed. “At least I’ve had experience with sieges.”

“I don’t think it will be one for long,” Jon said grimly.

“You expect the wall to fall in one night?” 

“I expect the Night King to have a plan of action, though a siege would end in their favor anyway. The dead do not need to eat, or sleep, and do not catch sickness from injury. If he wanted to, the Night King might defeat us by simple attrition.” 

“As we’ve discussed before,” Tyrion agreed gustily. “Still, I’m not certain I’d prefer the wall being destroyed as the alternative.”

The conversation lagged after that. Arya met him on the way to the courtyard. 

“I need to talk to you,” she said. They were silent until they reached her quarters. 

Her tone had his hackles rising. “What’s wrong?” Jon asked immediately, voice hushed as the door shut behind them. “What’s happened?”

“What’s happened? You’re a Targaryen!”

Jon nearly threw up his arms. “He told you?”

“Did you expect him to keep it a secret?”

“Yes,” Jon snapped, his voice rising—until he abruptly quieted. It would do well for them to keep silent. 

“We’re family,” she said if that was all the answer he needed. Perhaps it was to her. But Jon would be having words with their brother very soon—right after this conversation ended in fact. "Don't be mad," Arya continued, seeing through him. "You've been acting so strangely for days. And Bran's said some things to me about—my past too. I just thought..."

Jon did not answer immediately. He trusted her, but it wasn't about that. It was the reality that he was no longer her half-brother, that their childhood had been a lie cast by his uncle.

A lie cast in hopes it would protect Jon's life. “Does it not bother you?”

“That you're technically my cousin and not my brother? Not really, Jon. You’re still my brother in every way that matters.”

A lump grew in his throat. “Ayra…”

She turned to him, her eyes bright. “Honestly, Jon. It isn’t as though it's a real surprise with Rhaegal and all.”

“I see.” His voice went a bit gloomy.

“Is it so different from when you became—Dragonborn, was it?”

He took a seat by the fireplace, his sister following him. “I found it very difficult to accept.”

“So you ignored the possibility of it until it became impossible to do so?”

Jon glowered at her dully. “No.” He had done his duty then, but her words held a certain truth nonetheless. “I did run from it at first—the title,” Jon admitted. “There was a part of me that couldn’t move past who I had been here. The bastard of Winterfell. Everything I had known of dragons had been the stories Old Nan used to tell, and the games we used to play. The only ones who could forge a bond with a dragon were the Targaryens, and here I was being told that I had a destiny as Dragonborn and that meant that—” Jon broke off. “I still don’t understand it. Was it because I have Targaryen blood that I was Dragonborn, or was it something else, some other part of me that is more dragon than man?”

“You look plenty human to me,” Arya said with a snort. 

A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Thanks.”

She could undoubtedly hear his mockery. Jon moved on to a different subject, one that had been pressing on his mind. One that only she could answer. “What do you think of Bran?” 

A temporary silence sprung up between them.

“Bran is—” she attempted, and then exhaled deeply. “Sometimes when I was across the sea, I thought about if I’d ever run into you.”

Jon looked up, mouth parting to speak. Arya shook her head. “It was silly. Everyone thought you were dead. I thought you were dead. But there was never a body and I thought—maybe you were as lost as I was somewhere. I wondered if you’d be as I remembered you, or perhaps you’d be so changed by the circumstances that brought you to Braavos that I’d barely recognize you. Bran is the second one.”

“Ah,” Jon said quietly. “The thing is—he was just so young when I had known him. Rickon had just been a babe so I had no previous impression of him. We met as strangers. But Bran—he remembers everything but it's like he has no emotional tie to any of it. There are moments when he shows a hint of something, but it’s gone as fast as it appeared.”

Arya was staring into the flames. “It’s selfish of me. I thought—I had hoped he would be happier to see us again.”

“I think he is.” It was all Jon could say on the subject. There was a part of him, though, that wondered if the Night King hadn’t threatened him, whether Bran would still be tied to a Weirwood tree far north of the wall never to be seen again.

The Night King marched closer. Behind closed doors, Jon was beginning to lose his mind. 

This war was nothing like he had experienced before. None of their forces had any experience fighting the dead. The blacksmiths were hard at work making dragonglass weapons, but it would never be enough. If they ran out, if their crude blades broke into shards, Jon advised aiming for the legs and arms, to take the dead out of the fight if they could not be permanently destroyed. They would have dragon fire to torch the wights, but there could come a point where it would be impossible to tell friends from foes in the fray. Fire burned through the living just as fiercely as it did the dead. 

Jon met with Serana less frequently, each occupied by their own duties. When they found time to talk, it was often late at night, with Serana still buried in her notes and theories. He would let her voice wash over him and breathe, hoping that there would be an afterward for them both. 

“If Bran is the key then the wall is a door,” Serana was saying, her voice carrying all of her determination to find a solution. “It was locked before—nothing in or out without a key. But now all the Night King has to do when he arrives is push the door open, blockade or not.”

Jon tapped his fingers over the armrest, thinking. “There are stories of Queen Alysanne’s dragon refusing to fly beyond the wall. No matter what encouragement she gave, Silverwing would never fly over it. Queen Daenerys tells me Drogon has shown unease going near it, and Rhaegal feels similar reluctance. I’m certain Viserion is the same. While the wall’s magic is failing, it has not faded completely. I wonder what the dragons sense to make them so nervous. The ward shouldn’t be targeting them.” 

“I bet they can feel it,” Serana answered pensively. “Maybe they don’t know what it is, but if you came to a door filled with signs that read do not cross plastered in blood, would you not keep it shut?”

Jon didn’t answer for a moment. “I believe that was our occupation for the past few years.”

Serana snorted. “Indeed. We have experience knocking on unpleasant doors.”

A comfortable silence grew between them. Jon sighed. “I still don’t know how to feel about it.”

“Concerning your parentage?”

Jon grimaced. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“I think it matters to you a great deal.”

“You laughed when I told you,” he accused her halfheartedly. 

“Well, it is a bit funny. You’ve spent all these months since you’ve returned home desperate to deny it. Then your Greenseer brother arrives and forces you to admit the obvious.”

Jon was silent for a moment. Then, “It means my childhood was a lie.”

“Was it? Did Lord Stark not love you as his own?” Serana pressed. “Did you not learn from the same Maesters and Master-of-Arms as your cousins?” 

He grimaced. “It doesn’t feel right calling them that.”

“Because your affection for them has not changed. You love them the same way you’ve always have. Sansa and Arya are still as much your sisters as Bran and Rickon your brothers. That doesn’t need to change.”

Jon hoped she was right.

Durnehviir stood on the ice, head facing the wall with eerie stillness. Jon had gone out to visit him at dawn and found him watching the wall with intensity. 

“Can you feel them, Thuri? ” Durnehviir rumbled after a few minutes of silence. “So many dead marching on the living. I have seen nothing like it in thousands of years.”

“They’re almost here,” Jon agreed, his voice grim. After a beat of silence, he added, “I wish you would be there with me.”

“No, you should not,” the dragon said. “There is nothing as alluring to a being such as myself—one who uses Alok-Dilon. To steal an army like this to mine would be a great feat.”

“But you won’t.”

“I will not,” Durnehviir agreed, but the dragon sighed as he spoke the words. “Not unless you ask it of me.”

Chapter Text

Jon was on the verge of sleep when his door opened. The hinges creaked; there were no footsteps to betray the visitor’s identity, but he didn’t need them. 

Jon sat up, furs shifting around his waist as his eyes found her moving in the dark. Serana was taking off her outer layers silently, laying them haphazardly over a chair until she was down to a shift. Her pale skin glowed in the light by the window as she moved across the room, slipping into the bed beside him. Her scent was cold. Jon shivered as she pressed her face against his neck.

“You will not die,” she murmured. 

“I cannot make that promise."

Serana sighed, shifting until she rose over him, close enough to touch. “I’ve been thinking about the future again.”

“So have I,” he confessed. It was difficult not to with what was coming.

She reached over, fingertips skimming over the curve of his throat. “Would you give me forever then?” She leaned closer to his face, mouth brushing against his cheek, voice turning raspy. “Would you sacrifice your mortality for me, Jon?”

There was a chill in the air. The fire in the fireplace had gotten low. “What are you saying?” Jon murmured. 

“I worry for you,” she admitted.

Jon brushed his thumb over her jaw. “You trusted me before.”

“You had less to lose then.”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Will you stay with me after?”

“In Winterfell?”

“Yes,” Jon said. There was nothing so terrible as the truth.

“I would, but you must live through the days to come before that.”

If only it were as simple as a promise. “I don’t want you to feel compelled,” he said. “Stay with me only if that is what you desire.”

She laughed, breaking through the chill. “I do. You know I do. I want a future with you.”

“Even if it is short?” Jon said, his voice going a bit raw. “Even if it is not the eternity you speak of?” He knew she was looking at him, though he could not see her the way she could in the dark. His wolf dreams had given him a sense of what that was like to have the night be as clear as day, but that was with the mind of a beast. 

Jon wondered what it was she saw when she looked at him. 

Serana exhaled. “Yes. Even then.” She slipped under the furs again, facing him. Her eyes glinted, predator-bright.

“You wear a strange expression,” she murmured. “What is it?”

“Your eyes are beautiful,” he told her honestly. 

A strange noise escaped her throat. “You’re so strange, Jon.”

Jon let out a bark of soft laughter. “What’s so strange about that?”

“Are these not the eyes of the monsters you’ve hunted half your life?”

“They’re yours.”

She let out another muffled sound. “You must know what that does to me.”

“What does it do to you?”

She shifted up so that her thighs curled on either side of his hips, face hovering over his as she buried her hands in his hair. His muscles tensed on reflex, but she only laughed hoarsely. “Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

Jon reached up, pulling her face closer to his. He pressed his mouth against hers, feeling her canines bump against his lips. He wondered if she was hungry. Jon decided it didn’t matter. Her hands wandered lower. There was no hiding how hard he already was. “Are you sure?” he rasped. 

“If you die, at least I’ll have tonight to remember you by,” she replied, her voice mild.

Jon’s mind went blank. Serana laughed softly into his mouth. “I’m certain.”

He pressed kisses into her shoulder as she shimmied out of her nightgown, and then flipped her over, so it was her looking back up at him, hair splayed across the pillow. His mouth trailed down to her breasts, over the soft curve of her stomach. 

“I want this to feel good for you,” he said. 

Serana let out a sigh, and then another light gasp as he moved downward, peppering kisses against the inner of her thigh. Her hips bucked, and she made a noise as though out of embarrassment. He looked up at her, finding the glint of her night eyes shining back at him, a thin ring of brightness in the dark. Serana’s hand found his hair again, threading her fingers through it.

“Is this all right?” He said steadily. In the dark she nodded, wordless, and then his head was buried between her thighs again. Her breath hitched, letting out a muffled sound when he found her. She was so sensitive; Jon took his time with what little they had left. Perhaps it had been a jest when she had spoken before, but it was the truth. Jon wanted her to have this—one last memory of him before the enemy arrived—as much as he wanted her.

Afterward, as she lay beside him, Jon trailed his fingertips along the lines of her collarbone. Serana was twisting a lock of his hair, just the outline of her form visible as she lounged on layers of furs like a satisfied cat. 

The fire had all but gone out; he reluctantly ventured from the bed to feed it.

“What are you thinking about?” Serana said, voice sleepy upon his return.

“It’s not fair that you can see me, and I cannot see you,” he murmured, though light was beginning to return to the room.

Serana let out a soft laugh. “But I do like you like this, Jon. Your face is rather flushed.”

He was mortal in the end—but he did not want to be reminded of what lay before them outside his quarters. “I’m certain you’re right,” Jon said dryly. Despite the chill in the air, there was nothing but hot blood coursing through his body.

She went quiet for a moment. “There’s a part of me that wonders why we hadn’t done this earlier. I’ve wanted you for years and yet—” She made a motion with her hand and laughed again, but it wasn’t with any particular humor. “I was afraid.”

“There’s no shame in fear.”

“I suppose not.” She turned so that she faced him, hand reaching up to touch his face. Her thumb smoothed over his brow. “You’re brooding even in bed.”

He made a noise low in his throat. “I am not.”

This time she laughed for real. “Your expression betrays you, Jon. Don’t worry—it’s quite charming.”

Jon caught her wrist and released it. A smile pulled at her mouth as they stared at one another without speaking. He could see her easily now; bright light danced over her features. It was the same face he had always known, but with a new softness, a vulnerability she had rarely let him see. No doubt it was equally reflected in his. 

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice carrying all the softness he could bear. “If this is the last memory I have of you, I don’t regret any of it.”

“Gods,” she muttered back, but she was still smiling. "I don't believe the night is yet over."

He resisted the urge to return it. "No?"

"No," she confirmed. Jon pulled Serana closer to kiss her again.

The Night King arrived at dawn. The sun did not come, heavy storm clouds blocking out the light with an unnatural density. It was nearly as dark as it had been during the night.

“One hundred thousand strong at least,” muttered Jamie Lannister. His face had leeched of all color, pale as the snow covering the pillboxes they stood beside. It was a sea of the dead crossing the snow toward them, as far as the eye could see from the top of the wall. Jon hadn’t spotted the Night King or his White Walkers yet, but it was only a matter of time. Jaime did not say the words out loud, but he heard them anyway: they were at a massive disadvantage from numbers alone.

“Remember, the dead under the control of the White Walkers fall when they do,” Jon said, but his tone remained grim.

“And how exactly do you expect us to reach them intact?” The man drawled back.

Jon didn’t have an easy answer for that—there was none. Even if they flew out there with a small group of men, the dead would be upon them in an instant. 

“Those numbers will be falling shortly,” Tyrion suddenly spoke up, equally grim-faced. “They’re almost upon it.”

Jon had only ever seen the aftermath of wildfire. The massive gashes in solid stone, the rubble left behind, a dragon near death. 

It had seemed absurdly risky back in King’s Landing when Tyrion had mentioned the idea. The band of them watched from the wall, tension thick in the air as the dead marched straight into one of the caches they had set earlier that week. In Tamriel, green was often the color of restoration or nature spells, but this was unnatural. Snow evaporated instantly along with every undead body close to the eruption. It was loud, like a clap of thunder. Green colored his vision as the dead far enough away not to instantly vanish caught on fire. It was instant chaos. 

It was brilliant—and it wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly. There were just too many of them. 

“Gods,” Jon muttered under his breath. It was a horrific spectacle he couldn’t tear his eyes from. A force so destructive, and the dead kept marching through anyway as their bodies burned to ash. 

There had been fourteen caches left underneath King’s Landing. They had spread them in a half circle up against the sparse forest that bordered the valley to the wall, so that when they went off what was left of the trees they had not cut down in time also caught flame. When the undead moved to avoid the fire, they would only set off another cache, creating a wall of flame. 

“How many are left?”

“That should be all of them,” said Tyrion somberly. “The fire will burn out eventually, but it should take out a decent portion of their front forces.”

They would only fly the dragons out once the fires were subdued. Daenerys’s dragons remembered wildfire and were understandably resistant to drawing near it again. Unfortunately, they did not have long to wait. The wight forces split apart abruptly, creating a path through to the flames. The Night King emerged as the wildfire went out instantly, with what appeared to be a staff of ice held before him. He was riding upon a horse even more gruesome than the dead that surrounded him. 

A clamor of voices erupted; one of their most destructive weapons—out like the simple flame of a candle. 

The horse their enemy rode looked a bit like Arvak; a fondness for a dead horse that Jon had not seen in an age. A hiss went through his teeth. It was time then. He turned away and moved toward the elevator to take him back down to Castle Black. The courtyard was a rush of activity, men with faces of stiff fear. Anxiety clung to their frames as Jon moved around them. Daenerys and her guards were already waiting for him outside the castle where Durnehviir stood, speaking to her in a low tone.

“He has some kind of weapon,” Jon announced as he reached them. “Staff maybe. The wildfire went out immediately when he touched it.”

Durnehviir looked up, though he didn’t appear surprised. “He has magic of his own then, beyond the necromancy and the weather.”

“Aye,” said Jon dourly. Rhaegal moved forward toward him with a rumble in greeting. Drogon waited beyond his brother, and Viserion further still.

“It is time?” Daenerys said, and Jon nodded.

“It is, Your Grace. We must gain a better estimate of his forces and burn as many as we can before they reach the wall.”

“You must be careful, Thuri,” Durnehviir added. “You know as well as I that dragons are not invincible. Once he knows he’s up against dragons, he will make plans to take one for his own.”

Repugnance sprung into Daenerys’ features before smoothing over. It was the first time he had seen her wear armor, but he was glad of it. If she died, there was no telling what Drogon would do. “That will not happen,” she said.

“If you are not careful he will claim all for his army,” the dragon returned mildly.

“Let us go,” Daenerys said, voice like steel. 

Jon needed no other invitation. He climbed onto Rhaegal’s back, getting a firm grip on him as the dragon grumbled low in his throat, no doubt feeling his anticipation. When Jon was young, he had not deliberately sought trouble—then it had become his duty. “Sōvēs!”

They rose above the wall within seconds, the dragons roaring between themselves. Below them, Durnehviir watched on in silence, his eyes on Jon. It was now or never. The wards were growing dimmer by the hour. They must cross. 

“Naejot!” He heard Daenerys command. He did the same. 

There was a moment when Jon wondered if they would refuse as all other dragons had done in the past. Then Drogon dived, tail narrowly missing the top of the wall, and Rhaegal followed as he and his brother always had—and then it was three of them flying fast across a valley to an army of dead men and beasts. 

“Keep your eyes on the Night King at all times!” Jon roared toward her as they grew closer. “He will try to take one of them for his own. He will attempt to kill you!”

The storm clouds that had lingered around the edges were rapidly growing darker as they closed in. Snow began to fall, then faster and colder. It would become impossible to see through during the time they needed most.

“None of that,” said Jon grimly. The Night King’s control over the weather was no doubt part of the reason he felt confident marching during daylight. He raised his head, face turned toward the sky. “Lok-Vah-Koor!”

The clouds scattered in an instant. The snow disappeared, the wind fading. Jon hadn’t seen blue skies in weeks, and the sun felt warm against his skin. Daenerys was looking back at him from atop Drogon, but only he urged her forward. “Don’t look at me—look at him!”

The Night King had halted, sitting a top of his dead horse without moving. His armies had frozen still. They were all watching them now. Jon bared his teeth in the illusion of a smile. “Aye, I can control the weather too,” he bellowed, though he knew his enemy could not hear him. “Dracarys!”

The dead burned as Rhaegal unleashed a torrent of fire. The Night King could tame fire, but he could not reach all of it at once. Daenerys flew Drogon onward, spraying the land with flames. Viserion followed dutifully. The army was set aflame once more. The dead did not cry out. They burned silently as the Night King and his White Walkers unmounted from their horses. In his hand was the staff—which wasn’t a staff at all. A sword or a spear was more likely. 

Jon looked ahead and found more to be concerned about. The Night King had thousands of dead men, snow bears, ice spiders, and giants, deep in the flanks of his army. The gate would not hold long against them. He urged Rhaegal forward to rain fire down upon them. Their eyes, larger than any man’s, glowed that terrible cold blue. One of them raised his club, tall enough to nearly reach them.

“Pālēs!” Jon immediately called out, and Rhaegal flew fluidly around the threat, spitting fire that painted the giant in a blaze. Jon looked back again, searching for the Night King. He saw the arrows firing toward them with barely a warning to spare. “Vezot! Up—fly up Rhaegal!” 

The dragon shrieked as the arrows shot past them, glittering in the fast-fading sun. Jon’s shout was already losing its potency, and now he was dealing with ice mages.

He found Daenerys again and pointed Rhaegal in their direction. He may be used to having shards of sharp ice shot at his head, but she and her dragons would not. Jon looked back to find the Night King raising his sword, but perhaps it was better thought of as a spear, for that was the way he held it, pointed up toward the sky.

“Shit,” Jon swore. His throat still felt a bit raw. “Ad—” He could not remember the term; he should have spent more time reviewing the Valyrian commands. Instead he pushed through their connection with all of his urgency, turning his gaze toward his enemy. Rhaegal turned swiftly, wings coming to rest against his sides as they dove toward the Night King. The Night King’s attention, which had turned at Daenerys, swung back to him—but his spear was still raised, and he turned his head not toward Drogon, as Jon had initially assumed, but to Viserion. 

Viserion, who had no rider to watch his back.

“Vēzot!” Jon roared as they reached him, and then, as Rhaegal turned upwards once more, he shouted, “Zun-Haal-Viik!”

The spear shot out of the Night King’s hand, landing somewhere far away in the snow as Rhaegal flew like the wind back toward his brothers. The dead were more prepared now: shooting regular arrows toward the dragons with poor accuracy. It would not harm them immediately, but enough nicks in their wings would slow them down. Viserion was taking the brunt of them, screeching with bewildered rage, but Rhaegal was more vulnerable than his brothers from his previous wounds on his belly. 

“We must return!” Jon called to her. “Viserion should remain on the other side of the wall—the Night King is aiming for him. He has a weapon—”

He heard it before he saw it. The Night King should not have been able to find the spear so quickly. It meant that he could either call his weapon back into his hand freely, or create them as a summoner could call a Daedric weapon into their hand. It meant when Viserion screamed as the spear went clean through his wing, his dread felt like a punch to the gut. Daenerys cried out with him as the dragon fell as deadweight through the sky, and then managed to right himself, his shrieks ringing in Jon’s ears. 

“Māzīs!” Daenerys started calling. “Māzītīs, Viserion, Drogon!”

It was a desperate flight back to the wall. Viserion kept slowing, his left wing fluttering uselessly at times, the Night King’s magic lingering when the spear itself did not. 

“He’ll make it!” Jon called, as he kept turning back to watch for the Night King to strike. There was a trail of undead lagging below them, half of them still burning from dragon fire. “Just a bit longer!”

Viserion let out another cry. Jon turned back to the dragon and felt his stomach drop. He was free-falling through the air again. Drogon dived with him but could do nothing to stop his brother from crashing into the snow. He did not move upon impact, silent as he lay unnaturally still in the snow. “No, no, no,” Jon muttered as he took Rhaegal down closer. 

“He’s alive!” Daenerys shouted up to him. “He just needs to get up. Sōvēs, Viserion!”

Abruptly, the dragon let out a plaintive cry as though to answer her, but it granted Jon little relief. The dead were drawing ever closer: they had little time to spare. They could not afford the Night King to gain a dragon for his army. They did not have time to attach chains to pull Viserion up and over the wall, if that were even feasible. He would not fit through the gate. The horror of what they would have to do if Viserion did not rally lay before Jon in sudden perfect detail. 

He never had to worry in Skyrim with dragon corpses stripping back to bone upon their death, but here they would have cut off his head so the Night King could not use his flames. His wings for flight. His legs to rid the potential as a blunt weapon against an army of easily flattened men.

It was sickening and Jon would not let that be his future. There was one other way. 

Chapter Text

Viserion was dying from the Night King’s magic, a curse spreading from his body to his mind. It was what kept him grounded: the gash through his wing should not have rendered him unable to fly. 

“I can get him up, but it won’t last long,” Jon called to Daenerys, his voice grim. He had wondered if she would remember that tense conversation in the Dragonpit months ago. Upon seeing her face, it was clear she did. Her expression carried a faint, newfound hope, at odds with her reaction from back then. It was pure desperation on both their parts. 

Remembering the method of learning Bend Will brought with it a revulsion that had never left him, even after years had passed. A grotesque deal with a Daedric Prince, the death of a good man, and then into a realm that had tested him around every turn. Miraak, a distorted reflection of himself. The first and last Dragonborn—pitted against one another. 

“Gol-Hah-Dov!” Jon shouted, his shout finding the pale dragon lying in the snow.

At once Jon could feel him fighting it; there was already magic burning through the dragon’s body for his allegiance. Adding to that weight brought with it enormous pain. Viserion screamed again, but then stood on unsteady legs, his wings shaking with a cursed sickness. The dragon had never paid him very much attention before, but now the full weight of that unsettling false loyalty was turned toward him.

“Sōvēs!” Jon bellowed, hoping his voice did not betray the uncertainty he felt. It had to work. The alternative was unthinkable. 

Viserion tossed his head and lurched forward with an ungainly gait. Then he was taking to the skies, wings beating rapidly as he gained height. 

“Over the wall!” Jon called and urged Rhaegal to do the same. “Vēzot, Viserion!”

Daenerys and Drogon were already in the air and had turned to spit fire upon the few wights that were drawing close to them. He heard them follow a few moments later as they rose above the wall. Archers stood at the ready, bows aimed toward the few enemy stragglers that had not perished by Drogon’s attack. The catapults and ballistas were not yet manned, but they would be ready when the rest of the army moved within range. The lingering undead were easily picked off by archers. Before they had passed below the top of the wall again, Jon looked for him. Far back in the trees that had not been cut down for anti-cavalry spikes, the Night King was holding the rest of his forces back at the forest line, waiting.  

Viserion had landed safely on the other side of the wall, Jon having Rhaegal land close by. The two dragons screeched at one another as Jon dismounted. His Bend Will shout was losing its hold over the dragon, and that made approaching him extremely dangerous. 

“Durnehviir!” Jon shouted. “I require your assistance!”

Daenerys had also gotten down from Drogon and was rushing to Viserion’s side when Durnehviir landed beside him. Jon did not have to say another word before he began rumbling in Dovahzul. 

“He was hit by the Night King’s spear. It was a clean hit, but the sorcery still lingers,” Jon explained when he reached them. “Can you stop it from spreading?”

“It is not complicated magic,” said Durnehviir swiftly. “A mark of death, Krii Lun Aus. It is easily burned away.”

“Literally?”

“Nay,” the dragon replied. “Though you should be grateful that it was I you called all those months ago. I have spent a millennia studying such magic.” He began to speak again in the dragon tongue. Viserion snarled, but it was a weak, toothless thing. His scales had always been a paler color than his brothers, but around the wound was a colder color rapidly spreading. 

Then it stopped. Viserion breathed out heavily, panting, and Durnehviir had gone silent. Jon moved forward before he caught himself. “Is it done?” 

“He’ll live,” Durnehviir said mildly. “But he won’t be flying again tonight.”

“That’s likely for the best,” said Daenerys. She exhaled, her breath visible in the cold weather. “He was too vulnerable without a rider.” She placed her hand against her dragon’s muzzle for a beat, and then turned away. “Thank you, Durnehviir. I am in your debt. I must go update the war council on the Night King’s forces.”

“I must join her,” Jon said, but he didn’t move toward the castle immediately. Viserion eyed him with suspicion as he skirted around the injured dragon to pat Rhaegal, releasing a deep breath. The dragon made a noise like a purr, but even that didn’t calm his beating heart.

“What ails you?” Durnehviir said.

“Our biggest problem is that we do not know what he can do. I disarmed the Night King and he called forth another blade in the time it took me to reach them and—you were right,” Jon said turning toward him. “If he gains a dragon he doesn’t need to use the gate. He could bring down the wall and smash the wards completely. Most of our forces would perish from that alone. I did need Rhaegal.”

The dragon watched him, assessing. “It is no small thing to admit folly. These lesser dragons are your greatest asset for winning, and the great threat to your victory. That was Alduin’s shortcoming as well. The realm to which he was strongest was where he was truly vanquished.”

Jon gave a short nod. “I will remember that lesson.”

Much to the disconcertion of most, Jaime Lannister was taking lead with Daenerys on dragonback. The numerous wars Westeros had suffered had taken their toll: he was the most experienced they had in active warfare, but there was no straightforward strategy for this. 

“What we need is a way through,” he was saying, standing beside his brother at the long table. His grip on it had turned his knuckles white. “Our first priority must be taking out as many of these White Walkers as we can. If they fall, the dead they raised will go down with them. The Dothraki and the Knights of the Vale are our best options for that, but of course it’s not that simple. Snow bears, ice spiders—” he said, hissing through his teeth as he looked up to meet Jon’s gaze. “Gods, Snow, could you possibly have any better news for us?”

“Why does it matter?” Daenerys interjected. “Our cavalry units are our best option.”

 “With complete respect, Your Grace, if it were just dead men we were up against, fine. But these beasts can easily outrun a horse.” Jaime shook his head. “It would be a waste of men.”

“It may have to be a waste as you say, Ser Jaime,” another man said, his voice grim, “but it’s our best option. We’ll have to make every push count.”

“If the ground wasn’t frozen solid, we could have dug more trenches, but the spikes will have to do,” added Allister Thorne. “We have barrels of oil to burn as well—projectiles for the ballistas and catapults. The scythe if the dead can climb as well as they walk. Shit miracle if you ask me.”

“We win if we can put a Valyrian Steel blade through the Night King’s heart,” Jon said, his voice even. “His army splinters with each of his White Walkers defeat. If we can lure them closer…”

“He’s too smart for that,” Jaime countered, jerking his head toward the window, where the wall stood. “He has no intention of moving ahead with his army—look at him. The farther he stays away, protected, the easier it will be for his forces to whittle us down.”

Everyone in the room already knew that. 

“We surprised him with the dragons and the wildfire traps, and whatever it was with the damn weather, but he’s not just going to give up and go home,” Jaime continued. “They’ll attack tonight when it's dark. We at least have some time left to prepare.” He turned toward the queen. “Your Grace, right now our best weapons are you and Jon Snow. The more of the dead you can kill—”

“They will tire eventually,” Daenerys said. There was an edge to her voice, an echo of nearly losing one of her dragons. “Would you rather have us out there now, or when it is dark and we can relay far more information than any man on top of the wall could?”

“How much time do they need? Give me an estimate.”

“Not enough,” Jon spoke up before it could break into a fight. “They are young, and not made for winter.”

“What about the fourth one then?” Jaime asked impatiently, gesturing with his hand. “Why is it not out there?”

“He cannot cross the wall,” Jon said, keeping his voice even.

“Why not?”

Jon was tempted to answer, because he is dead, Ser, and just managed to resist. The men in this room did not need to know the truth. 

A new voice spoke up. “He wants me. I can be a lure if things truly become so desperate.”

“Absolutely not,” Jon said, not looking toward his brother. The last thing they needed was Bran anywhere near the Night King.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jaime replied. He didn’t sound as though he was particularly interested in the idea. It was likely only due to the fact there was no easy place to lure the Night King that wouldn’t sacrifice some of their defenses. If those defenses fell, however, Jon was certain the man would be more inclined to listen.

“We prepare for nightfall then,” Daenerys decided. As they cleared from the room, a tug on his sleeve had Jon following his sister as she pushed Bran back to his quarters. 

“Why would you offer yourself like that?” Arya demanded instantly once they were inside. 

Bran’s expression stayed mild. “If it is the path forward that will allow victory, then I will do what is necessary of me.”

Arya made a furious noise in her throat, pacing the length of the room. “But we only just got you back. I’m not going to let you throw away your life so easily.”

“I have no intention of dying.”

She looked past him to Jon, her expression exasperated. “Say something.”

“Why does he want you?” Jon asked instead, leaning against the door. 

Bran tilted his head. “He is the enemy of mankind, and I hold all of mankind’s past, present, and future knowledge within me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Arya, her expression neutral. “But what does that mean exactly, Bran? Does he wish to use your Greenseer power for himself, or to eliminate it?”

“The latter.”

Jon shut his eyes. “Are you certain of that?” He asked, opening his eyes again.

“Yes.”

Arya sighed loudly. There was no way of telling if Bran was lying. At this point, it didn’t matter even if he was. Jon moved out of the way of her departure but did not join her.

“I wish to ask you something."

“Of course.”

Jon hesitated, but there was no point in putting it off any longer. “The magic used to keep the Night King from crossing south of the wall began to fail when you passed under it. Why?”

“It was a mistake,” Bran said. 

“Explain it to me.”

There was a flicker of uncertainty in his features, the first he had seen since Bran’s return. “The Three-Eyed-Raven cautioned me—”

“You said you were the Raven.”

“I inherited it,” Bran said, a tremor lingering through his words, real emotion in his voice. “I wasn’t supposed to linger but he found me. I was in a vision and the Night King was there and grabbed my arm. Afterward, he could get in because he had marked me. He killed the Children of the Forest, and Summer, and Hodor.” His voice nearly broke. “It’s all my fault.”

Jon moved to him, placing his brother’s shaking hand between his. “Bran.”

“There was no other way,” Bran continued, and his tone was already receding back to mildness. “I wanted to go home.”

It was like two separate souls clashing between two separate desires. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you made it back.”

The boy looked up, his expression tepid. “I’m glad you did as well.”

Jon rose to his feet. “I must go. Please be safe.” He moved to the door again, but Bran’s voice stopped him.

“He’s here because of me,” he called as Jon slowed to a halt. “He could have crossed anywhere, but he chose the most defended castle on the wall because I’m here.”

Jon turned. “You crossed here on purpose?”

“Yes,” Bran said softly. 

“Bran,” Jon said as he met the boy’s eyes. “Are you certain of his motives?”

Bran did not answer immediately. “I couldn’t find you,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I could see everything: Arya losing her identity to become an agent of death; Sansa passing from one tragedy to another; Rickon’s desperate flight to survive. But not you. You entered that grove and for eight years you were lost.” 

“You saw them—the Weirwood trees?” Jon asked sharply. 

“I did,” Bran said. He looked up again. “I’m moored to them. I should have been able to find you. It was as though something was blocking me.”

Jon unclenched his fists. He hadn’t noticed doing it. “Don’t go looking anymore. There are forces on the other side that—” He couldn’t finish the words. “Promise me, Bran.”

“I promise,” he said agreeably. “I have no reason to go looking since you returned.”

Jon would have to trust him. There was no alternative. “Good. Thank you. Please don’t do anything foolish in the days to come. We will find another way.”

Bran inclined his head, and Jon knew it was an acknowledgment only. He left his brother’s quarters feeling more unsettled than when he had entered them.

The wights marched under the dead of night. The Night King had stirred up another storm, dropping the temperatures with winds that turned liquid to solid ice in an instant. It was not enough to extinguish the fires yet. They had lit the spikes and other obstacles. The elevator was a hive of constant activity bringing supplies to the top of the wall. The sound of the catapults and ballistas firing took on an almost rhythmic pattern. There was a canopy of voices from all directions shouting updates and orders. 

Serana was waiting for him when Jon returned to Rhaegal to take flight. Viserion lay under a thick layer of snow. It was only the melted patch from his breathing that showed that he still lived.

“Be careful,” Serana said as he mounted his dragon. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I will do my best,” he called back and urged Rhaegal upwards. 

There were ice spiders beginning to climb the wall. The scythe swinging across the ice made short work of them, but there were always more climbing toward the top. Dead men and rotting beasts were already stuck to the spikes, arms raised at them in useless hunger. 

“Dracarys!” Jon commanded, and Rhaegal thoroughly doused them and the surrounding area in flames.

Together, they swept across the valley, Rhaegal burning long patches of the undead army, revealing its positioning to those on the wall. Jon was looking for the White Walkers in particular, and the location of the Night King, who he quickly found to still be placed back in the trees. The White Walkers had split up, riding out on their horses. Jon had Rhaegal blast as many as he could find with fire to make their horses fall, but it would only slow them down. They were constantly being peppered with arrows, making Rhaegal snarl and shake his body as though to shake the dull aches away.

Jon could barely feel his limbs from the cold by the time they returned to Castle Black. He didn’t bother to have Rhaegal land, yelling out forcefully, “The White Walkers make for the gate! They have separated from the Night King!” 

Daenerys had been flying Drogon further out, targeting the giants the Night King had left. The gate had to hold, but there was more than one way to take it down. They were all too aware that if the dead entered Castle Black, they would have to retreat. The passage under the wall was narrow enough that they could hold it for a while if needed, but certainly not forever.

They could not afford the dragons to burn so close to the gate. But it was where the dead were focusing suddenly, abruptly—retreating from their long climb up the wall to push themselves against it. A barrel of burning oil fell and exploded, and archers with dragonglass arrows temporarily cleared the way. It was enough for the first group of men to exit, men with tall shields to hold back the dead, and another set with dragonglass spears to turn them back into shards of ice. 

The Night King was on the move. Slowly, because Daenerys had Drogon spraying him and the surrounding area with fire. When he attempted to retaliate, she would have Drogon dodge remarkably quickly. With one of them distracting him, the other had a chance to burn some of his forces. Jon cleared a path for the cavalry to set out from the gates, and then made for the queen. He didn’t make it; there were a few giants left who were lumbering across the valley straight for the gate. If they reached the men guarding it, it would be a slaughter. 

Rhaegal burned two of them to ash and crushed another’s head in his claws before burning its headless corpse. The ice bears were another problem: Jon spent more time chasing after every one he could find before they could reach the gate or the calvary units, who were making for one of the closer White Walkers. Rhaegal was growing tired. It had been hours of wasting energy in the cold without a break. Jon did not know for how long the dragon could breathe fire, but they had to be reaching his limit. 

“Dracarys!” Jon called to Rhaegal, again and again, to hold back the dead as the cavalry unit circled one of the white walkers, picking off his dead guards until only he was left. A quick jab through his chest with a dragonglass spear shattered him and a portion of the dead into fragments of ice. Jon could hear the men celebrate, but it was too soon: they still had at least a dozen left.

It wasn’t immediately visible to those on the ground, but the wight forces had separated again, with a fraction of them racing toward the horses. “Make for the gate!” Jon shouted at them. “Hurry!”

The dead overtook those in the back, and Jon had to burn them too as the rest of the cavalry managed to slip under the gate, covered by those defending it. Drogon swept past him a few minutes later, and Jon had Rhaegal follow. He found Daenerys already on the ground, leaning against Viserion’s snout. There were men dragging animal corpses to the dragons, whatever they could find this far north. 

“Your Grace,” Jon greeted her, his voice carrying all of his weariness. 

“Jon,” Daenerys said, and she exhaled. She turned her head toward him. “It seems in circumstances like these, dragons truly are meant for war. Still…”

It wasn’t sustainable long term. If Visierion had a rider, they could take turns with one dragon resting and the other two keeping the Night King busy and the other burning his army. Instead, they had two tired, extremely hungry dragons that they would rapidly run out of food for, judging by how much they were eating after just one night.

“The wall is meant to last long sieges,” Jon said finally. “But the longer it goes on, the less advantages we’ll have.”

Daenerys nodded. “If we could lure the Night King just close enough so that our forces could reach him...”

Bran’s words rose in his mind. Jon shook away the thought. It was not time for that yet. “We must head back.”

Jon spent a shift at the gate. It was grueling, bloody work, the kind that didn’t have any end in sight. It was dawn when he returned inside the castle, supporting an injured man who limped slowly through the passage. 

The dawn of a new day did not bring better news. Jon was persuaded to sleep for a few short hours, and then he went back out with Rhaegal to do a few more burnings of the battlefield, setting ablaze the dead some ways out from the gate to give the men time to catch their breath. When he landed Rhaegal again, he and his brother took off in a flurry of wings south, presumably to hunt. Viserion had still yet to move from where he had landed the night before. 

“You worry.”

Jon looked up to find Durnehviir lying in the snow, appearing to be rather unconcerned with the realm under siege. “Do you not?”

The dragon studied him for a moment. “What is the worth of worrying now? It is only a distraction from what lies before you.”

“And what lies before me?” Jon said, his voice turning a touch acerbic. 

“Victory. Or your death perhaps. I cannot see the outcome of this battle any more than you can.”

Jon sighed and trudged back to the castle. It was nightfall before the dragons returned. If they had need of them, they could have called them back, but it was a relief to see them all the same. The Night King had held his army back during the day, sending just enough of his wights to keep the men at the gate and on the wall occupied, to slowly but surely tire them out. Only a few hours of sleep would make them all sloppy after a few days.

His tactics grew more clever that night. The Night King cloaked the land in a thick fog, with snow coming down in sheets otherwise. Jon cleared the skies with a shout, but that was temporary. The moment the shout’s power faded, the storm returned. Jon and Daenerys took flight, but only for a few short minutes at a time to clear the area near the gate. Otherwise, the dragons were breathing fire blindly. Landing to attempt to engage the Night King on foot would lead to nothing but nasty surprises—between the weather and the darkness, it was nearly impossible to see the exact forces he kept gathered around himself in the trees. 

They were losing men—not quickly, but like a knick to the side that was slowly growing infected. 

The next morning, the storm abated. Jon mounted Rhaegal as the cavalry left through the gate once more, and then he carved a path for them straight toward one of the White Walkers that had gone too far from the Night King’s reach. Drogon rained fire down upon the wights that moved in from the side to catch the cavalry, and they brought the number of White Walkers down another. There was one other closing in on the gate, but it was across the field of the dead. The cavalry was forced to retreat, but it was still a victory that bolstered the men’s spirits. 

When Jon attended one of the war council’s meetings later that day, however, he found a room packed with as much frustration as there were people.

“What is he waiting for?” One of their Bannermen growled out. “He has the numbers to overwhelm us, but he just sits out there in the woods, not lifting a finger.”

“I’m not complaining—it’s allowed us to destroy at least a third of his forces,” Tyrion pointed out. “It does seem strange, however.”

“He has another army standing at Eastwatch.”

The voice, of course, came from Bran. The room instantly was thrown into chaos. 

“When did you learn of this?” Jon called to him over the noise. 

“This morning,” Bran said, his expression tempered.

“Fuck. What is it doing?” Jaime demanded. “How many are there?”

“Waiting,” said Bran. “Another fifty thousand, perhaps more—they look fresher. One giant that I could see at least.”

“The Free Folk,” Jon said, bracing against the table. “I heard he attacked at Hardhome.”

“It is likely,” Bran agreed. “Though it is a greater force than that.”

“White Walkers?”

Bran inclined his head. Several men cursed. 

“Have we had any ravens from Eastwatch?” Daenerys asked. “I imagine they would sound the alarm if they were able.”

Bran spoke before anyone else could. “I’m not certain they would notice. Eastwatch has not been kept clear—the forest comes up very close to the wall. There is no clear view, especially with the mist coming off the sea.”

“Send a raven now,” Allister Thorne growled, and another man of the watch nodded and immediately darted through the door. The conversation raged on for another hour until they were forced to split. Before Jon returned to take Rhaegal out again, he went to speak with his brother privately. 

“Bran,” Jon said quietly, once they were alone. “What is he waiting for? Do you understand how the magic that keeps him out works?” 

The boy shook his head. “Not exactly. I’ve tried going back to look but he keeps finding me.”

Jon’s brow wrinkled. “What do you mean he keeps finding you?”

“It’s difficult to explain. Since he marked me it's almost like he can follow me through my visions.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” Bran admitted. “But otherwise we would not know about Eastwatch.”

Jon let out a ragged breath, pushing a hand through his hair. “You said before you could lure him to you. How?”

Brans’s expression was perfectly mild. “I would go searching for something he does not wish for me to see. More than Eastwatch. I can stay here to do it.”

“And you’re certain it would work?”

“He will come,” said Bran. “I won’t be in any danger.”

That was clearly a lie based on what Bran had just told him moments before. But they were all in danger.

“Why Eastwatch?” Jon murmured again. “What does he stand to gain there?”

“He can break the wards unobstructed.”

It was not Bran who spoke, but Serana, her face covered by a thick hood even in the bleak winter. He hadn’t heard her approach, out of habit for noticing vampires sneaking around. “I did not realize you attended the council.”

“I found the time,” she said steadily. “I’ve been wondering why the Night King would send the White Walkers so close to the gate the past several days, but now I understand. I believe they can break the wards as easily as he can.”

Jon swallowed. “Then why not attack now?”

“Because he waiting for us to notice,” Serana said, her head turning toward Bran, who had a strange look of surprise on him. “If they attacked before, nothing changes—he still needs to contend with two dragons. But if Bran used his power and told the war council there is another army of the dead prepared to attack Eastwatch, what do you think they would recommend?”

“One of us would take a dragon there,” said Jon. His hands clenched at his sides. “Both even. We can hold here that long. Or—we think we can.”

“Ah. He’s using me,” said Bran. There was a disquiet to his voice, as though he hadn’t considered the prospect.

“We must do something nonetheless,” Jon said.

“That’s the thing,” Serana replied somberly, “there is no way of fixing this neatly. The wards will fall no matter what we do, which does have its advantages for us just as it does for him. But not at Eastwatch with an army of the dead passing into the North unhindered. If either you or Daenerys leaves to challenge them, we’re left vulnerable here. There’s nothing—”

“No,” said Jon as a solution occurred to him. “We have Durnehviir.”

Chapter Text

Durnehviir was asleep outside Castle Black with a mound of snow revealing his presence. The other three were there as well; it appeared Viserion had finally moved in the night, tucking under the wing of his largest brother. From far away they looked like half-buried statues.

“Durnehviir.” Jon stayed back as the dragon shifted awake, snow raining down from the dragon’s back. A large pale eye blinked open.

“Thuri,” Durnehviir said in greeting. “What can I do for you?”

“A hundred miles from here to the sea is Eastwatch, another manned castle of the Night’s Watch. The Night King has an army waiting there,” Jon told him. “If Daenerys or I go, we split our manpower in half, and that is likely his intent. It would give the Night King a better advantage with only one dragon to contend with.” 

Serana and Bran were with Daenerys now, speaking of their reckless plan. The war council would be unlikely to accept it readily: they thought of dragons as intelligent beasts, but beasts nonetheless. It would be madness to send one of her dragons alone—but Durnehviir was not one of Daenerys’s dragons. If the wall fell and the sea of dead crossed into the north, Jon was certain of Durnehviir’s triumph over them. But that was not all he had to contend with.

“That is troubling.” Durnehviir’s tone held a hint of intrigue.

Jon stared at him. This was it: one last test of loyalty. “I’m nearly certain that the wards will fall before you reach Eastwatch. You told me before that you would steal his army if I asked it of you.”

The dragon raised his head. “You would allow this?”

“Aye,” Jon said, his voice lingering heavy in the stillness. Through snowfall, the sounds of Castle Black faded with distance. “I would trust you, Durnehviir. Their numbers are enough to debilitate the North if they go unchallenged. Is it within your power to defeat this threat and defend Eastwatch alone?”

Durnehviir regarded him for a moment. He had changed greatly since Jon had called him to Westeros. The dragon's appearance had been a grim demonstration that he belonged in every way to the Soul Cairn. Now no rot remained; his scales were strong and his eyes clear. “I once left Alduin’s side to find a greater power I could claim for myself. I found it in Alok-Dilon, in the power you mortals call necromancy, the same power you now fight so desperately to survive against. You are not wrong to come to me, Thuri. I will seize his army in your name. I revel in the opportunity to test my power again.” 

The dragon gave a few test shakes of his wings and leaped into the air. It took only a few moments before he was following along the edge of the wall; it would take him all the way to the sea, to Eastwatch, to an army to claim.

Jon watched his departure as snow fell around him, surrounded by sleeping dragons.

They had run out of barrels of oil. The piles of corpses at the bottom of the wall grew taller, serving as a ladder for the wights that came after them. The men were tired, and no amount of sleep would fix the lack of real rest. They had lost a third of their cavalry; another White Walker had been defeated. The use of dragonglass arrows grew more conservative as their stockpile emptied.

The Night King rarely moved from his position, content to use the trees and his army as cover. Dismounting from Rhaegal to fight him would be tantamount to suicide: there were always too many White Walkers and wights around him. 

But Jon thought about it every time he passed over the enemy. He had been given a Valyrian steel sword by the name of Longclaw; it had been passed down through the Night’s Watch for years since its former wielder passed. Allister Thorne had inherited it last; now it was his. If Jon could bait the Night King out just long enough for him to land Rhaegal, if he could use the Slow Time shout—but that would likely get Rhaegal and himself killed. Jon did not know what manners of magic the Night King had in his arsenal. Bran’s stories of the Night King following him through his visions made it clear that he could control forces Jon did not understand. Overconfidence could be his death if he wasn’t careful.

Jon came up with several variations anyway. Daenerys would cover them with Drogon; Rhaegal was large enough to carry a few passengers. Jon would take those who wielded Valyrian steel—if that wasn’t enough, however, then all would be lost. They could make use of the remaining calvary, use dragonfire to force a path through, have men on foot charge—

He rotated such thoughts in his mind as he took another shift at the gate while Rhaegal rested. The dead did not bleed, but the snow had long since turned to a copper slush under their feet. Jon had specks of mud in his eyes and ears and mouth. His vision blurred whenever he tried to blink away the grime.

“Snow bear!”

“Fuck,” Jon spat, and charged forward with Longclaw to find the bear already swiping away their defensive line. A man flew past him missing half his jaw, hitting the wall with a hollow crack. Jon ducked under one of the remaining men holding a shield and ran the bear through while it was distracted. It had been gnawing on another man whose howls went silent when the bear’s corpse landed on top of him. It was one miserable death after another. 

Jon wiped at his face and moved back into position. Around him, injured men were dragged back through the gate and replaced by those waiting behind it. It was beginning to grow dark, the fog sweeping back over the valley. He threw out a Clear Skies shout every now and again to allow those on top of the wall to see their targets better. It was hours of mindlessly stabbing dead men and the occasional ice spider, and then a voice came from behind him.

“Jon.”

He turned around; Serana was standing before him dressed in armor. Time seemed to slow. “The wards,” he said simply.

She nodded. Jon turned back without thinking, as if he would find the Night King standing straight in front of them. “Do you trust me?” Jon heard her say.

He exhaled and returned his gaze back to her. “I always trust you.”

“I’ll be going first then.” Serana pointed toward the dragonglass spears leaning against the wall, in place for when the ones in use inevitably broke. “I brought down several more from Castle Black, but I’ll be taking two.”

“Serana—”

She only looked at him. Jon swallowed his words. “Be careful.”

Serana nodded again. “Get to Rhaegal as soon as you can. Daenerys has already left."

She slipped past their defensive line and stood still amongst a mass of wights who ran blindly past her. Then she disappeared into the throes of undead. The Night King had what he wanted, but he would find that the wards being down would not be to his total advantage. 

Jon found a man to take over his position, and then he was rushing through the passage back into the courtyard of Castle Black, and then to the entrance on the other side of the castle. Drogon was already gone, but Rhaegal was waiting as though he knew Jon would come. 

They went up and over the towering wall, into a heavy mist that Jon banished with a shout. He saw Drogon further up ahead, and the Night King finally on the move, growing ever closer to the wall. 

“Dracarys!” Jon directed Rhaegal, and the dragon breathed a line of fire toward their enemy. It drew the Night King’s attention as he had hoped. Jon circled him, having Rhaegal breathe fire occasionally and dodging when the Night King would send an enchanted spear of ice in their direction. Daenerys had Drogon doing the same, widening the gap between him and his forces. Jon could not take Rhaegal as close: it was too much of a risk with Rhaegal’s previous injuries.

A White Walker abruptly exploded into ice shards across the valley, taking every one of his weights with him. That caught the Night King’s notice, but he was too preoccupied by dragonfire to fully divert his attention.

Jon caught sight of Serana with her second kill: a blur of movement and then another victory, thousands of wights shattering like bits of glass along with the one who had raised them. It wasn’t that she was too fast for them to defend against. He knew from experience that the White Walkers were stronger and swifter than mortal men, but they could not sense her.

The fog returned, and both he and Daenerys turned back for a time as they could not see the Night King’s attacks through it. It hid the army of undead from their sight, but it also hid her. When Jon used the Clear Skies shout again, there was another White Walker and a sizable force of wights missing. 

“It’s working!” Daenerys called, her voice filled with something Jon nearly dared to call hope.

The Night King caught on eventually, as Serana had no doubt expected. Jon had Rhaegal double back to the gate which had emptied in light of Serana’s assassinations as the Night King and White Walkers called for reinforcements. A surge of riders passed under the wall with as many men marching with dragonglass weapons as they could afford. Between burning the wights with dragonfire and the number of White Walkers now slain, their numbers had evened out.

At this point, Jon did not need to direct his intentions: Rhaegal opened his mouth and fire poured out in a line that drew their forces ever closer to the Night King. He switched with Daenerys a few minutes later as the undead began to retreat. The Night King and the White Walkers were riding together, impervious to flame. 

And there was another cloaked rider on an equally dead horse riding up upon them, a flash of a blade glittering before a dragonglass spear was embedded into one of the remaining White Walker’s backs. He exploded as Serana slipped away into the crowd of wights, the Night King turning to find only a riderless horse.

The number of wights had shrunken drastically. Before when Jon would clear a path for their calvary, there had been too many wights to hold back forever. But now the Night King was retreating, there were fewer White Walkers left, and they were throwing their remaining wights furiously upon their forces, as though to hold the army of men back long enough for their masters to escape. 

It was working. Determination made his mind crystal clear. They could do this. Before a thicker fog could roll in, Jon opened his mouth to shout, “Lok-Vah-Koor!”  

Between the moonlight and the thousands of wights on fire, it was clear across the valley to the trees, where the Night King was riding toward. Jon urged Rhaegal lower until he was flying just over the top of their force’s heads. With the wards down, the Night King had thought to advance, but that would be his mistake. 

“Those with Valyrian steel to me!” Jon bellowed, and landed precariously in front of their forces, Rhaegal screeching as his body slid over the ice. 

“On your head I’m getting up there, Snow!” A man roared back, and Jon realized it was Jaime Lannister, who despite his words had procured a horse whose nostrils flared wide at the sight of the dragon. 

Rhaegal made a low call, and Jon patted his neck. “Lykirī, Rhaegal,” he said soothingly. Drogon was flying circles around them, keeping the dead off their backs. 

The first to reach them was Brienne of Tarth, who pushed Arya up ahead of her. The sight of his sister alive filled him with relief, though she would not appreciate him voicing it now. Rhaegal snarled and then settled, as Jon sent a feeling of quiet through their bond.

“Hold on—Sōvēs!” Jon called, and then they were off again, Rhaegal’s wings casting a dark shadow over their forces as they rode north. Jaime Lannister was near the front, and as they neared the woods, a horse stepped out of the trees to meet them. It was Serana, her hood down to ensure no one accidentally aimed at her. 

“The Night King is not far!” She called and turned her horse back under the shadows of the canopy. She had chosen well: the chestnut horse was visible through the trees, and it did not slow or falter—likely on account of it being dead. The Night King and his remaining White Walkers blended into the snow, but it wasn’t long before Serana reached them and the rest of the cavalry had reached her. 

“We’re going to land now—keep steady,” Jon warned over the wind, and then took Rhaegal down with, “Tegot!”

They landed awkwardly as Rhaegal took down several trees in the process, and then all three of them were hauling off him. “Sōvēs,” Jon commanded once they were all back on the ground. “Go!”

Rhaegal made a noise deep in his throat, hesitating to leave him, but he rose on swift wings all the same, flying toward where his brother was circling. Daenerys took him and Dragon south to block the remaining wights, and Jon briefly watched them burn a wall of trees to keep the dead lagging behind.

They still had to fight their way through. The Night King and his White Walkers had stopped in their retreat as the calvary surrounded them—until out from the darkness of the trees, another group of wights appeared from the north. It immediately turned into chaos.

Jon moved forward, unsheathing Dawnbreaker to cut through one of the wights closest to him. A bright fire immediately exploded outward, taking a group of wights with it, who in turn infected the rest as they burned. The sword had very little of its enchantment left, but it would be enough. 

When Jon looked back, Jaime had dismounted, sword raised in his hand as he led the charge against their enemy. The Night King raised a hand before he could be reached, and then there was a swarm of birds coming down from the trees, their eyes an eerie blue as they clawed at any vulnerabilities.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” One of the men cried, and Jon shared the sentiment. There were other things coming out of the snow too, half-rotten mice and rats running up their legs to dig into any weak point they could find in their armor. 

Abruptly they stopped. Jon had been shaking off a decomposing rat when it fell back into the snow, unmoving but still animated. When he looked for the source of this turn of luck, he found Serana. Bright flames were curling up and over her form, her eyes glowing gold from the reflection of Dawnbreaker’s enchantment. If Jon didn’t know better, she looked as though she had walked out a mosaic from one of the temples of the Divine. He would have to apologize later.

None of them needed further encouragement. Their forces split as they fended off the wights. Brienne jabbed one of the White Walkers after it tumbled from its horse, having been felled by Jaime earlier. Jon had resheathed Dawnbreaker to replace it with Longclaw, launching forward to meet the Night King’s blade before it went into her back.  

The Night King met him blow for blow as Brienne and Jaime fought the remaining White Walkers. Occasionally another round of dead beasts would attack, distracting them until Serana took them under her control. Jon was constantly sprayed with bits of ice shards as wights were felled around him. 

It was sheer madness, the kind where friend and foe died and there was no time to mourn the former until it was over. Every blow Jon blocked from the Night King left his limbs and teeth rattling. It was like fighting against a vampire lord again, stronger and quicker than any mortal or ordinary immortal foe. Up close, the Night King’s expression remained fixed, as though the situation didn’t warrant any concern. He could lose his weapon and call another up from the snow in a near instant. Jon used the Slow Time shout just once, and noted immediately that it had no effect on him. 

Brienne and Jaime were occupied with the last two White Walkers and the rest of their forces were fighting the wights that had caught up with them as Daenerys was unable to burn the dead so close to their allies. Every gash and cut the Night King left on him ached with frostbite. Even after every fight Jon had gotten into over the years with ice mages, the feeling was still barely tolerable. Jon had his own tricks, though, and more shouts that were effective on his enemy. The Night King, while he did not show it, must have found him to be an equally difficult opponent. 

His enemy twisted around abruptly to block another blow from behind, which Jon took as an opportunity even as he saw who he had caught—the Night King had grasped Arya by the throat. 

The Night King turned back to block his attack; Jon bellowed as he swept his sword forward, ramming Longclaw straight into the Night King’s chest—and found Arya with her little Valyrian dagger embedded in his side. For the first time, the Night King expressed surprise and then shattered, his destruction taking the final White Walker and wights with him. The canopy of noises—the sound of dragonglass slicing through flesh, of men fighting, dead beasts screaming—fell away.

“Ayra,” Jon said, leaping forward as she fell into the snow, surrounded by shards of ice. She clutched her throat and coughed before she looked up, her expression reflecting the same relief.

“He’s dead,” whispered Arya. “He’s dead.”  

Jon relaxed his grip on Longclaw. He looked up at the sky, finding Daenerys with Drogon and Rhaegal circling above their heads. All around them, men had begun to realize their victory with a stunned silence—and a man cheered, and then another, celebrating their triumph over death.

He found her as darkness yielded to daylight.

Their forces slowly limped back to Castle Black, the valley covered in every direction by ice crystals from thousands of dead wights, glittering in the morning sun like tiny gemstones. Her arms were around him in an instant, and they clung to each other, stinking of the cold and the dead. 

“You kept your promise,” Serana told him, voice muffled in his furs. “Now let us have that future together.”

Chapter Text

The return to Winterfell was met with equal parts of celebration and solemnity. Many had died. The unnatural temperatures and darkness had given way to ordinary winter but there was still no kindness to be found in the cold. The sick and injured filled Winterfell for weeks as Daenerys’s armies recovered and the North’s bannermen scattered back to their homes, bringing their dead with them.

Durnehviir returned with a maudlin tale of his conquered army shattering into ice soon after he claimed them, but he had kept Eastwatch from falling, and the north safe from conquest. 

“What will you do now?” Jon asked him once they had settled back at Winterfell. 

“I will stay for the winter and perhaps longer,” said Durnehviir, a pause in between his next pronouncement. “If you grant me leave, however, I shall fly north past the wall, toward the Land of Always Winter. I must admit I have grown curious about what lies there. With the Night King dead, those lands should melt come spring. If they do not…”

It had not occurred to him. Jon mulled over this new information with a strange regret. “I see. That is a fine goal.”

“Would you go with me, Thuri?” The dragon said, voice sly when Jon did not say more. “I imagine it is a curiosity we both share.”

Jon grimaced. He did want to go, but he had responsibilities now that expanded beyond hunting monsters. “Perhaps.”

“It is as much a gift as it is a burden to have so many ties again,” said Durenhviir knowingly. “When I first met you, you held little loyalty to anyone.”

Jon’s gaze moved toward the castle, where his family had returned to, alive and healthy. “It's a gift. One I could not imagine then.”

“Then I am glad for you,” said Durnehviir, and then the dragon quickly drew him into a conversation about the possibilities that awaited him come next spring. It would mark the end of winter: a time of starvation; of a chill that never quite left—to warmth; to life returning to the land; to rebirth. Jon could hardly remember what Durenhviir had looked like before he had summoned him here, a soul trapped in a rotting body. 

Here the dragon was free. 

Before the march to the wall, a new tradition had arisen among the Starks. After dinner, with the dead of winter keeping them inside, Jon and his siblings would gather together. There were more of them now. Though Bran did not speak often, occasionally Jon could see a bit of the boy remaining. It was often when Rickon spoke to him, coaxing Bran into telling a story of his time beyond the wall or the things he had seen with his Greenseer powers. The joy his return had sparked in Sansa, even when it was clear her brother had changed, had made Jon all the more thankful for his return to Westeros. Their house had been near but irreparably split, yet they had still found their way back to one another. 

When he made mention of it, Sansa smiled from where she was sitting by the fire. “It’s just like Father used to say, ‘The lone wolf dies but the pack survives’. And here we are living.”

It was a mercy from fate Jon had not expected. It had seemed during those long, dark days that it would be out of all their reach. Her words, however, reminded him of another incident. Jon turned to where Serana sat beside him; she was reading a book on alchemy she had brought over from Skyrim, one of her mother’s. Past her, Jon could see Rickon lying by the fire fast asleep. He still remembered the feeling well from his own early years of training, falling into a bed the moment supper was over. 

“I’m sorry about Dawnbreaker.”

Serana looked up. “You should be,” she drawled, snapping the book shut. “I thought you had forgotten.”

“I might have,” he admitted. 

“At least you’re being honest about it.”

“Dawnbreaker?”

“A sword,” Jon said, turning toward where Arya was sitting across from them. “I used it at the end to burn the wights that ambushed us. It's enchanted to spread fire upon the undead when one of them dies.”

“And what does—oh. When you were glowing,” Arya exclaimed. “I imagine that hurt.”

“It would not be the first time,” Serana said dryly. 

Jon suddenly had several pairs of judgmental eyes turned upon him. Before he could respond, however, Sansa beat him to it.

“I’ve heard several rumors already. Some men think you were sent by the old gods in their hour of need.” 

Serana’s nose wrinkled. “I would have been better off not knowing that.”

“It’s more flattering than the rumors of you being the Corpse Queen reborn,” said Arya. “Where do you get a sword like that anyway?”

Jon exchanged a look with Serana. “A god.”

“You’re making that up,” Arya said in flat disbelief. 

“I assure you I did not,” Jon said wearily. “I was ordered to clear her temple of a necromancer or suffer the consequences.”

Her brow lifted. “Which were?” 

Jon paused, at a loss. It hadn’t occurred to him to refuse at the time. Denying the Divines or the Daedric Princes brought repercussions. He had learned to pick his battles with them.

“I suppose—she would have kept talking at me,” Jon said grudgingly.

Arya snorted. “That’s it?”

“She was very loud.”

“How terrifying.”

There was no easy way to explain what it was like to be at the beck and call of beings that were as dreadful as they were petty. The Old Gods of the North were alien in comparison. Durnehviir had said it well enough months ago—the gods here were distant. 

Jon glowered at her but Arya’s smile faded before he could do little else. “I understand though. My time at the House of Black and White—strange things happened there—to me.”

“I imagine there are few places stranger than that,” Sansa said evenly.

“You’d be surprised,” Arya said, her tone turning oddly cheerful. “Once you leave Westeros, the world is filled with things you’d rather forget exist.”

“I wish I could say the same about Targaryens.”

Jon sighed. “Sansa—”

“She’s not so bad,” Arya said patiently. “The Night King would have eventually overrun Castle Black without her assistance. We needed dragons.” She turned her gaze back to Jon, holding it. “Jon was right to find an ally in her back then.”

“That’s all well and good,” Sansa murmured, “but the battle has been fought. She returns to King’s Landing soon to reign until she passes. We live in an era where our ruler commands dragons, and that is far more dangerous than the likes of Tywin or Cersei Lannister.”

“The same could be said of Jon.”

Jon grimaced. “Don’t involve me in this. She’s surrounded by advisers with level heads. She will be a fine Queen.”

“And yet you are the male heir. You can’t pretend that isn’t a fact.” If Sansa thought he would walk into that trap, she was underestimating him.

“I’ve been wondering if I should tell her,” he said levelly. 

“Absolutely not,” Sansa said instantly. 

“She deserves to know. I feel like I’ve been lying to her.”

“It was not a lie.” Bran’s words came unexpectedly. “You did not know until I told you. Her Grace spoke with me several times at the wall. She understands I possess knowledge that others do not.”

“Thank you, Bran,” Jon said, feeling touched. “That is most helpful to hear.”

His brother inclined his head. “I suspect it will not come as much of a surprise to her.” 

That was far less pleasant. “I’ve always told her I do not possess Targaryen blood.”

Arya snorted. “Jon, you already had a dragon when you two first met. The only one who didn’t believe you were of Targaryen blood was you.”

“But why would you tell her?” Sansa said suddenly. “It would gain you nothing but the possibility of trouble.”

“Because she’s kin,” Jon said. “Because she’s entirely alone. Daenerys believes the rest of her family is dead. It feels like a great unkindness to keep the truth from her.” Once they had all been alone, lost to one another. After everything, was she not worthy of the same kindness?

“Even if it turns her wrath toward us?”

“It won’t,” Jon said, still partly convincing himself. “I have seen the kind of woman she is. Even if she does take it poorly, I think it would suit her to ignore my existence rather than to go to war again.”

Sansa held his gaze. “At least you’ve thought about it. Very well. Do as you’d like.”

His brows furrowed. “You agree with me?”

“I was told she had you dressed in Targaryen colors in King’s Landing after you claimed Rhaegal. In the eyes of the people, she has already accepted you as kin. It matters not.”

“She would not wish to have kinslayer on her conscience either—or as a title,” Arya added. “It’s a stupid thing to do, but you could do worse.”

Serana snorted beside him. “He could certainly do worse. I have many stories from our travels together.”

“So do I,” Jon said, voice wry, looking at her as memories of it poured in; all the times they should have had more fighters with them, or mages, or healers that could treat an injury gone sour before it cost a limb. There had been times when it had just been easier to go by themselves, two trained killers who could heal themselves of their wounds if it came to that. It made the times when others were injured and Jon was powerless to help them all the more frustrating. “I should have done more back then. Learned more restoration spells when I had the chance.”

“Regrets are always like that,” Serana said.

Arya looked between them before addressing her. “Could it be possible for you to teach me magic?” 

“You’re not teaching my sister necromancy.”

“Your sister,” Arya emphasized, “can learn whatever she likes.”

“Perhaps,” Serana allowed, her mouth twitching. “There’s more to grasping magic than learning a few spells.”

“It seems like our two realms have something in common then.” Arya’s voice took on a strange note. “To become a Faceless Man, you first must let everything of who you were before fall away. It was years before I learned how to take another’s face for my own.”

She had rarely spoken of her time there, only that it had happened. Jon wondered how far she had gotten; how close it was before she would have left them behind completely. He wasn’t going to let her off for her previous comment, however. “How’s Gendry?” 

“He’s fine.”

“Gendry—the blacksmith from King’s Landing?” Sansa asked politely. 

Arya glared at him. “A friend.”

“I see,” Sansa said, staring at her for a moment. Then she sighed. “Theon left back to the Iron Islands this morning. I had hoped he would stay longer.”

Jon did not share the sentiment, though he would never air it. He could understand the kinship the two of them had forged while being tormented together, but Theon had betrayed Rob, subjugated Winterfell for his own, and feigned the deaths of Bran and Rickon by killing another pair of innocent children. Jon could tolerate him but he would not forgive him.  

“Theon will return one day,” Bran piped up, sounding certain. “His ties here will call him back eventually.”

Sansa smiled. “I would like that.”

At the very least, Jon was glad she had something to look forward to. 

Later that night as he and Serana lay in bed, he thought about how quickly fate could change. His life in Skyrim had been largely solitary and marked by tragedy, and now Jon was back in Winterfell, his family reunited, the great enemy destroyed, and Serana was here and not impossibly far away. He was happy.

Jon shifted, leaning forward to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Her eyes fluttered open, but he knew she wasn’t truly asleep. 

“What was that for?” 

“We lived. We’re here, together. It’s worth celebrating.”

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze was warm as she tugged his face down to hers again. “It is.”

The dragons had returned to where they’d made their territory before. Jon trudged through the snow to find Daenerys already present, her sworn guard standing a safe distance away. There was a pile of newly blackened skeletons as the dragons feasted, looking up briefly to decide he wasn’t a threat before continuing to devour the rest of their meal. 

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Jon said, coming to stand beside her. Viserion was ripping into a goat in front of them, the smell of burned flesh acerbic. “He seems to be doing better.”

“He is,” Daenerys replied. “Viserion may not ever be as steady as he once was, but he will live.” 

The north had not welcomed Daenerys Targaryen warmly, but it could not ignore her part in their victory. Nor her sacrifices. Her army had suffered losses in defense of the north, and the slow march back to Winterfell had the men listening to Viserion’s gut-wrenching cries as he fought to stay airborne with his brothers. It was a terrible thing to watch a dragon brought so low; there had been times that Jon had wondered if he would ever fly again. 

“There’s been something I’ve been meaning to tell you, Your Grace,” Jon said, turning his head away from the dragons to face her.

“And what could that be?”

“It's something my brother, Bran, informed me of. You know of his powers.”

“Of course,” Daenerys said, voice dispassionate. “He’s proven as such to me.”

Jon winced, not certain he ever wanted to think of what sorts of things Bran had revealed to her as proof. “He gave me details of my parentage I hadn't known.”

Her brow rose. “Go on.”

“My father. He was your brother Rhaegar.” It did not feel like the right words, but Jon had never been very eloquent. “My mother was—”

“Lyanna Stark,” Daenerys finished, not looking in the least surprised. 

Jon stared at her quizzically. “You knew? You’re not bothered by it?”

The queen sighed. “Jon, I made my peace with it long ago. Upon our first meeting, in fact.”

“I told you otherwise then.”

“You did,” she said steadily. “But you had a dragon in a time when only Targaryens hold that honor.”

Jon turned his head back to the dragons in question. Rhaegal noticed his gaze and chirped. The sound was so unexpected that he nearly laughed. 

Daenerys was smiling when he turned back to her. “He used to make that noise all the time when he was small,” she said before exhaling. “I remember being so angry. I was meant to be finally returning home and you were already there, harping on about an undead army, denying any relation to me when Durnehviir was right there. But underneath that I was thinking—gods, I’m not alone. There is still someone like me left in this world.” She looked at him then, her gaze steady with knowing. “It is a lonely thing to be the last dragon.”

“It is,” Jon said. Maybe it was foolish, but after facing an army of the dead together with Daenerys, he felt less cautious about saying the wrong thing to her.

Daenerys cleared her throat. “You must visit the south again after winter has ended, you and Lady Serana. Perhaps Lady Sansa will join you.”

“I do not think she will ever return to King’s Landing,” he said carefully. “But I believe Serana would love to go back eventually.”

“A shame,” Daenerys murmured. She revealed a rare smile. “I do have one thing to look forward to at King’s Landing, at least. An old friend of mine is waiting for me there. He had taken ill with greyscale, but I have been sent word that he was cured at the citadel.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jon said sincerely. “I’m happy for you.”

“And you? Now that the Night King has been defeated, what will you do?”

It was a question he should have expected from her, but he'd had other things on his mind. Jon wracked his brain for an answer. “Well—Durnehviir wishes to go north past the wall to explore the Land of Always Winter.”

As was becoming a habit, she saw right through him. “Do you wish to go with him?” 

“Aye,” Jon admitted. “But I have responsibilities here. To the Starks, to Serana—”

“I don’t get the sense Lady Serana would be against such a journey.”

His voice turned wry. “No.”

“Of course, you also have your responsibilities to me,” she continued, but her eyes glinted with humor. “As the only other dragonrider and the only kin I have left in this world, you’ll have to show at court every few years.”

He hesitated before saying a bit grudgingly, “Must I?” 

She laughed. “You must. As your Queen commands you.”

“Very well,” said Jon, but he was smiling at her. He had never expected after returning to find the tragedy of what was left of his family, and the war after that he would gain more, but she had likely not thought of it either. And here they were, clumsily trying nonetheless.

He came across her unexpectedly while looking for Sansa, weeding a bed filled with blue flowers used for alchemy. There was a conversation he had yet to have, and there was no time like the present.

“Lady Valerica.”

She did not look up. “Jon Snow. I assume you have a reason to be speaking with me?”

“I heard you’re planning on leaving soon.”

“That's what I intend, yes. My debt to you has been repaid. I have nothing to keep me here.”

Jon bit back his thoughts on that. “I see.”

The plant she was tending to snapped off between her fingers. “Do you think me a fool?” Valerica said coldly, turning her head toward him. “I know where your thoughts lie. You cannot truly believe Serana would want me here to stay.”

“That is not—”

“Either way it doesn’t matter. You have the fastest form of passage in this realm through your dragons. If she truly wishes to visit me, it would be a relatively fast journey no matter where I go,” she continued briskly before he could finish his words. “Both her father and I have hurt her greatly over the centuries. Distance suits us best.”

“Have you discussed that with her?”

“That is not your business.” 

Jon exhaled. Formality it was then. “My apologies. I’m grateful for all the help you have provided the north these past months. Sansa is most appreciative as well.”

“It is merely repayment,” Valerica said stiffly. “You have done—”

Serana entered the glass house at that moment. “Mother!” She did a double take when she found Jon standing just inside the door. “I hope you’re not in here talking about me.”

An uncomfortable silence hung between them. Serana pursed her lips. “That was supposed to be a joke.”

“We were talking about Lady Valerica’s plans for traveling.”

“Indeed,” echoed Valerica. “I must admit I will miss these greenhouses. The cold weather here suits me. We originally chose the Sea of Ghosts for our base of court for a similar reason.”

Serana didn’t answer immediately, recognizing the redirection for what it was. She crossed her arms. “You can always come back.”

Valerica’s expression softened. “Yes. That would be lovely.”

Her daughter’s expression went stiff. Serana turned back to Jon, motioning toward the door. “I believe Sansa may have been looking for us earlier.”

Jon went first with an incline of his head, but Serana lingered for a moment before stepping outside.

“Serana,” Valerica called abruptly. “There is a cure. It matters not to me if you decide to use it. If that is what you wish for yourself, I shall give it to you.”

Serana had halted just in the door when Valerica had begun to speak, expression changing rapidly and settling on something Jon couldn’t quite read. “Would you have told me this if we had stayed in Skyrim?” Serana said, her voice carefully neutral. 

“I want you to be happy.”

Jon did not think this was a conversation meant for him to hear. When he attempted to give them privacy, however, Serana grabbed his arm to hold him there. “I would like that,” she replied, her tone betraying nothing. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” There was another brief pause. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” said Serana. Her grip on his arm tightened. “I’ll speak to you later.”

The walk back to the castle was made in silence. Serana broke it once they made it to the exterior walkways, exhaling heavily. “She's just so frustrating sometimes.”

“Did you know she was leaving quite so soon?”

“Yes,” Serana said gloomily. “Of course she throws that into the mix right before she leaves. What does she expect me to do—beg her to stay? Kiss her robes with gratitude?”

Jon winced. “She seems like she’s trying to reconnect with you, albeit poorly."

“She had me locked away for centuries without warning. It’s going to take more than that. If she wants a relationship with me she needs to be around to build it, but she’s not ever going to do that. Her research has always been more important.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jon and squeezed her hand. “I hope you two can find common ground someday.” 

Serana sighed. “It isn’t as though we didn’t already know a cure existed—Falion has been doing that ritual for years.”

“Falion isn’t here,” Jon said. “I believe that is what she’s offering.”

“Abducting Falion?”

Jon snorted at the thought. “Gods, now that would be something.” He went quiet. “Do you ever think about it?”

Serana side-eyed him. “Becoming mortal again?”

“Aye.”

“Wouldn’t you say my vampirism has been rather useful during events previous?”

“I see where you’re going with this.”

She bumped his shoulder, her fangs flashing as she smiled. “Sometimes. Mostly when I think about you.” There was no keeping his heartbeat from racing. She laughed, no doubt hearing it speed up. “It would come with certain perks.”

“Such as?”

Her expression softened. “Growing old together.”

Jon suddenly felt warm. He swallowed. “That does sound nice.”

“On the flip side, I could always turn you. We would have as long as we’d like together.”

He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word in, she said, voice a tad mocking, “‘But my oath to Stendarr.’”

Jon stared at her gloomily. She stared back unrepentant.

“I think about it sometimes,” Jon said. In the training yard, Rickon was going through a basic drill with their Master-at-Arms. “I’m not sure I could watch everyone I loved pass on before me. That sounds incredibly lonely.”

“It can be, but it gives you all the time in the world to make new connections. Family, friends, great loves—you would feel as much joy as you do grief.” She snorted. “That’s what I’ve been told at least. You don’t get to experience much when you’re sealed away for a thousand years.”

“What if I only want you?”

Her gaze slid over him. “You think you’re so clever, Jon Snow.”

Jon smiled. “That’s not a no.”

“No,” she said, holding his gaze, “it’s not.”

The sun was out when he woke, and the skies a bright blue when he peered bleary-eyed through the drapes. Serana was still fast asleep in bed. Jon dressed quietly so as to not wake her and headed down to breakfast. His siblings were all awake early, no doubt inspired by the rare good weather. 

“Let us go to the Godswood,” Bran said after they had finished eating. 

“Is there any particular reason for such a visit?” Sansa said. He was sure she was disinterested in venturing out into the snow so early. 

“Oh please, Sansa,” Rickon pleaded. “It’s so nice out. I want to go.”

“That's a great idea,” Arya added, clearly just to spite her. Sansa, of course, knew exactly what she was doing, and looked to him as a voice of reason. Jon grimaced, knowing he was only going to disappoint her.

“Very well.” She rose from the table. “The sun is out for once.”

The path to the weirwood tree was a familiar one. Rickon ran out in front, occasionally looking back as though to be certain they were still following. Arya chased after him, his resulting laughter ringing through the trees. A servant pushed Bran in his wheelchair, the snow compacted enough to roll mostly flat. 

Sansa let out a quiet laugh. “It is nice to see him so cheerful. I was beginning to worry he would never be so happy again.”

“You could say that about all of us," Jon said.

She turned her head toward him. “For so long all I wanted was to feel safe. Now I believe we will be.” 

There was a quietness to the Godswood he had never felt anywhere else. So many good memories were contained within these woods that Jon had nearly forgotten in his time away. He looked forward to walking through them again come spring.

Sansa abruptly yelped, taking a half step back. Jon whirled around; something was coming out of the woods behind them. He unsheathed his sword to prepare for the worst, but it was a direwolf. Jon had seen a few of them at the wall, lunging at the defensive line outside the gate. This one had a thick winter coat that blended well into the landscape. Jon took a step in front of her, raising his blade. 

“Wait,” Sansa said, throwing an arm out in front of him. She released a sharp breath. “It can’t be but I think it’s Snow.”

He lowered his sword. “Snow?”

“We all had one, one direwolf for each of the Stark children. Father found the litter. He was the only one without—well. Theon called him Snow once as a cruel joke, but it stuck.”

“Ah.” Jon stared at the wolf and spur of the moment, held out his hand. Cautiously the wolf followed the movement with its nose twitching. 

“Oh, it's you,” he said and laughed with delight. For years they had run together in their dreams, but this was the north and they had reunited in true. For now and many years to come, Jon was home.