The Grey Dragon [ASOIAF]

[ketan1578]

Earth of Legends

As I walked down the street with my eyes closed, listening to music without a care in the world, not a minute had passed before I opened my eyes and saw people running away from me. I unplugged my IcePods from my ears and heard a man shouting directly at me, "Truck!"—and that was the last thing I heard. After that, the man slowed down, and I began to fly forward.

Wait but I can't fly. I am human. I shouldn't be able to fly, they said. Then came the searing pain, like I couldn't even say which part was hurting and which wasn't, because my whole body hurt like no tomorrow. What the hell happened to me? Did someone toss drugs into the air, and I took a whiff of it? Because my friends told me that when you take drugs you feel like you're in the clouds. But the fuckers didn't mention the pain, liars, all of them. I should burn them all.

[AN: Another Aerys is what House Targaryen needs to reclaim their throne.]

Ah, now I feel like closing my eyes would provide me great relief and take all my burdens away. And I did just that. After some time, my pain faded away and I felt very light. It sure does feel like you're in the clouds. Not that I know how one feels when one is in the clouds. But there is something weird about this whole situation. Don't drugs affect your mind and take away your ability to think straight temporarily? Ah, yes, I had always known that my mental power is greater than others. But what I didn't know was that it would negate the effect drugs have on my mind.

I am special, aren't I? I've always been aware of it. However, convincing my parents and older brother of this fact is always a challenge. It's understandable since I've never showcased my talents and superior skills to them. My parents don't require me to be special since my brother looks after us. He's intelligent, though not as much as I am, but still smart. He became a millionaire at the age of twenty-five, which grants me the liberty to pursue my desires. A lack of freedom has never been an issue for me.

And I had taken full advantage of this freedom by reading the divine texts that some peasants call fanfic. Uncultured, all of them. However, even with all the flaws, and I admit there are only a few of them- I didn't do anything that would shame my family. I've completed my studies and was an above-average student in my class. I've done all they've asked of me, and today is the day I'm going to my first interview for my job.

As I sifted through my thoughts, it felt as though someone was tugging at my very essence, as if someone were plucking the soul out of my body. Despite my initial resistance, which was met with no success, I awaited an event that could elucidate who was pulling me. Soon after, a blinding light emerged.

Armed with wisdom from sacred texts, I instantly discerned the direction this situation was taking. I braced myself for the wishes that would be granted to me. However, I couldn't help but frown as the blinding light seemed to generate even more brilliance in anticipation of its arrival.

"I heard that, mortal. Doesn't the entry of light look cool?" inquired the light.

"Absolutely, if I were my grandfather's age, I'd have glittering, starry anime eyes right now," I replied.

"Hmm, it seems I must draw inspiration from sacred texts. That will have to wait for now. I've summoned you here because, as a fellow reader of sacred texts, I wish to transmigrate you to another world, partly for my own amusement," declared the entity now known as ROB.

"How can I be certain that it's not merely my delusions or imagination?" I inquired. Immediately after the question, I began to envision my demise. Indeed, it seems 'Truck-kun' is not limited to Japan alone.

"So, what's the procedure? Do I just state my three wishes and choose a destination, and then what happens?" I asked.

"You will not receive three wishes, but just one, and I will decide your destination. To make it more intriguing, you will receive a gift from me. Before you inquire about your destination, know that you will be transmigrated into Jon Snow at the moment he awakens after being stabbed by his Night's Watch brothers. And this universe will be entirely different from any you have known before," replied ROB.

His words made me feel sad. I longed to visit the DXD world and meet Azazel to study sacred gears, which doesn't seem like too much to ask. However, I'll accept what I receive, as it's not as if he chose a world that begins with 'B' and ends with 'O'. We refrain from saying its name because doing so might make you resemble the main character in that world.

"I desire the ultimate support system that functions like AI, possessing all knowledge of both modern and mystical realms, complete with magic," I stated.

"I will grant you magic. But in turn, I will take away your ability to use most magic that isn't from your world," replied ROB. Ahm-hmm, that won't do. ASOIAF world magic isn't much, and I don't know jackshit about it.

"Let's make a compromise. Instead of acquiring all magical and modern knowledge, I would gain complete understanding of rituals and the ability to alter the components required for them. This is because I wouldn't be able to find everything needed from the GOT universe," I attempted to bargain.

"Okay, the information will be transferred into the system, and as for the gift, it's yours if you can acquire it," ROB replied.

Before I could ask him what he meant, I felt as if I'd been thrown into Antarctica, only to be yanked out once it was deemed sufficient and hurled into a volcano. As I pondered my predicament, my entire body shuddered. I sensed a stare piercing through me, and I instinctively knew that meeting its gaze would be a grave mistake. Then, something interposed itself between me and the malevolent presence. A sigh of relief escaped me, for I understood it was the protection granted by ROB.

I don't even want to discuss that matter. I have an idea of what or who it was. Following that event, I began to recall memories of Jon. They include his childhood in Winterfell, joyful times with his siblings, his initial experience wielding a wooden sword, and ultimately, his last memory: seeing Olly's face and wondering 'why' as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch lay bleeding in the snow.

Suddenly, my eyes snapped open and I took a deep breath. As I became aware of my surroundings, I quickly tried to rise, but a thought struck me. The fire didn't burn me. In fact, I felt comfortable amidst the flames. Puzzled, I stood up, contemplating the various things that could have granted me immunity to fire, certain that Jon lacks this ability.

I emerged from my own pyre. Around the blazing pyre, a crowd had gathered. To see characters that you've only seen on TV or read about in books is certainly a unique experience. There stood Ser Davos, Tormund, Melisandre, Edd, many wildlings, and giants. My gaze lingered on the giants for a moment before recognizing familiar faces and registering them in my mind. However, the expressions on their faces were something else entirely. They varied from shock, bafflement, and relief to devotion, happiness, and reverence. Some even looked ready to kneel and proclaim me a god.

"It's quite chilly out here, you know. A few garments would certainly keep me warm while you all gaze on," I remarked. As I spoke, Ser Davos snapped out of his stunned state and offered me his heavy cloak. Once cloaked, I turned to see Ser Davos' face, brimming with questions.

"Let's get you to your room before you freeze," Ser Davos said, a smile gracing his face.

As we approached Castle Black, a white blur came hurtling towards me. I was still reeling from everything that was happening, unsure of what to tell them. The blur caught me off guard, and I lost my balance on the snowy ground beneath me. Although I wasn't injured, the snow's direct contact with my skin left a burning sensation. However, the culprit of my fall seemed oblivious to my plight and began to lick my face.

"I missed you too, Ghost," I said with a smile; I was always a dog person. Once done likcing every bit of ash and soot, Ghost began to move aside, allowing me to stand up and regain my composure. I began to scratch him behind his ears, eliciting joyful purrs as his expression reflected pure contentment. After a few more moments of affection, we continued our journey to the room.

As we approached the room, I realized that none of the people who came with me had any intention of stopping. "Do you all want to see me as I change clothes?" I inquired, and their response was instantaneous. Some, like Ser Davos, appeared embarrassed, having not considered that aspect.

"We're right here. Call us when you're ready," came the reply from Edd. He looked at me with a mix of suspicion and relief. I think he was torn between being happy that his friend had returned from the dead and being suspicious because of our situation.

Omni POV

The gift that ROB has given Jon is now emerging from the waters onto the shore. Upon reaching land, it appears confused and emits a high-pitched shriek, enough to frighten anyone present on the island.

It's a massive and fearsome dragon with a distinctive, imposing appearance. It features a deep red coloration with a series of dark, almost blood-like veins running through its scales, highlighting its fierce and aggressive nature. It has a somewhat elongated and serpentine body with large, bat-like wings that look well-suited for aerial combat.

Now, what we have to see is how Jon Snow will react to his gift.
Third-Person POV

Jon, finished dressing, decided it was time to open the doors and let the others waiting outside enter before they knocked the hinges off to get the answers they thought he owed them. He had thought about what to tell them regarding the change in behavior they would see in the coming days, and during this very talk. But to hell with giving them answers. He was not the Jon Snow who was honorable and brooding. The old Jon's memories might leave traces of his personality, but as he had read in the sacred texts, the transmigrator's personality is the dominant one in the body.

Jon opened the chamber doors, and everyone standing outside immediately started filing in. There were not many of them—only Jon's closest advisors and friends, with the new addition of Melisandre. Jon had to admit that the actress in the series had not done justice to her beauty; in person, she was even more striking. Then he caught sight of the choker at her throat, and that was enough to stop his thoughts from wandering anywhere related to her. Jon closed the doors and took his seat by the hearth.

Jon knew everyone was looking at him like he was a mystery to be solved. They wanted to ask someone, anyone, how the man before them was still alive. "I don't know what the others want to know. But I would like to ask what you saw... after, you know?" Ser Davos asked awkwardly, carefully avoiding any mention of the black brothers' betrayal.

"I have seen many things, Ser Davos. Or they were shown to me on purpose, to tell me why I was given a second chance. I do not think it wise to tell you everything right now, but with time you will see what I have been shown." Jon said this while looking directly into Davos's eyes. Hearing the tone and the words, Davos understood that Jon's return from death had changed the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

The others in the room came to the same conclusion as Davos, though their reactions differed. Edd, Jon's closest friend, frowned. He thought his own lack of competence had caused Jon's death and ultimately led them here. Tormund, who was confused by what Jon had said, didn't care, as long as the King of Crows was alive and on the side of the living. Melisandre's expression differed from everyone else's: when she heard Jon say he had been shown many things, it only strengthened her belief that he was the Prince That Was Promised, and that her god had shown him his purpose.

"Did you catch a glimpse of the Lord of Light, the one true God?" Melisandre asked, with the fervent expression you would expect of a fanatic.

Jon weighed what to tell her. He had two choices: say that only the Old Gods had given him back his life, or say that there was more than one god, and that they were working together to keep death from winning over the living. He decided on the latter, as it would give him an excuse to offer others when he displayed the powers he would gain in the future through rituals.

"Aye, there is a Lord of Light," Jon replied, "but make no mistake, priestess, your god is not the only one I met out there." Hearing him, Melisandre's eyes burned with even more faith and reverence. Davos grumbled something no one caught.

The first to notice something different was Edd, who had been silent until that moment. "Jon," he started, "your eyes aren't brown anymore." As soon as he said it, everyone turned toward Jon. There was no mirror in the room, so Jon could not see for himself; he looked back at them with an expectant gaze. "They're purple now," Edd concluded.

"What does that mean?" Ser Davos asked Melisandre, who was also studying Jon's eyes with curiosity.

Noticing Davos's stare, she turned to him and replied, "As I told you before, I have never done this before, so I cannot answer your question."

Everyone was curious and slightly frightened by the sudden change in Jon's eye color, given the blue-eyed freaks lurking North. But the man in question was lost in his own thoughts, thinking that it seemed he would have more than fire resistance from the Targaryen side of his family. Watching the heavy silence settle over the chamber, Jon decided it was time for everyone to leave and for him to get some rest; the influx of memories had left him fatigued, with a light headache. "I think I need some rest. So if you have anything to ask..." At his words, everyone started to stand and leave. The first to go was Melisandre, who bowed to him before taking her leave.

Tormund was the second to go, after repeating the same line he had said in the series to make Jon smile. Ser Davos followed him once he saw that Jon was fine and needed rest. Edd, the only one left, stared at Jon for a few minutes before telling him that the traitors responsible for his death were in prison and would face judgment at his hand whenever he was ready. After hugging Jon, he too took his leave. Now only Jon and Ghost, who lay in the corner, remained in the chamber. After petting Ghost a few times, Jon decided it was time for a nap, before he took the lives of four people just after arriving in this new world.

---

Jon Snow POV

I woke to a ding in my head, and after opening my eyes, I looked around to see whether my system would have a screen interface or whether it would only be a voice in my head.

[You can ask me directly, Host. I was created solely to help you. If you are wondering whether I have a function or interface that displays your stats, I apologize for any disappointment, but I do not have that capability. However, I can assist with calculations based on what you know about others, and make comparisons between you and them to help you understand your progress.]

The voice in my head was female, but it carried no emotion; her tone was entirely monotonous. "So you're the same as the AI back in my world? Or are there any other functions I should know about beforehand?" I asked the system in my mind.

[Yes, I am like the AI back in your world, made to help you in any way I can. The being that sent you here created me because you requested so much information that you could not use it effectively. I also have access to the memories of your previous world, even things you may have forgotten or considered inconsequential.]

Hearing that she could remember everything I had ever known in my previous life brought a triumphant smile to my face. I hadn't done anything important back in my world—I'd just watched everything on the internet that piqued my interest—but even mundane knowledge could take me a long way in this one. That wasn't the system's main purpose, though. And there was something I should do before we discussed rituals. "So, I get to give you a name, right? I don't want to call you 'system' or 'AI.' Let me think... Athena... no, that's overused. What do you think about the name 'Aether'? Do you like it?"

[Thank you, Host. I like it very much.]

With that settled, it was time to get to the task at hand. I believed I had chosen a good time to ask Aether which ritual would be best for me, a novice in all the mystical arts. Having thought about rituals the moment I woke up here, I had determined there was one thing I would acquire, one way or another. "Aether, the first task is for you to find the ritual that would benefit me most, given the situation I'll find myself in. And please add acquiring Parseltongue as a long-term goal, which will be my priority after I'm done with Ramsay Bolton."

[There are many rituals you could benefit from, but taking into account the ingredients you have access to narrows it down to a few. Before that, I would like to know which aspect you would like to enhance: magic or your physique? I have also started to analyze and calculate how you can gain abilities like Parseltongue with the resources you will have after defeating Ramsay. After hearing your decision, I will send you information about the ritual.]

*****D*****T*****

Jon, alone on his horse, made his way toward the Grove North of Castle Black. It was a half-league journey into the haunted forest, where a rough circle of nine weirwood heart trees stood tall. This grove held nearly everything Jon needed for the ritual he intended to perform. After much contemplation, he knew he must embrace magic—the allure of mystical abilities was too strong to resist.

As he rode, his mind raced with thoughts of Rickon. Jon refused to let any member of House Stark fall while he could intervene. It was his way of repaying the countless acts of kindness the Starks had shown him. He wrestled with a decision: allow Rickon to perish and seize the mantle of King in the North, or protect him and enable his rise to power. But should he choose the latter, why not just go for more and claim the Seven Kingdoms?

Upon arriving at the sacred grove, Jon snapped back to reality. Dismounting his horse, he approached the heart tree, offering a prayer to the Old Gods before beginning his work. He then set about gathering fallen leaves and branches of the weirwoods, searching for a stone to grind the components for his ritual.

Just as he was about to start grinding, he heard a dragging sound from behind him. Instinctively, his hand moved toward the pommel of Longclaw. However, what he saw brought a chuckle to his lips. Ghost, his loyal direwolf, had returned from the hunt, clutching a freshly killed deer in his jaws. With a satisfied thud, Ghost dropped the carcass at Jon's feet, his red eyes gleaming with a question: "Anything else?"

Jon ran his fingers through Ghost's fur, giving him well-deserved pets and scratches. "Good boy... and I apologize in advance," he muttered, his tone dripping with guilt. Ghost tilted his head, clearly puzzled, but his confusion turned into betrayal the moment Jon yanked a tuft of fur from his thick coat. The direwolf yelped, leaping back with wide, accusing eyes and a low, indignant howl.

"I'm sorry, my boy, but it's for the greater good," Jon said, holding up the fur like it was some grand trophy.

Ghost's ears flattened, his expression twisting into one of pure outrage. With a dramatic huff, he bolted deeper into the forest, howling like the world was ending. Jon groaned, running a hand down his face. "He's never going to let this go." He cast one last glance toward the trees where Ghost had disappeared, his mournful cries fading into the distance. "Drama queen," Jon muttered under his breath before turning back to the task at hand.

At least the ingredients were ready. He knelt beside the makeshift altar, pulling out a simple wooden bowl and the dagger Sam had given him. With practiced precision, Jon began to grind the leaves, branches, and shards of dragonglass into a thick, fibrous pulp. Satisfied with the base, Jon reached for the carcass of the deer Ghost had hunted earlier. He carefully drained the last remnants of its blood into the mixture, darkening it into a rich crimson paste.

Aether's voice echoed in his mind. "Now add the fur." Jon, without a second thought, did as instructed, sprinkling Ghost's fur into the bowl. As soon as the fur touched the mixture, it began to shift, rippling unnaturally as the ingredients reacted.

After a few minutes, the mixture began to transform into a thick liquid that resembled blood more than anything else. Jon stood up and started to pour small drops of the liquid he had created into the roots of the nine weirwood trees. Once he was finished, he dug a small hole near the heart tree that could fit a bowl, placed the bowl there, and took off his boots to meditate barefoot at the base of the tree for an hour or more, as instructed by Aether. Aether guided him in his mind, teaching him how to calm his turbulent thoughts and clear his mind for meditation.

Time seemed to fly as Jon entered his meditative state. Slowly, the liquid he had placed near the heart tree began to change as well. Thin veins of milky-white streaks started to thread through the mixture, resembling the weirwood's iconic color pattern—red, blood-like sap within pale amidst it. The liquid took on a slightly viscous consistency, akin to tree resin, while retaining an almost luminescent sheen that hinted at its unnatural potency. The drops he had poured at the roots soaked in unnaturally quickly, leaving faint red stains on the wood and earth.

Suddenly, the weirwood trees began to rustle without any wind, and Jon opened his eyes to see the final product before him. He smiled, picked up the bowl, and without a second thought, poured the sap into his mouth, gulping it down in one go. Although the sap tasted like dirt and leaves, he focused on not minding the unpleasant taste. Just as he was about to ask Aether if the sap had worked, he found himself entering a trance-like state. In the next moment, his eyes glazed over white, and his body dropped into the snow like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

For Jon, the experience was entirely different. One moment, he was in his own body, familiar with his senses, and the next, he found himself in the body of Ghost. Instantly, he realized that his senses were magnified multiple times. He could see the world from a different perspective and feel sensations he couldn't before. While the cold had always bothered him to some extent in his human body, it now felt like his home—intense yet invigorating. If anyone were to ask Jon how he would describe this feeling simply, he would say it was like driving a car in his world, but the difference was that he could feel everything that the animal, whose body he had warged into, experienced.

At first, when Jon commanded Ghost, he resisted, expressing anger at Jon for attacking his fur without consent. However, after a few apologies, Ghost reluctantly began to follow Jon's commands. Over time, Jon started to enjoy the experience. Yet, he eventually felt a pull that signaled it was time for him to return to his body. Though he didn't want to lose the exhilarating sensation of living under the skin of Ghost, he sensed that he should leave before the idea of departing became too difficult.

Jon returned to his body, took a deep breath, and stood up from the snow where he had been lying. After dusting off the snow from his leathers, he realized he should leave before dawn, as his brothers in the Night's Watch would start worrying about him. He decided to take the corpse of the deer with him, knowing that food was scarce and this deer could provide a substantial feast for his black brothers in dire circumstances.

Castle Black

After reassuring Edd, who had received word from Alastor, the black brother on duty guarding the gate, Jon found himself being berated for his usual foolish ideas. Once he reached his chambers in Castle Black, he lay down on his bed to rest before the sun was set to rise.

Now Jon sat by the hearth, waiting for word to come down permitting him to kill the one who had stabbed the brooding Jon to death. He stared into the flames, then slowly placed his hand, marked by burn scars, into the fire. Just like that, he realized that since awakening in this world, he had gained an ability similar to what Daenerys was known for: being unburnt. Jon the Unburnt. It had a nice ring to it, didn't it? He might just ask Ser Davos about it.

A knock at the chamber doors pulled him from his thoughts. After withdrawing his hand from the flames, he called for the person outside to come in. Edd peeked his head in and said, "Jon, black brothers and Free Folk are waiting. Are you ready?"

Jon stood up, gripping Longclaw firmly, and began walking toward the place where Olly and the others stood with ropes around their necks.

With Caraxes

Caraxes had been brought back to life, much like Jon Snow in the North, and was confused about his current situation. Though he was unaware of how much time had passed since his death, he knew one thing: his rider, Daemon, was gone. Now, Caraxes found himself without a rider to accompany him in the sky. He disliked this feeling; he cherished the old days when he and Daemon spread chaos and fear wherever they went. With that thought in mind, he decided it was time to find a new rider worthy of his companionship.

Additionally, since his return to this small island, he felt a strange pull from the North urging him onward. However, before heading to the North, he had one important task to attend to—taking a nap. Having just eaten, Caraxes preferred to sleep afterward. So, the infamous Blood Wyrm coiled his long, serpentine body and began to snore. The journey to the North would be long, so it was wise to rest first.

 

[Trek]

Good start

 

[Lillie Jones]

watching
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[ketan1578]

Jon Snow POV

I looked at all four of them, the morning cold biting through my cloak. Rob was the only one still gawking at me in disbelief, unable to accept that I was alive. "Any last words before I repeat what you did to me?" I challenged him. Rob was the first to meet my indifferent stare, and he opened his mouth to say the line he'd claimed in the show: "You shouldn't be alive. It's not right."

"Neither was stabbing me in the back," I retorted. I walked past the second man, who had asked only that I send a letter to his mother in White Harbour, and let the request go unanswered. I came face-to-face, at last, with the man behind all of this: Lord Commander Alliser Thorne.

"I had a choice, Lord Commander: betray you or betray the Night's Watch," he said as I stepped onto the wood they stood on, the planks creaking beneath my boots. After a short jump, I stood beside Ser Alliser Thorne, who looked at me with a mix of confusion and anger.

I leaned toward his ear and whispered, "Do you want to know a secret, Ser Alliser?" His face twisted in rage at my mocking tone, but I paid it no heed. I began to recount what happened at the Tower of Joy, including my mother's last words, which revealed my full name. His expression shifted from rage to horror, and then to denial.

"Lies. You are lying to make me regret my decision. I didn't expect this from you, but given your last name, it shouldn't be surprising. All bastards are liars and deceivers."

I stepped down from the wood to stand face-to-face with Ser Alliser again. "Look at my face and tell me you don't see any similarities between us. You're the only one here who has seen him." He studied my features a long moment, and I watched recognition settle into his hardened eyes, his expression softening, as if he were seeing the Silver Prince he had once served. He composed himself and asked, "Why? Why tell me all of this now?"

"I didn't want to, but during my time here at Castle Black, I've witnessed your devotion and loyalty to that House. It was only after my death that I discovered what I just shared with you. One of the reasons for telling you was that I needed confirmation, which I received from your expression. My intention is not to make you regret your decision; if that were my goal, I wouldn't have told you this, as it only proves that, even unknowingly, you served that House by releasing me from my vows. The reason behind all of this is to let you know that if I ever decide to claim what is mine, I will ensure that the realm knows about your loyalty and deeds until the end of your life."

Hearing me, Ser Alliser's lips twitched upward, and he wore a proud, satisfied look, a stark contrast to the one he'd worn moments before.

Although some of what I told Ser Alliser was a lie, my admiration for his loyalty was genuine. The man was steadfast—unyielding in his devotion to one house and one purpose. If you looked past his flaws, and there were many, you could see the strength of his conviction. But what man doesn't have flaws? And he had killed Jon, not me, so he gets the pass to know this from me.

I would have spared him if I could. But mercy was a luxury I could not afford. So I gave him one last, lingering look and stepped forward toward the others.

Olly met my gaze next. Fear and defiance warred in his eyes, but beneath them lingered confusion—confusion sparked by the change in Ser Alliser's expression moments ago. I drew Longclaw from its sheath, the blade catching the dull light as I prepared to cut the rope that would end all four lives.

"Lord Co... Jon." Ser Alliser's voice broke the silence, steady but weighted. "I need you to go to the grove north beyond the Wall. Walk east for half a mile, and you'll find a tree with three long gashes on its bark. Dig at its base, and you'll uncover something Maester Aemon entrusted to me—a thing I was unworthy to hold. I buried it there, hoping that I would live long enough to see the rise since I have seen their fall."

His eyes locked on mine, unwavering. "If not for your birthright, then do it for the realm... and its people."

With those parting words, he raised his chin, ready to face whatever awaited him on the other side.

I committed his words to memory, letting the weight of them settle, and then raised Longclaw. One clean stroke severed the rope. I met each of their eyes as life slipped from them—one by one.

Turning away, I walked toward Edd. His gaze shifted between the lifeless bodies and me before settling, uncertain, on my face.

"What was that about?" Edd asked. "You and Ser Alliser talking like old friends. And I swear, Jon, at one point, he almost smiled. I must be losing my mind—what with you coming back from the dead and all."

He paused and then added, "We should burn the bodies."

I handed him my black cloak before he could say more. "Don't pretend you didn't hear me telling him that he released me from my vows," I said. Edd opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off.

"My watch has ended."

The words hung in the air, final and unyielding.

Without another glance, I turned and strode toward my chambers. I had no time to waste. Sansa would arrive any day now, and I needed to prepare. The battle against Ramsay awaited, and if I wanted to win without sacrificing Rickon—or relying on the Vale's knights—I had to come up with a plan.

Some hours later,

I held Dark Sister, the infamous longsword of House Targaryen, in my hands, its weight unfamiliar and strangely welcome. This was the sword Ser Alliser had spoken of. After packing my belongings, I convinced Edd that my watch had ended and that it was best for me to go south and warn the lords that the Others were coming. I then traveled to the location Ser Alliser had mentioned, and after digging at the base of the tree, I found the sword carefully wrapped. It took me more than a minute to unwrap the layers Ser Alliser had bound around it.

Dark Sister was a longsword, and Jon had rarely used longswords after acquiring Longclaw. However, he'd been trained to wield all manner of weapons by Rodrik Cassel, the Master-at-Arms of Winterfell. Unlike most longswords, Dark Sister had a hilt long enough to be wielded with two hands. Fortunately, the entity that had placed me in this body had also granted me all of Jon's skills, including his remarkable swordsmanship and his tendency to brood.

Sansa arrived at Castle Black with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne just as I returned from beyond the Wall with Dark Sister. I placed the sword in a chest near my bed and closed the lid; it wasn't the right time to display it. I walked out of my room and headed toward the chambers, which had been temporarily transformed into dining quarters after Sansa's arrival. I couldn't take any chances given the backgrounds of some of the black brothers. One of them met me on the way and informed me that the meal was served.

I opened the doors and stepped into the chambers, the smell of roasting meat thick in the air. Edd and Tormund were already seated, eyeing each other awkwardly. I greeted them both and took my seat between them. "Jon, what did you find there?" Edd asked, breaking the silence.

"A sword and nothing else," I replied. Edd was about to ask more when the doors opened again, and Sansa entered with Brienne closely following behind. Tormund immediately straightened his back, trying to appear attractive, which did not go unnoticed by Brienne. However, she pretended not to notice and resumed her duty of guarding Sansa.

The meal was already laid out, so once everyone had arrived, we began to eat. Unlike in the show, where Sansa hardly got a proper meal, this time the deer I had brought was on the table. It wasn't as good as what the lords were used to, but it would have to do—there were no better options to offer her. I was also waiting on a letter, one that would give me a valid reason to leave and set the plan I'd devised into motion.

The sound of a horn and the groan of the gate opening echoed through the chambers, and after a few minutes, the doors opened again. A black brother entered, handed me the letter, and took his leave without correcting himself when he called me Lord Commander. The seal alone told me enough of what the letter held, but the expectant gazes from everyone else compelled me to read it aloud so they could hear it too.

After reading, I stood up and announced my first plan: "I will be leaving Castle Black after I speak to the Free Folk about their decision. Sansa, I want you to go with Ser Davos to ask for help from all the northern houses. I know they are all loyal to House Stark, but we both do not bear the Stark name. They are likely to rally behind the Stark name more than Stark blood. That is why I want you both to request their aid in joining this war to save our king, Rickon Stark."

Sansa's expression darkened when I pointed out that we did not carry the Stark name, but it was true, and she knew it. "But we don't know if Rickon is alive or not, Jon. If Ramsay announces that Rickon is dead before the fight, the morale of the army will plummet, and some lords might abandon our cause outright," Sansa protested.

"Do not worry about that, Sansa. Just do as I say, and you will see that my goal aligns with yours: to reclaim our home, which will be vital when winter arrives." With that, I made my way out, and Tormund followed me toward the Free Folk camp.

Jon Snow POV

The ride south was long and dull, with little to break the monotony save for the occasional hunt or Ghost's quiet, watchful presence. I'd gone to the Free Folk camp for their support, and, as expected, the final decision came down to Wun Wun. His reply? A simple, rumbling "Snow." That was all it needed, and with that, they began preparing to march south when the time came.

I asked Tormund if he wanted to accompany me, and he asked the purpose of our journey, to which I replied, "To save my little brother." That was all Tormund needed to hear before he agreed to join me in saving Rickon from the Boltons. The man didn't even hesitate—it was like the idea of sticking it to Ramsay Bolton was its own reward. Maybe he thought it might win him a favorable opinion from Brienne.

On the ride, I told Tormund about my new ability to warg. His reaction was pure Tormund: a raised brow, a scoff, and a grin. "Aye, I figured you'd be a warg. Surprised you weren't already. You look the type." I deadpanned, wondering what exactly he meant by that.

We reached Crofter's Village after nearly two weeks, and gods, it had been a miserable journey. Endless hours on horseback, every muscle in my body aching, the monotony sapping what little patience I had left. How I wished for a dragon—something that could have cut the journey to a single day instead of dragging it out. But that's a dream for later. First, I'll take back Winterfell, crush the Boltons, and restore House Stark. Then, I'll go find Daenerys and her dragons. If one of them accepts me as a rider… well, the game will truly change.

Tormund broke the silence as we neared the village, his sharp eyes scanning the huts and tower. "Is this the place from which we'll be raiding Bolton supplies?"

I nodded toward the frozen lakes beyond the village. "It's the perfect spot to 'sabotage' their supplies and kill their patrols. The lakes will keep us fed while we do what we came here to do."

Tormund gave a grunt of approval, tying his horse to a tree near the watchtower. "Not like we'd go hungry anyway, with Ghost and Luna hunting for us." He flashed a sly grin at Ghost, the kind that made it clear he was tempted to wrestle the direwolf just for the fun of it.

Ghost, ever the stoic, growled low and padded to my side. His red eyes glinted as if warning Tormund to keep his distance. Meanwhile, Luna swooped down from the sky, landing on the watchtower window like a queen surveying her domain.

She was a northern eagle I'd… tamed, though "tamed" might be too kind a word. It wasn't bonding, not in the way you'd expect. I'd warged into her, forcing her to obey me, and she'd fought like hell against it. But persistence born of infinite boredom won out in the end. Aether had told me Jon's Stark blood made him naturally gifted at skinchanging, even if he'd been too much of a coward to embrace it. Figures. Jon was too busy drowning in Ned Stark's lessons about honor and duty to realize the strength he carried in his blood.

That was Jon Snow's mistake, not mine. Honor is a nice enough concept, but it's no good when your enemies are using it to play you like a fool. I wasn't about to make the same mistake.

"Tormund," I said, turning to him. "We start tomorrow. Raiding supplies, ambushing patrols. Tonight, I want everyone rested. We've pushed hard since the Wall, and I need you sharp. No sloppy mistakes—we'll need stealth, precision, and a bit of luck if we're going to outmatch the Boltons."

Tormund nodded, serious now. His men hadn't complained once, despite the grueling ride, but I could see the wear in their eyes. They deserved a night to recover.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes, letting my mind slip into Luna's. Her sharp vision flooded my senses, and I soared above the village, scanning the landscape for anything useful. The rush of power was intoxicating. If I could command her will, what other creatures might I control? That thought stayed with me as I soared, preparing for the chaos to come.

Many Days later,

The chill of the northern night was sharp, biting through even the thickest furs I'd ever worn. Snow crunched beneath my boots as I crouched in the shadows of a frozen tree line, waiting. The small trail leading from Last Hearth was barely wide enough for a wagon—the perfect place for an ambush. After waking from a long sleep, I had warged into Luna, sending her soaring high over Winterfell and beyond. It didn't take long for her sharp eyes to spot what we needed—a wagon heading south from Last Hearth, laden with supplies for Winterfell. Only one wagon. A curious discovery, given how little it could carry for an army. Still, whatever it held would be more useful to us than to the Boltons.

Tormund knelt beside me, his breath a visible plume in the cold air. His axe rested on his shoulder, and despite the quiet, he looked eager, like he was loving what we were about to do. Behind us, his men were scattered among the trees—ten in all. Each had a weapon ready: axes, spears, and bows made for silent kills. But they lacked armor, which I suspected some of them would earn after this ordeal.

"How much longer do we wait, Snow?" Tormund whispered, his grin a flash of white in the dark.

"Patience," I muttered. My eyes scanned the distant trail. "They'll be here." Just as I was thinking of warging into Luna, who was circling above, to see how much longer it would take, Ghost licked my hand to get my attention.

Ghost shifted beside me, his white fur blending perfectly with the snow. His ears were pricked, and his nose twitched as he caught the scent of something. That was the only sign I needed. I laid a hand on Tormund's arm.

"Get ready. They're close."

Tormund signaled to his men with a wave of his hand, and they melted into the trees, their movements practiced and quiet. I stayed where I was, Ghost crouched low at my side, both of us watching as the faint sound of creaking wood and trudging hooves grew louder.

The wagon came into view first, its wheels groaning under the weight of the supplies. Two men rode on the wagon, wrapped in thick cloaks, while another four rode alongside on horseback, their hands on the hilts of their swords. Their eyes scanned the treeline, but they weren't expecting trouble here. Why would they? This close to Winterfell, in Bolton territory, they thought themselves untouchable. The fools.

Tormund's men struck first. An arrow whistled through the air, finding its mark in one of the riders. He fell from his horse with a dull thud, his cry lost in the chaos that followed. Ghost surged forward, leaping at one of the remaining riders. His teeth sank into the man's throat before he could even draw his sword, and the horse bolted, dragging the corpse to the ground.

The wagon driver shouted, pulling hard on the reins, but Tormund was already there, his axe cleaving through the wooden yoke and sending the horses into a panicked run. The wagon lurched to a halt, and the two men atop it scrambled for weapons.

I moved in then, Longclaw glinting as I brought one of them down. The other man turned to confront me, but Ghost was quicker, dragging him from the wagon and finishing him off before he could call for help. I don't know why Ghost wasn't there during the Battle of the Bastards, but I don't intend to send him away anytime soon, especially given how effectively he can take down a man.

The remaining two riders were outnumbered and outmatched. Tormund laughed as he drove his axe into one of them, the sound echoing in the cold night. The last man tried to run, but one of Tormund's men brought him down with an arrow to the back.

It was over in moments. The supplies were ours.

Tormund wiped his axe clean on the cloak of one of the fallen men, grinning as he turned to me. "Not bad, Snow. You're getting the hang of this. Another raid or two, and you'll be more wildling than a southern wolf."

I ignored him, my focus on the wagon. Breaking open one of the crates, I found salted meat, grain, and barrels of ale—enough to keep us going for weeks.

"Load it up," I said, turning to Tormund's men. "Get it back to the village before someone comes looking for them."

Tormund clapped me on the shoulder, his grin never fading. "Aye. But next time, save me one of the riders. I'm starting to think Ghost has all the fun."

Ghost padded back to my side, his muzzle red with blood. He looked up at me, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and I scratched behind his ears.

"Good boy," I said quietly, and together we melted back into the shadows.

Tonight was just the beginning. The Boltons would know we were coming, but by the time they did, it would already be too late.

Jon Snow POV

"Little Crow, coming with you has been one of the best decisions I've made in my life, I tell ya," Tormund said, his broad smile almost warming the icy air around us. "Not just for me, either. Ain't that right, lads?"

A thunderous cheer of "Aye!" erupted from over a hundred men scattered across the frozen lakes, their enthusiasm ringing loud despite the cold that bit through even the thickest furs. The men worked tirelessly, chipping away at the surface ice of two frozen lakes as part of our plans.

For the past three weeks, we've been raiding Bolton supply caravans and patrols, striking fear into their forces while bolstering our own. These raids have been surprisingly exhilarating—a dangerous but oddly satisfying game of outsmarting the Bastard of Bolton. The spoils of our efforts kept us well-fed and warm, with enough left over to share with the settlements near Crofter's Village.

We couldn't give them too much, though. Bandits, emboldened under the Boltons' rule, prowled the area, always ready to plunder anyone bold—or foolish—enough to feast openly. Ramsay's men rarely dealt with them, so long as the bandits paid their due in gold.

Our numbers had swelled during this campaign. Cerwyn's men joined us after we intercepted their scouting party, sent by Cley Cerwyn. Ramsay had ordered Cley to investigate the raids, and Cerwyn's men were meant to track us down. Instead, they now fight alongside us to kill every Bolton man as revenge for flaying their lord and killing his heir. I sent one of their number back to Castle Cerwyn under cover of darkness, carrying my message.

The message was simple: Cley Cerwyn has more reason than most to despise the Boltons. Ramsay flayed Cley's father, Lord Medger Cerwyn, leaving his house broken and terrified. If Cley's thirst for vengeance outweighs his fear, he'll side with us. Still, I've taken no chances—Ghost is shadowing the scout, ready to warn me if anything goes wrong.

"It makes me happy to see that everyone is enjoying the successful raids we've been conducting, but our time to feast is coming to an end today. Except for the five hundred who will be staying near Last Hearth, everyone else should be here by the time we leave for Wintertown," I said with a smile, eliciting groans and grumbles from the group. "Tormund, please try to preserve as much fish and meat as you can. Although our supplies will be sufficient, I don't want any of the Free Folk or Northerners to go without food or sleep on an empty stomach."

Tormund chuckled, wiping fish blood off his blade. "Don't worry about the food, Crow. Preservin' meat and fish for hard times is a skill every Free Folk learns young. We'll have enough to keep the bellies of both Northerners and Free Folk full."

"I trust you, Tormund," I replied, watching him expertly gut and dry the fish. "But tell me, do you think the Boltons will fall for it?"

Tormund paused, his knife hovering mid-air. He glanced at me with a thoughtful expression before his familiar grin returned. "If it were me, Crow, I'd fall for it. But it ain't me we're dealin' with. These Boltons, they're cruel, sure, but that makes their men fear them. The dogs and fools they send after us will be desperate to avoid punishment. That desperation will blind them—and it'll be their undoing."

His words were reassuring, and I nodded in thanks. Tormund grinned, tossing a bloodied fish toward one of Cerwyn's men, who was arranging the catch near a pyre. The fish struck him in the back of the head. The man turned with a mix of irritation and anger, which Tormund answered with a wink and a toothy grin.

I couldn't help but chuckle at the scene. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and warged into Luna, my presence slipping into her form as easily as drawing breath. Through her keen eyes, I saw the progress of our Free Folk and Northern allies, noting their steady march toward our location.

For now, everything was in motion. The traps were set, the men prepared, and the time had come. Soon, we'd march for Winterfell—and one way or another, another Stark would not be added to the collection of Boltons.


The biting chill of the northern wind swept through Wintertown, carrying the scent of smoke, frost, and desperation. It was past the hour of the wolf, and the streets lay silent save for the occasional scuttle of a rat or the faint creak of frozen timber. I crouched in the shadows, hidden in the lee of a crumbling wall, with Tormund and ten of his Free Folk warriors beside me. A handful of Cerwyn's men lingered nearby, their breaths fogging in the cold air as they awaited my signal.

Tormund shifted beside me, his broad figure as inconspicuous as a bear among mice. He gave me a sharp nod, his blue eyes gleaming in the darkness. "You sure about this, Crow? Could be a lot more fun to bash their heads in than sneakin' about like a thief."

I didn't answer, keeping my gaze fixed on Winterfell. There would be no bashing heads tonight unless it was absolutely necessary. Any noise, any mistake, and we wouldn't be walking out of the castle alive.

I gestured for the group to move. Silent as Ghost, we crossed the frozen expanse between Wintertown and Winterfell's outer walls. The moonlight reflected off the snow, making every movement feel exposed, but the layers of frost also dulled the sound of our boots. The Free Folk moved with the practiced ease of hunters, and Cerwyn's men, though less skilled, followed their lead without a word.

We reached the base of the wall where the Broken Tower loomed above us. Its shattered top was a jagged silhouette against the starry sky, but it was more than just a ruin to me—it was a secret path, one of the many. Only Arya and I had ever explored this hidden passage beneath its foundation, and now it would serve me in saving our little brother.

Carefully, I uncovered the entrance. The snow-covered hatch groaned faintly as I pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. One by one, we slipped inside.

The air grew colder as we descended, the stone walls slick and damp around us. The Free Folk grumbled softly under their breath, unused to the confines of Winterfell's ancient labyrinth, but Tormund silenced them with a sharp look.

At the bottom of the staircase, the passage opened into a network of tunnels. I led the way, torchlight flickering against the walls. The path twisted and turned, but my feet knew the way as if it was just yesterday when Arya and I roamed here, hoping to find some treasure left behind by the Starks of Old. Eventually, the familiar scent of earth and decay filled the air. From that, I realized we had reached the Crypts.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint shuffle of footsteps and the crackle of the torch. The statues of my ancestors loomed on either side, their stone faces watching as I passed. Free Folk and Cerwyn's men began to quicken their pace, the sound of their boots growing louder and increasing the risk of alerting any Bolton men outside the Crypts. I turned to signal them to slow down, but as the torchlight fell on their faces, I saw fear and nervousness in everyone.

Tormund was the only one managing better; the others looked as if they might piss their pants at any moment if we stayed here any longer. "Make haste, Snow. Before they come out and make their displeasure known," Tormund said, looking at the statues, irritation clear in his tone. I nodded and quickened my pace as much as I could without making too much noise to draw attention outside.

We approached the narrow stairwell that led upward. The air grew warmer as we climbed. I held up a hand, motioning for silence. At the top of the stairs, the passage opened into a disused corridor lined with cobwebs. The heavy stones muffled all sounds from the castle above, but I knew it was just a matter of time before we encountered guards.

We moved swiftly, keeping to the shadows as we approached the door leading to the cellars. I cracked it open, peering through the gap. Two Bolton guards stood at the far end of the room, speaking in low voices as they leaned against a stack of barrels. Their torches cast flickering light across the rows of supplies, throwing their silhouettes against the walls.

I turned to the group and whispered, "Stay quiet. Follow my lead."

Tormund grunted softly, his massive frame tense with anticipation. The Free Folk, with their large frames, were not made for stealth in these confined spaces, but even they knew the stakes. We slipped into the room, hugging the shadows as we crept along the edges. The guards didn't seem to notice, their conversation growing louder as one of them complained about the duty of patrolling outside Winterfell, fearing the same fate others were fearing.

Everything was going smoothly—until one of the Free Folk, a young man named Harl, bumped into a crate, sending it crashing to the floor.

The noise shattered the silence like a thunderclap. The guards spun around, drawing their swords. "Who goes there?" one of them barked, raising his torch high.

Thinking fast, I motioned to one of Cerwyn's men, Torren. He nodded, pulling the hood of his borrowed Bolton cloak tighter over his head. "Patrol," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Lord Bolton sent us to check the cellars. To check if the boy is alive."

The guards hesitated, their expressions suspicious. One of them squinted at me. "Never seen you lot before. And who's that ginger brute?" He nodded toward Tormund, whose fiery beard was impossible to hide.

I tightened my grip on Longclaw, my heart pounding. "New recruits from Wintertown," Torren said quickly. "Lord Bolton wanted more men guarding Winterfell."

Just as I thought we'd gotten away with it, the other guard turned to the bald one among us. "You—what's your name?" I couldn't help but panic and stifle a laugh at the same time. The bald man was one of the Free Folk, and when he gave his name, it was "Roose."

"What—"

Before the guards could ask any more questions, Tormund surged forward, burying his blade in the man's throat. The second guard barely had time to react before Cerwyn's men were on him, muffling his screams as they dispatched him with brutal efficiency.

The room fell silent once more, save for the harsh breathing of the men around me. I glanced at Roose, who looked away, an unapologetic look across his face. "We have to move. Now," I hissed, my voice low but firm.

We dragged the bodies into the shadows, covering the blood as best we could. The momentary delay had cost us precious time, and we couldn't afford another mistake.

With renewed urgency, we pressed on. The deeper we went into the cellars, the darker and colder it became. The air smelled of damp earth and rot, mingled with the faint scent of smoke from torches above.

At last, we found Rickon. He was curled up in a corner, bound and gagged, his dark hair matted with dirt. His wide, terrified eyes met mine, and I felt a surge of relief and fury all at once.

"Rickon," I whispered, kneeling beside him. I cut the ropes and removed the gag, pulling him into a brief, fierce embrace. "You're safe now. We're getting you out of here."

He nodded, his small frame trembling as he clung to me. I held him close as he began to sob, and I waited for him to let it all out. Rickon closed his eyes—asleep or fainted, I couldn't tell—just as I was about to check. Torren knelt beside us, his face grim. "This place'll be crawling with men soon enough," he muttered. "We need to go."

I nodded, lifting the sleeping Rickon into my arms. "Back to the Crypts. From there, we take the passage to the Broken Tower." Grumbles and the sound of moving were the only responses I got.

The return journey was harrowing. Every creak of the floorboards and every distant shout set our nerves on edge. We moved as quickly as we could, avoiding the main corridors and slipping back into the Crypts without incident.

By the time we emerged from the hidden passage beneath the Broken Tower and thought we were safe, the sound of horns and shouts of "Intruders!" forced us to move quickly toward our horses.

Jon Snow POV

"Run!" I commanded, drawing Longclaw in one fluid motion.

The Free Folk, clad in stolen Bolton armor for disguise, hesitated only for a heartbeat before breaking into a sprint toward the inn's stables, where our horses waited. Cerwyn's men moved in disciplined formation, cutting through the chaos like a well-honed blade.

A handful of guards tried to block their path. The first barely had time to react before a Free Folk blade sliced his throat open. Another shouted, but I was on him before he could raise the alarm, cutting him down with a swift swing of my sword.

"Keep moving!" I shouted, cutting down a man lunging for Rickon beside me.

More soldiers swarmed toward us, but we had no time for a prolonged fight. One misstep had upended my carefully laid plan, yet there was still a chance to salvage it.

The others reached the horses just as the gates swung open, releasing a flood of men in Bolton colors. Arrows whistled through the air. A Free Folk warrior cried out as an arrow grazed his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and vaulted onto his horse.

"To the village!" I ordered.

They spurred their mounts forward, hooves tearing through the snow-covered fields as Winterfell shrank behind us. The horns did not cease, nor did the thunder of hooves as the chase began. Rickon rode with Tormund, the wildling's bulk shielding him from arrows. I exhaled sharply and, seeing the clear road ahead, warged into Luna for a fleeting moment to assess our pursuers.

Panic and exhilaration warred within me. Five hundred men. A grim number, but if my plan succeeded, it would be five hundred fewer foes to face in the battle ahead. I snapped back into my body, my horse already skittish. Regaining control before it veered off toward the forest, I rode up alongside Tormund and Torren, who were ensuring Rickon's safety.

"They're five hundred strong. Our plan is ruined, but we can still turn this to our advantage. We just need to lead them to the village. I'll explain everything once we stop for the horses to rest."

Tormund grunted in response, while Torren nodded. We focused on the path ahead.

"This may seem like a disaster, but it's an opportunity. We just need to stay ahead of them. So, ride harder!" I shouted, and with a grunt, we increased the pace of our horses.

Some time later

"Snow, the horses will die if we keep this pace," Tormund said, eyeing his brown mare, who looked like she could fall at any moment. The other horses were no different from the one Tormund rode.

"I know, but we had to put distance between them and us if we were to get a head start when the inevitable chase began," I replied, patting my horse and urging it to endure a while longer. After a minute or two of riding, I saw a small pond and decided it was the best place for us to rest before continuing toward Crofter's Village. I steered my horse toward the pond, and the others followed after me.

I dismounted and rubbed the horse's neck, just in front of the withers. "Good job. I'm proud of you. Relax, you're all right." The animal softened under my touch, its head lowering as it licked and chewed. I led it to the water's edge before crouching to splash cold water on my face, washing away sweat and dirt.

"Ah! My whole body is stiff, and I think my balls are chafed," Tormund groaned, shifting uncomfortably as he checked himself for any irregularity, standing off in the corner. "Bloody saddles weren't made for constant galloping."

My lips twitched into a smile at his antics, and I went back to splashing water on my face, washing away the sweat and dirt.

One of Cerwyn's men, who clearly disliked Tormund, said with a mocking smirk, "I'm surprised you even know how to ride a horse in the first place—taking into account where you come from."

Tormund grinned wickedly. "Oh? Did I surprise you? Let's see if I can do it again."

With that, he charged after the man, his breeches loose enough to cause alarm. The soldier bolted in panic and disgust, drawing laughter from the others. Laughs rang out from the men present as they watched Tormund chase the man, who ran like his life depended on it.

"Have the Bolton men stopped for resting as well, my lord?" Torren, who was on my left side, asked, rubbing his mount's flank as it drank.

"Yes, they are resting far from us, and I have also commanded Luna to stay there and watch over them," I assured Torren, who looked relieved to hear we would know beforehand when the Bolton men would start to chase again.

After checking the direction of the wind, we determined it was coming from the northeast, toward Crofter's Village. We needed to check the wind because the spot where we were resting wasn't a dense forest that could conceal the smoke from our campfire. With our stomachs full, I decided to stay awake while the others rested for a while. Rickon, who had been quiet until then, approached me and laid his head in my lap before closing his eyes.

[Master, you do not have to worry. According to my calculations, there is a ninety-five percent probability that they will follow you and be slaughtered at the lake,] Aether's indifferent voice echoed in my head. This made me sigh, because I wasn't wondering whether they would fall for it or not; I was concerned about the unnecessary slaughter that would inevitably follow. Winter is coming, and I would just be condemning a thousand men to die like animals.

A thousand, because another five hundred reinforcements were approaching, and soon they would join the rest to give chase together. However, I steeled my heart, reminding myself that there was nothing I could do to change this fate. Sparing that many men was impossible, and even though I had supplies, I couldn't afford to waste them on an army relentlessly pursuing us to kill or capture us. That's the brutal reality of this world: men who have committed no crime die because they are following the orders of their lord. There is nothing I can do to change that; all I can do is try to minimize the number of deaths on my side first, and then on theirs.

I woke with a jolt as a sharp eagle's cry sounded from above. Roose, who'd been on watch, roused the others after hearing Luna's signal. I immediately woke Rickon, who had been sleeping peacefully, and after settling him on my back, I sprinted toward our horses. Though they hadn't fully recovered, they looked ready to carry us at least to Crofter's Village before collapsing.

"Bloody Southerners! Wouldn't even let me shit in peace!" Tormund bellowed, running from the woods, hastily fastening his breeches.

I shook my head at his misfortune.

"You can stay here and finish your business if you like, Tormund," I teased, drawing laughter from the Free Folk and Cerwyn's men.

"Aye, not happening. I don't fancy dying with my arse hanging out. What would the Free Folk say? That Tormund, who fucked a bear, died squatting south of the Wall? Bah!"

With a chuckle and a laugh, we took off toward Crofter's Village, which was only a couple of hours from here. Their army—Free Folk with Northmen among them—would be hiding carefully in a nearby forest, waiting for the Bolton men to appear.

It was almost morning now, as the Bolton men had taken to resting more often, their infantry slowing them down. But they sent scouts ahead, into the areas where we had intentionally left trails. When the scouts came too close, they were killed and their heads mounted on trees—meant to sow discord in the enemy ranks and stoke their anger, since anger made men prone to mistakes.

Third Person POV

The thundering of hooves echoed across the frozen landscape as Jon and his entourage rode toward Crofter's Village. Behind them, the banners of House Bolton, Karstark, and Umber swayed with the wind, their riders desperate to close the gap. The chase had gone exactly as Jon had planned. Now, all that remained was to spring the trap.

Ahead, the village loomed, its thatched rooftops laden with snow. The two lakes that flanked the village were still and silent, their surfaces deceptively stable. Jon knew better. Over the past days, his forces had methodically weakened the ice, cutting subtle cracks along the surface and ensuring that any great weight would send it crumbling into the freezing depths below. The perfect grave for a thousand men.

Jon turned in his saddle, catching Tormund's eye. The Free Folk leader gave a sharp nod, his grin widening. He understood what was about to happen. So did Torren, who was already urging his men into formation on the ridges above the village. The moment the enemy entered the trap, they would close the jaws.

"Rickon, stay close," Jon murmured, feeling the boy's tight grip around his waist. His horse was growing tired, but they only needed to push a little further.

With a final burst of speed, Jon and his men cleared the village outskirts and galloped toward the frozen lake. Their own forces—two thousand strong, composed of Free Folk and men from the northern houses still loyal to House Stark—lay hidden in the surrounding trees, weapons at the ready.

Jon and his vanguard did not slow as they reached the lake's surface. They thundered across the ice, hooves clattering, their familiarity with the weakened ground keeping them on the safer, solid sections. Behind them, the Bolton cavalry and infantry followed, driven by fury and the desire to end this chase once and for all.

Then came the moment Jon had been waiting for.

Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the enemy's horses. A single heartbeat of silence followed—before the ice shattered.

Screams filled the air as men and beasts plunged into the freezing abyss. Heavy armor dragged them under almost instantly. Horses flailed before disappearing beneath the dark water. Some men managed to scramble onto nearby ice, only for it to break further, swallowing them whole. The lake, once pristine and frozen, now churned with the chaos of drowning men.

"Now!" Jon roared.

From the treeline, arrows rained down like a storm. The surviving Bolton forces, those who had stayed behind on solid land, were suddenly beset by a ferocious onslaught. Free Folk and Northern men came out from their hiding spots with ferocious and wild looks in their eyes that left no doubt about what future the surviving Bolton men had in store for them.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Ramsay Bolton reckoning and his men have been a good fashionable testing experience for Jon and the free folk and Northern men reclaimed house Stark.
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[ketan1578]

Ramsay Bolton reckoning and his men have been a good fashionable testing experience for Jon and the free folk and Northern men reclaimed house Stark.
Continue on
Cheers!

Click to shrink...

Ramsay's men would be more than just a little help to Jon; I hope you like the next chapter.

 

[ketan1578]

Third-Person POV

The battlefield at Crofter's Village was a frozen graveyard. The Bolton forces had marched straight into Jon's trap, the weakened ice beneath their feet giving way in great, splintering cracks. Hundreds plunged into the freezing abyss, their armor dragging them under, but as expected, not all perished. Scores of men clawed their way out, drenched and shivering, driven by sheer survival instinct. Others, lucky enough to have avoided the treacherous ice, gathered in the clearing—cold, disorganized, and surrounded.

Jon watched from a slight elevation as the remnants of the enemy force, now barely half the number they had been, huddled together like cornered beasts, their breath rising in short, panicked clouds. His own forces, nearly three times their number, tightened the ring around them in a near-perfect encirclement, the crunch of boots on snow the only sound as the net closed.

"Loose!" Jon commanded, his voice carrying flat and hard across the frozen field.

Arrows darkened the sky once more, descending like a storm of death upon the exposed Bolton men. The second volley struck true, puncturing flesh and shattering bone with merciless precision. Agonized screams tore through the frigid air as men crumpled, their bodies littering the snow like broken dolls. Armor did little to stop the relentless barrage, and panic rippled through the ranks—men shoving past one another, shields raised too late, too high, too low. By the time the fourth volley fell, nearly a third of them lay dead or writhing in the bloodstained frost, their cries thinning the cold air into something almost unbearable to hear.

Desperation set in. The survivors scrambled for cover, some raising their shields in a feeble attempt at defense, while others, stripped of better options, dragged the bodies of their fallen comrades in front of them to shield against the next inevitable onslaught. Terror clashed with the primal urge to survive, turning disarray into frantic, disorganized resistance.

Jon signaled the archers to halt. It was time to finish this.

The ground forces, who had been waiting like wolves at the treeline, moved in.

The Free Folk, seasoned in brutal, close-quarters combat, formed the vanguard. They surged forward howling, axes and spears thrusting through gaps in armor, hacking down men before they could mount a proper defense. A spearman took a Bolton soldier through the throat before the man could even level his shield; another Free Folk warrior split a raised arm to the bone with a single overhead swing, the axe biting deep enough that he had to plant a boot on the man's chest to wrench it free. Karstark and Umber men, driven by their own long-simmering grudges, followed in disciplined ranks, striking with precision rather than fury. There was no reckless charge—every motion was measured, every attack calculated, shields locking, blades finding the seams between plate and mail with practiced economy.

Jon, wielding Longclaw, wove through the battlefield with deadly efficiency. A Bolton soldier, still half-frozen from the lake, swung clumsily at him, the blow slow and telegraphed. Jon sidestepped, felt the wind of the blade pass wide of his hip, and answered with a single slash across the man's exposed thigh. The soldier folded with a strangled cry, and Jon let another blade finish him as he fell, never breaking stride. Nearby, Tormund and his Free Folk cut down foes like butchers at work—one swift blow per man, no wasted movement, no hesitation. A Bolton man tried to beg, hands raised, and Tormund's axe answered before the words fully left his mouth.

The Bolton men, exhausted, freezing, and leaderless, began to break. Some tried to surrender, throwing down their weapons and dropping to their knees in the bloodied snow, but Jon had no intention of letting them walk away. "No mercy," he had told his men before the battle. The Boltons would receive none.

Within minutes, it was over. Bodies littered the blood-stained snow, steam still rising off the ones freshly killed, and the last of the Bolton men had been cut down with brutal efficiency. Jon turned to his men. Their losses were minimal—perhaps a handful wounded, fewer dead. This was a victory, not just in battle but in strategy.

The North remembers. And starting tonight, beneath the cold gaze of the old gods, the name of Bolton would not merely fade—it would be ripped from the annals of history, step by bloody step, until not even a whisper of their legacy remained.

Jon Snow POV

I sat at the base of the watchtower in Crofter's Village, wiping my sword clean with a cloth as the Free Folk rummaged through the corpses, taking weapons and armor that suited them.

"What's with you and all this brooding, even after dying once and returning to the living without blue eyes?"

Tormund's voice cut through my thoughts. I glanced up as he approached, a wineskin in hand, no doubt filled with whatever ale he'd scrounged from the raided supplies.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not brooding. Just cleaning the blood off my sword."

"Aye, and I'm a maiden in white silks." He let out a chuckle before taking a deep gulp of ale. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "What's in your head?"

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around Longclaw's hilt. For a moment I debated whether to tell him or not. Then, with a sigh, I spoke.

"The killing we've done here… and the killing still to come when we march against the Boltons—" I exhaled through my nose, watching the Free Folk loot the dead. "So many men lost. Men who could have fought against the true threat. The one coming from the North."

I turned to gauge his reaction, but Tormund only stared at me with those sharp, knowing eyes. He saw through me, as he always did. I knew I wasn't fooling him.

I sighed again, running a hand through my hair. "And… I don't enjoy having their blood on my hands."

Tormund let out a deep breath, then shook his head with something close to amusement. "And here I thought the Crow I knew had changed after waking up."

He took another swig of ale, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You're thinking too much about it. You told me yourself—there's been war after war south of the Wall. You think the lords of those lands lost sleep over every man who died for them?"

I said nothing.

Tormund smirked and continued, "Even among the Free Folk, the clan leaders fought and killed long before Mance brought us together. Do you think they sat around, brooding over the dead? A man once asked Mance the same thing—'What if all the Free Folk died trying to cross the Wall? Wouldn't all their blood be on his hands?'"

Tormund straightened, puffing out his chest in a crude imitation of Mance. "And you know what he said? He laughed and told the man: 'Do you have another way to save us from the dead? I spent years searching for one, and this is the only path I see. A cause worth leading my people to die for, because if we succeed, those who survive—and their children—will live without constantly worrying about hunger and cold looming over their heads like swords that could kill them at any time. So no, I do not grieve for those who fall. I will lead the charge myself, because the cause is all that matters.'"

I listened in silence, watching as Tormund's words settled into my mind. He wasn't the wisest man I knew, but at that moment, he had said exactly what I needed to hear.

He stood, pulled out another wineskin, and tossed it to me. I caught it before it hit the ground.

"Find the cause you'd die leading the charge for. And once you do, believe in it. Steadfast." His grin widened, sharp and knowing. "The men who follow you—they're smart enough to decide for themselves if it's worth dying for."

Then, with a final nod, he turned and strode off toward his men, flashing me a grin full of teeth.

I found myself smiling back.

I took a deep gulp of ale, feeling the burn as the cold liquid traveled down my throat and settled in my belly. Tormund's words echoed in my mind—find the cause you'd lead men to die for.

To be honest, like any other man, I wanted to be more than just a king of the Seven Kingdoms or even the North. I wanted the world. A grand conquest, like the ancestors of this body once led when they took Westeros. Some might call it selfish, but in the end, wouldn't it lead to a better life for the smallfolk? With Aether's guidance, I could confidently say that under my rule, my empire would become the most prosperous ever recorded in the annals of history.

I stood up, a new determination burning in my chest like fire. The Long Night was my first war, but it wouldn't be my last. When the dead were dealt with, I would raise my banners for conquest. But this wouldn't be just about me—it couldn't be. I promised myself that when the dust settled, my reign wouldn't be built solely on selfish desires.

And yet, even rulers needed a queen. A partner. A woman worthy of standing at my side.

My thoughts drifted, and there was only one name that fit—Daenerys Targaryen.

Beautiful. Powerful. A ruler in her own right. The last part might have been an exaggeration—her experience was limited—but compared to anyone else, she was unmatched.

[Be honest with yourself, Master. You've been into Daenerys since your previous world…]

"Stop right there." I cut Aether off, my voice sharp. "Yes, I liked Daenerys back in my world, but that's not the only reason I'm considering her," I said, with iron certainty, daring her to challenge me.

[That may be true, and objectively, she is the best choice for now. But why hide behind excuses? If she's what you want, own it.]

I sighed, shaking my head. "Aye, aye. I'll keep that in mind. I just don't want to see myself as some fool simping for her. That's why I tried justifying my choice." Then, after a pause, I smirked. "Besides… if I'm being honest, I wouldn't mind a harem in this world."

A rush of excitement filled me as I imagined myself surrounded by the most beautiful women of Westeros and beyond. A dreamy smile spread across my face—probably visible to anyone looking.

[That level of honesty was unnecessary.]

Aether's dry remark shattered my daydream, and I let out a chuckle.

"Fair enough," I replied, shaking off the fantasy. "But back to business—Aether, I think it's time to perform the ritual to enhance my physique."

Aether had already devised the ritual, but we had been short on the necessary ingredients. Now, we had everything we needed.

It was time to push my body beyond what any ordinary man could hope to achieve.

Third-Person POV

The Hour of the Wolf had cast its shadow upon the world, draping the land in a deathly silence. The Free Folk and Northerners lay in their tents, their breath steaming in the frozen air. Only the distant howls of wolves and the shifting patrols broke the stillness. Beyond the camp, at the edge of the battlefield where thousands had perished, Jon Snow stood alone before the pyre of the dead.

[Master, the ritual is prepared. The weirwood components form the stabilizing core at the heart of the pyre. The bodies have been stacked, their still-warm flesh holding remnants of battle's essence. And the lake's blood-soaked waters will serve as the final catalyst. Are you ready?] Aether's voice resonated in Jon's mind, heard only by him.

Jon exhaled slowly, his breath a pale mist in the frigid night. "Aye," he muttered, his voice firm with resolve. He glanced at the towering mass of corpses before him. Their lifeless forms would fuel his ascension. The price of power was never cheap. Today, with his goals as clear as ice, he would not waver. He was prepared to face any trial and endure any ordeal, if it meant rising stronger than before.

He walked forward, cutting his palm with Valyrian steel. Dark red blood dripped onto the weirwood branches, soaking into the sacred wood.

[Now ignite the pyre with your flames. Let the dragon within you rejoice in flames.]

Jon raised his bloodied hand and spoke the incantation that Aether had provided. The words burned his throat like liquid fire.

"Āeksio naejot ñuhoso hen pryjatagon." (Rise to my will and burn.)

And rise it did, to the command of the dragonlord, as it is the right of dragonlords to command fire, be it through magic or their mounts. The pyre erupted into an inferno. The flames were no ordinary orange or yellow—they were blood-red, twisting and writhing as if alive. The heat exploded outward, melting the snow over a quarter-league radius and turning frost to mist in an instant. The ground hissed as the ice turned to steam, revealing the blackened earth beneath.

Jon stepped forward, his eyes locked on the roaring blaze.

[Enter the flames, Master. The dead will test your will. Endure, and you shall be reborn again.]

With a steady breath, Jon walked into the inferno.

The fire welcomed him like an old friend.

Where ordinary men would have been reduced to nothing more than ash, Jon felt only a burning embrace. The flames licked at his skin, coiling around him like hungry serpents, but they did not consume him. Instead, they sank into his flesh, filling him with raw, unbridled power. His veins ignited with the same inferno he saw outside; his muscles thrummed with newfound strength.

The voices came next.

The whispers of the dead.

They clawed at his mind, wailing in rage, despair, and agony. Ghosts of warriors that was slain unjustly, their spirits writhing in the flames that had devoured their flesh. Jon clenched his jaw, feeling their fury press against his soul.

[Do not falter. They are but echoes. Their rage will fuel your might, but only if you master them.]

Jon roared against the storm of voices, against the suffering that sought to claim him. The fire around him intensified, turning into a pillar of blood-red light that pierced the heavens. At that moment—the apex of the ritual—the camp awakened.

The Free Folk and Northerners stirred in their tents, gasping as waves of unbearable heat crashed over them. Even the most hardened warriors felt their skin prickle with an unnatural warmth, as if the very air had turned to flame. The heat felt like summer sun shining upon them. Those nearest the battlefield were forced to stagger backward, shielding their faces from the infernal heat.

Cries of alarm spread through the camp. Men rushed from their tents, eyes wide with horror and fear. The patrols stationed at the perimeter turned, hands gripping weapons, only to falter at the sight before them.

A firestorm raged at the battlefield's edge.

And at its center stood Jon Snow, untouched by the flames.

His silhouette burned like a shadow against the infernal light, his form wreathed in blood-red fire. The snow had vanished, leaving nothing but scorched land stretching for a half-league in all directions. Steam rose in thick clouds, shrouding him like a living tempest.

The men watched in stunned silence.

Some fell to their knees, muttering prayers to the Old Gods, certain they were witnessing something beyond mortal comprehension. Others clutched their weapons in uncertainty, torn between fear and reverence. To see their chosen king standing in the heart of an unholy inferno, unharmed, was nothing short of myth given flesh.

One of the Free Folk, a grizzled warrior with battle scars and a lifetime of hardship, fell to his knees. His voice trembled. "The Lord o' Fire and Ice…"

Tormund Giantsbane, always bold, took a step forward, his usual jesting demeanor absent. His breath came out in a shudder as he whispered, "By the gods… Jon Snow, what in all the hells have you become?"

[Master… you have done it.]

Jon opened his eyes within the fire. They glowed with the light of embers, power thrumming beneath his skin.

He was no longer just an ordinary man. He was something more.

Somewhere else,

Melisandre, the priestess of the Lord of Light, stood at the camp's edge, her eyes alight with reverence as she watched the spectacle unfold. The flames that engulfed Jon Snow stirred something deep within her—a mixture of awe and trepidation that could unnerve even the bravest soul. She wondered why her Lord had kept such a moment hidden from her visions; his fiery prophecies had not foretold such a display. Yet in that inferno, she sensed the unmistakable mark of destiny—perhaps the greatest sign of all, pointing unmistakably to the identity of the promised prince.

Determined, Melisandre vowed then and there to serve the champion of light with every ounce of her strength. Failure was not an option; she would not disappoint her Lord, nor the one she now believed to be the true champion. With her heart aflame with purpose, she resolved to send a message. She would compose a letter to the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis, informing her brethren that she had found the true champion.

Unbeknownst to her, every priest and priestess in the temple was already watching Jon Snow's ritual through the flickering tongues of flame. Each saw something different in the dancing fire—a vision, a sign, a promise of transformation. How they interpreted these omens was a mystery yet to be unraveled, and only time would reveal the true depth of the divine portent.

Jon Snow POV

[The sudden increase in your height and body is meant to accommodate your enhanced strength, agility, and other abilities,] Aether explained, responding to the question that many had been asking me repeatedly from dawn to dusk. I lay on the hard stone of the watchtower, eyes closed, reflecting on the past day since the ritual. The benefits were undeniable, even if the rumors that would follow might bring me more problems down the road. Already, two thousand people were boasting about witnessing the most wondrous spectacle of their lives.

It wouldn't be long before we met Ramsay Snow to negotiate a peaceful resolution—if such a thing were possible. I longed for peace, but not even I dared to make peace with Ramsay of all people. Still, the other lords following me insisted on seeing if Ramsay might surrender Winterfell. The irony of it all was maddening.

My thoughts soon drifted back to the ritual's benefits. Aether had predicted a mere one percent chance that I would transcend from normal human to superhuman, yet I had dared to hope. It seemed my body had reached its peak human potential after the ritual. Still, I discovered new marvels when I tested my gains in a secluded spot away from prying eyes.

My heightened senses were one of the benefits I had quickly learned to control, almost instinctively, after emerging from the fire. Watching those old Superman movies had helped; I learned how to focus on what I wanted to hear, smell, and feel. Then came the hunger—a ravenous need that only a feast could satisfy. After stuffing my seemingly bottomless stomach, I closed my eyes and slept soundly until the sun rose.

When I awoke, I answered some questions about the spectacle from the night before, then mounted my horse and set out for a private training ground. I pushed my limits, testing my strength, speed, and stamina with every exercise I could recall. I even sprinted to the small pond where we had rested with the horses the day before. I suspect I can now outrun a horse at full gallop; unlike a horse, I tire little, even after a long run. Though exhausted, I was far from incapacitated—capable of defeating any foe in hand-to-hand combat.

[You're nearly at the level of Captain America from those Marvel comics you used to read,] Aether remarked. [Almost. But unlike his serum, magic does not immediately tune your body. Give it time, and I advise you to master your strength now, lest you inadvertently injure an ally.] I took her words to heart and spent the day honing my swordsmanship and control over my newfound might.

Then there was my warg ability, which had also received a boost. Now I could warg into both Ghost and Luna simultaneously, although the experience was short-lived. Experiencing both land and sky through each set of eyes taught me that attempting to warg into a land animal and one in the sky at the same time gave me a headache that lingered for half an hour after my first attempt. Yet the potential was there, and I decided it was time to add another creature to my growing circle of animal companions.

Now, back in the present, we awaited the arrival of Sansa and Davos, who were to come with Lord Manderly and his army. They had convinced Lord Manderly with promises of revenge and even a future betrothal between House Stark and House Manderly—a fair deal if it meant gaining fifteen hundred strong men, along with further benefits once we reclaimed Winterfell. The new army had camped a league from Castle Cerwyn, as Lord Cerwyn had decided to be on the winning side, preparing to exact his long-awaited vengeance against the murderer of his father and brother.

I had even instructed Luna to intercept any raven bound for or departing from Winterfell, ensuring all messages passed through our hands. It seemed Ramsay had also ordered his scouts and patrols not to venture beyond the outskirts of Winterfell, fearful of losing more men after our latest triumph.

Tomorrow, we would gather once more before heading into battle. I sighed, pushing such heavy thoughts aside as I sought sleep. A few minutes later, I drifted into the realm of dreams, ready to face whatever destiny had in store.

Next Morning,

I sat in a chair, Longclaw resting at my side, my eyes fixed on the wooden table before me. The hut—or rather, the makeshift war council chamber—had served its purpose for some time now. Tormund sat beside me, his usual restless energy contained only by the anticipation of our visitors. We were waiting for my sister, Davos, and Lyanna, who were due to arrive at any moment.

The wooden door creaked open, and a gust of cold wind rushed in, carrying with it the three people we had been expecting. As they stepped inside, I rose from my seat to greet them. The moment Sansa and Davos laid eyes on me, their faces twisted with shock.

"How...?" Sansa's voice wavered.

"What in the name of the Seven?" Davos muttered, his brow furrowed.

I sighed, already weary of explaining my sudden growth yet again. Before I could even open my mouth, Tormund's voice rang out with the kind of absurdity only he could muster.

"He suckled at the tit of a giant," he declared, with absolute confidence.

Sansa and Davos turned to me with identical expressions of disbelief—and, to my horror, acceptance.

They actually believed him.

"Stop spreading lies, Tormund," I said, rubbing my temple. "And for the last time, there are no female giants left—"

I cut myself off the moment I saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. A foreboding feeling crept over me. I should have known better than to leave any openings for Tormund Giantsbane.

"Ah!" he said, grinning. "Who said anything about female giants? When I said 'giant,' I meant Wun Wun. I bet his milk would've been real sweet for you, eh, King Crow?"

He roared with laughter at his own joke. Davos pressed his lips together, clearly trying—and failing—not to join in. Meanwhile, both Sansa and Lyanna looked thoroughly mortified, as if regretting every life choice that had led them to this moment.

I shot Tormund a pointed glare, silencing him before he laughed himself to death. Once the hut had settled, I finally began my explanation.

Of course, I didn't tell them about the ritual. Instead, I spun the same tale I had told before—of the gods bestowing me with strength to fight the dead. It was a convenient lie, and one people were willing to believe. I was just grateful Melisandre wasn't here. If she were, she would undoubtedly press me again about whether I had met the Lord of Light, and I had no desire to answer that question.

After that, Davos and Sansa recounted their efforts to secure Lord Manderly's support, detailing how they'd convinced him to join our cause. He had traveled with them but had excused himself to wash away the stench of sweat before joining us.

We had moved on to other matters when the door swung open once more. Lord Manderly entered, greeting everyone at the table before settling into a chair his men had brought in with some difficulty.

"We are going to meet Ramsay Snow before resorting to bloodshed, aren't we?" Manderly asked, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "By the way, I met King Rickon outside. He didn't say much, but seeing him alive and well was enough to make me feel no regret in throwing my support behind the Starks." He chuckled, but I didn't miss the weight behind his words. I kept my expression neutral, not letting him see the thoughts running through my mind.

Sansa exhaled sharply, clearly exasperated. "We have already discussed this, Lord Manderly. It would be the height of folly to ask Ramsay, of all people in Westeros, to surrender Winterfell peacefully."

By the look on her face, she had tried and failed to convince him that negotiations with Ramsay were a waste of time.

"Lady Sansa," Manderly replied, his tone firm but patient, "it is both my duty and yours to seek a peaceful resolution before turning to war. As King Rickon is still a child, it falls upon us to speak with Ramsay Snow. And who knows? Perhaps seeing an army greater than his—thanks to your half-brother—will make him reconsider. Fear is a powerful motivator, after all. The forefathers of House Bolton once bent the knee to the Starks; perhaps Ramsay will do the same."

He leaned forward, his expression serious. "If it were Roose Bolton we were dealing with, I would have no such hope. But Ramsay? He is a bastard, untrained in the true art of war. I have heard it was only his cruelty and inborn skill with a bow that made Roose choose him as his heir, in desperation." His conviction was clear, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt that he truly believed what he was saying.

Lyanna Mormont shook her head, disappointment evident on her face. Sansa and Davos exchanged glances before turning to me, their expressions practically shouting, What are we supposed to do with this fool of a man?

I snorted. But as I looked at their faces and replayed Manderly's words in my head, the snort turned into a chuckle, which spiraled into full-blown laughter.

I finally managed to compose myself after what was, without a doubt, one of the best laughs I'd had in a long while. But as I looked around, I was met with a mix of exasperated and impatient faces, all silently asking the same thing—Are you done? Can we get back to business now?

Well, all except Manderly. His face was flushed, whether from anger or embarrassment I couldn't quite tell.

"There was nothing funny about what I said, Lord Snow," he stated, his tone edged with irritation.

I leveled him with a calm but firm gaze. "If you believe Ramsay is less of a threat than Roose, then that in itself is amusing, Lord Manderly. You'd do well not to trust every rumor you hear."

Manderly let out a huff, turning his attention toward Tormund, who was casually cleaning his teeth with a knife. Noticing the lord's gaze, Tormund grinned, showing just enough teeth to make the moment slightly uncomfortable.

Shaking my head, I continued, "Since you insist on meeting Ramsay before any battle takes place, I will honor your request. But you will not be coming with us."

Before he could protest, I raised a hand. "And before you ask why, I'll tell you—your army's movements have not yet reached Ramsay's ears. I intend to keep it that way."

Davos, ever the seasoned strategist, gave a slight nod of understanding. He had served under one of the best commanders this world had ever known; he understood the value of keeping an advantage. Lyanna Mormont, sitting straight-backed and unwavering, nodded in approval as well. Even Sansa, who had looked weary of this conversation, seemed pleased with my reasoning.

Manderly, however, remained unconvinced. "Why? There's no need for secrecy. As I said, we outnumber Bolton's forces."

I held back a sigh. He thinks numbers alone decide the battle. In truth, he was more merchant than lord, good with trade and accounts but blind to the weight of true warfare.

"My lord, I've already given you more than you think. Against my own better judgment, I've agreed to meet with the very man who tormented both my sister and my brother—your king, as you yourself so proudly declared." My voice took on a sharper edge as I leaned forward. "Do not ask more of me than you already have. I was raised to be kind and honorable by my father, Eddard Stark, but even my kindness has limits."

Sansa's lips curled into the faintest trace of a smile when Manderly finally fell silent, absorbing my words.

I turned to Davos. "Ser Davos, I trust you to lead our men to the designated camp. Ensure no infighting breaks out along the way."

Feeling my gaze on him, Davos gave a solemn nod. "You have my word."

Satisfied, I turned to Sansa and Lyanna. "I know neither of you is truly tired from the journey, but take an hour to freshen up and rest before we ride out."

They both gave small nods of thanks and rose from their seats. I stood with them, sparing a glance at Manderly as he gestured for his men to retrieve the oversized chair he'd brought with him.

Shaking my head, I left the room.

At the Meeting place,

"Where is he? We should just return to the camp," Sansa said, her tone impatient. Lyanna Mormont, Tormund Giantsbane, Sansa, and I stood on the field where the battle had been fought, waiting for Ramsay. We had only just arrived, and Sansa had already tried to lead us back twice. I looked out over the white expanse of snow and waited, knowing—thanks to Luna—that Ramsay was nearly upon us, riding with the Karstark and Umber lords.

We didn't have to wait long. Horses with riders came into view after a few minutes and stopped at a respectful distance. Ramsay looked at us with an arrogant smirk, his gaze drifting constantly to Sansa as we waited for someone to break the silence. Lord Karstark and Lord Umber showed no outward reaction, but I could sense the tension coiled beneath their stillness.

"My beloved wife," Ramsay said, smiling, "I've missed you terribly." He turned his gaze toward me. "Thank you for returning Lady Bolton to me. Now—before everyone kneels and acknowledges me as the true Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North—surrender your army. Swear fealty, and I will graciously pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch. The treasonous lords who betrayed my house may also be forgiven."

Lyanna Mormont scoffed, spitting on the ground in answer.

I smiled and turned to Karstark. "I don't know whether to be more surprised that a man of bastard origin claims to be Lord of the North, or that two ancient houses—one of them kin to House Stark—follow him like dogs." I turned back to Ramsay, letting the words land before I finished them. "You are a bastard. Nothing will change that. One bastard legitimizing another is something neither I nor the lords behind me will accept. House Bolton is extinct, and soon I will burn the Dreadfort to the ground, to serve as an example of the fate that awaits those who rise against House Stark."

Ramsay's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping at the hinge of it. "It seems you've forgotten your own origins, reminding me of mine," he said through gritted teeth. "And to burn the Dreadfort, you'll need to win a war. You don't have the numbers. You have wildlings and a handful of loyalists—nothing compared to my army. The men of the North will not follow you over me." He sneered, leaning forward in his saddle. "Why lead them to slaughter, bastard? Surrender, and I'll grant you the mercy of crossing back over the Wall with your wildling lovers."

Tormund bristled beside me, his grip tightening on his axe until his knuckles whitened, but he held his tongue.

"Aye, you're right. Why did we lead our men to their deaths?" I let the words hang a moment, watching Ramsay's smirk widen, before I struck. "Let us settle this the old way—you against me." I smirked back at him, baiting him deliberately. This was one thing I'd chosen not to change; Jon had picked his words with care in the show, and I saw no reason to improve on them. Karstark's eyes flicked to Ramsay, gauging whether he'd take the offer, but Ramsay was too shrewd a man to risk his own skin when he believed the numbers already favored him.

"I keep hearing stories about you, bastard. The people of the North talk like you're the greatest swordsman to ever walk. Maybe you're that good. Maybe you're not." He shrugged, almost lazily. "Doesn't matter. I don't know if I'd beat you, but I know my army will beat yours. I have six thousand men—"

"Five," I cut in, before he could finish. "Or not even that much." I let the correction sit, watching it needle him. "You seem to forget the thousand men my men and I slaughtered when you sent them chasing after us, after I pulled my brother out from right under your nose. And how many of your remaining four or five thousand do you think will still fight for you, once they hear their lord wouldn't fight for them?" I relished every word as I spoke them, watching faces that had been indifferent moments ago twist into anger and doubt.

"Oh, they'll fight for me," Ramsay replied, smug and unbothered, "considering they'll be busy fighting the wildling army you've brought with you." His anger had vanished as quickly as it came. He glanced at Lord Umber, who drew Shaggydog's head from beneath his cloak—tied grotesquely to his saddle—and hurled it toward us. It landed in the bloodied snow between our horses.

"Lord Smalljon Umber, I have something for you as well," I said, pulling out a letter bearing the seal of House Umber, penned by the maester of Last Hearth. Tormund took the initiative, meeting Lord Umber halfway to hand it over. The Lord of Last Hearth's face went crimson as he read, his eyes lifting to me with a fury so raw I half expected him to charge.

"Do you think I would believe your lies—" He fell silent the instant I threw the head of the master-at-arms he'd left to guard Last Hearth in his absence, and it landed at his horse's feet with a wet, final sound. "You bastard! First you bring the wildlings onto our lands and let them rampage through unprotected keeps. Do you have any honor at all? Eddard Stark would be turning in his grave!" He spat toward my horse, and I merely smirked in response.

"Do you think the Starks ruled the unforgiving lands of the North through honor alone?" I asked, letting my voice carry, cold and level. "Before the Targaryens took the Seven Kingdoms, the Starks of old were known for their ruthlessness against their enemies. I intend to follow in their footsteps—and remind the rebel houses why the Starks have ruled these lands for thousands of years. Not kindness. Not honor—those are reserved for allies. But because we dealt with those who forgot their place, who committed the treasonous act of handing over their rightful king to traitors." My voice dripped with anger by the end of it. Lord Umber merely scoffed and returned to his place, his face a mix of worry, doubt, and frustration.

"Lord Karstark, I present you with a choice." I turned to him, softening my tone deliberately. "Half the men who took Last Hearth are marching toward Karhold as we speak. Unlike Lord Umber, who brought his heir and son here with him, your sister Alys Karstark remains there, undefended. I do not wish to see the cadet branch of House Stark extinguished simply because you are still angry over Robb killing your father. That mistake has already cost my house more than it's cost yours. You are the last surviving male of House Karstark. One arrow, one stroke of bad luck, and yours becomes a name remembered only in history books. I am not asking you to fight for me, or for House Stark. I am asking you to take your men and go home to Karhold. I swear to you, in my brother's name, that neither you nor your men will face any threat from me or mine. Consider it—is it truly worth risking the survival of your house, to keep fighting beside the bastard of House Bolton?"

I said this to Harald Karstark, watching the words settle and take root, and saw the trouble bloom behind his eyes.

I knew Ramsay would never let him leave—but the offer alone could sow discord between them, and if I was fortunate, it might even cost Lord Karstark his life, a death I could turn to my advantage later. Ramsay's expression made it clear he was already weighing whether to have Harald killed the moment he tried to ride for Karhold.

"Now, I believe we are done here," I said, and turned my horse back toward camp without waiting for a reply.

"Sleep well, Ramsay. You're going to die soon enough," were the last words I heard from Sansa, followed by the drum of hooves as the others fell in behind me.

"Do you think Karstark will accept your offer?" Lyanna asked, curiosity and doubt plain in her voice.

"What would you choose, in his position—revenge, or the survival of your ancient house?" I replied. "We should also consider how Ramsay will react if Karstark actually tries to lead his men home."

Sansa's voice was quiet but certain. "It doesn't matter. Ramsay won't let him leave. He'll kill him before he ever reaches his men."

Her words settled over me, and I couldn't help but agree. Now the only question was—how would I turn that to my advantage?

But before that, I needed to send Melisandre to Dragonstone to meet Daenerys and recount what she had witnessed in the North. That should be enough to pique Daenerys's interest in me and prompt her to summon me to Dragonstone. The sooner this happened, the better—arming our entire army with dragonglass weapons would require a significant supply, and securing it early would be crucial.

 

[Kclcmdr]

interesting so far..
We wait as the brutally educated Sansa Stark informs this version of Jon Snow Stark what options will be available...

 

[Lillie Jones]

Absolute Cinema
10/10
Die Ramsay snow, die
Continue on
Cheers!

 

[bannerlord181]

You've posted the chapters to the index and instead of threadmarks…also why is he doing exactly what og Jon did? Getting summoned to dragon stone is 1/1 canon bruh, he has more important things to be doing

 

[ketan1578]

You've posted the chapters to the index and instead of threadmarks…also why is he doing exactly what og Jon did? Getting summoned to dragon stone is 1/1 canon bruh, he has more important things to be doing

Click to shrink...

Don't worry, things rarely go as we want. He wants to go to Dragonstone, but will he go with his tail between his legs or as a king in his own right? That is what I think is important.

 

[ketan1578]

Jon Snow POV

"I need you to go to Dragonstone." My voice was firm, the weight of the coming war pressing down on me. "Daenerys Targaryen is on her way there. Convince her to fight for the living, to stand against the dead who march upon us. If possible, arrange a meeting. Dragonstone holds the largest deposits of dragonglass in its mountains. We need it if we are to win against the night that is full of terror."

Melisandre stood before me, her red robes shifting in the cold northern wind. A fanatic, true, but one who was loyal—to me, to her god, or perhaps to her visions. Whatever the case, she nodded with utmost seriousness.

"I have already seen myself meeting the Mother of Dragons in the flames," she murmured, her voice like a soft chant. Then, after a pause, she added, "May I ask you something, Azor Ahai?"

I exhaled slowly; it seemed I would not be getting rid of that title. "Go on."

"What will you do if she allies herself with Aegon Targaryen? By now, he must have reached the Stormlands."

My breath stilled, but I kept my face unreadable. "Are you certain? Have you seen this Aegon in your flames? And how do you know he is truly what he claims to be and not some bastard Blackfyre?"

Melisandre's red lips curled into something between amusement and satisfaction. "I did not know the Black Dragon was Aegon Targaryen until yesterday, when I received word from a fellow priestess. She believes him to be Azor Ahai. But, just as I once did, she misreads the Lord of Light's signs." She tilted her head. "And now, my king, what do you believe?"

I clenched my jaw. The Black Dragon masquerading as the Red.

"If what you say is true, then you must reach Daenerys first," I said. "Tell her exactly what you've told me. Let her decide whether to trust this Black Dragon or not."

Melisandre hesitated only a moment before nodding. Then, as she turned to leave, she cast me a knowing glance, an amused smirk playing at her lips. She swayed her hips more than necessary, and I couldn't help but shake my head with a small smile. The woman was incorrigible.

Pushing the thought aside, I grabbed Longclaw and made my way toward the war council, where Sansa, Tormund, Davos, and the Northern lords awaited. The fate of the North was far more pressing than distant kings and claimants. And there was one good thing that would happen this night.

Lord Karstark would abandon Ramsay. I had been watching him to determine his next move. He had assured Ramsay that they would first defeat me here, and afterward Ramsay would help him and Lord Umber reclaim their keep. However, I knew he planned to head to Karhold that night, while everyone slept. I supposed I would help him as much as I could by skinchanging into Luna.

As I stepped inside, the murmurs ceased, and all rose to their feet. I motioned for them to sit, taking my own seat at the head of the table.

"Before I tell you my plan, I want to hear your thoughts first," I said, scanning their faces. It was a test—of their understanding, their instincts, their loyalties.

Lord Manderly was the first to speak, followed quickly by Lord Hornwood, then Tormund, and finally Davos. I listened carefully, weighing their strategies, noting what could be useful.

"I've considered your suggestions and merged them into my own plan," I said at last. "Here's how we fight the Bolton army..."

My strategy remained largely the same as what played out in the show, but this time I would not act recklessly. There would be no running headlong into an obvious trap. No playing into Ramsay's hands. Every decision was calculated, every move planned.

I turned toward Lord Manderly. "You will march with Wun Wun and Ghost to rally our men. Your presence will remind them of the North they fight for, and those two will be more than enough to shatter the enemy's confidence. Would you be willing to lead the charge with them?"

Manderly, caught mid-conversation with Hornwood, blinked at me in surprise. "I have no objection to fighting alongside your direwolf and giant, but leading the charge? That's for younger men. If I were in my youth, I'd have relished it." He chuckled, shaking his head. "But I will stand with my men, and I will ensure they follow your orders."

That was good enough.

I turned to Brienne. "I would have wanted nothing more than to fight alongside you," I admitted. "But your duty is to protect Sansa. If Ramsay tries any underhanded tactics, I trust you to keep her from harm."

Brienne's expression remained stoic, but she nodded with absolute determination. That was all I needed.

"Then the war council is adjourned," I said, rising from my seat. "Endure the cold tonight. Tomorrow, Winterfell's walls will keep us warm."

A ripple of anticipation spread through the tent. This was happening. The battle for the North was upon us.

I stepped outside, inhaling the frigid air. The Free Folk greeted me as I walked back to my tent, their eyes filled with respect and expectation. Each of them had put their trust in me, a man once their enemy, now their leader. They would fight not for crowns or thrones, but for their survival, for the chance to see another day.

As I reached my tent, I took my seat on a chair placed near the bed. My thoughts were consumed by what Melisandre had revealed earlier.

Aegon Targaryen.

If he was truly alive, then this was not the same world I had believed it to be. That changed everything.

Aegon would have the Golden Company, Dorne, and, if he played his cards right, the Reach. Whether Daenerys sided with me or not, he would be a problem. One I had no time for—not yet.

I exhaled slowly. My priorities had to shift. I had planned to seek out Parseltongue to deepen my connection to magic. But now, power took precedence. I needed magic. And more than that—I needed a dragon.

Rhaegal, where are you?

Third-Person POV

The battlefield was a sea of churned mud and blood, painted in hues of grey and brown after days of relentless drizzle. The air smelled of wet earth, horse sweat, and fear. Banners snapped in the wind—House Stark's direwolf standing defiant against House Bolton's flayed man. Jon Snow sat astride his horse at the head of his army, Ser Davos and Tormund at his side. Across the field, Ramsay Bolton observed from the rear, his lips curling into an amused sneer, though inwardly he seethed.

Karstark's betrayal had cost him dearly. The loss of men to Karhold, compounded by the slaughter of his own soldiers during their flight, had left him with barely thirty-five hundred men—still more than the Stark bastard, but not as overwhelming as it should have been. With an army camped outside his walls, he could not afford further losses, nor could he punish Karstark's treachery without sealing his own doom.

Jon and his men stood their ground, waiting. Ramsay, frustrated by recent events and Jon's refusal to make the first move, signaled his cavalry forward. The Bolton riders surged across the field, led by Smalljon Umber, his war cry a thunderous roar. The ground shook, clods of mud flying from the hooves of the charging horses. The Stark forces braced themselves—shields locked, spears poised, the butts of their long shafts driven deep into the mire. Jon felt the tremor travel up through his horse's legs and into his own bones.

He raised his Valyrian steel blade high, his voice slicing through the wind.

"Free Folk! Northmen! We fight today not just for vengeance, not just for blood—but for home! Winterfell is ours! The Boltons stole it, but we take it back!"

He turned, dark eyes burning with conviction. "And we do not fight just for today! We fight for tomorrow! For what comes after! The cold winds rise. Winter is coming. If we fall here, there will be no one left to stand against them!"

His blade pointed at the oncoming cavalry. "Hold the line! Stand your ground! We win, or we die—but we do not kneel!"

As the Bolton cavalry thundered toward them, a deafening roar split the air. From behind a small hill, Wun Wun erupted, leading a force of a thousand men in a flanking maneuver against the Bolton reserves. The giant's bellow rolled across the field like a landslide, and Ramsay's rear ranks turned too late. Wun Wun plowed into them, tossing men aside like broken dolls. A fist the size of a barrel caught one soldier square in the chest and sent him crashing into three others. Arrows peppered the giant's flesh, sinking in like pins in a cushion, but he pressed on, ripping through enemy lines with sheer brute force.

At the same time, Ghost streaked through the battlefield, leading another detachment in a sweeping assault on the cavalry's flank. The direwolf moved like a specter, white against the grey mud, jaws clamping onto a horse's throat and dragging both mount and rider to the ground. The rider barely had time to scream before Ghost's jaws found him next. Inspired by the beast's ferocity, the Free Folk and Manderly men surged forward, hacking and slashing at the disoriented cavalry.

Jon plunged into the fray, his sword carving a crimson path. A Bolton rider swung at him—he ducked, the blow whistling over his head, and his blade sliced clean through the man's side, cleaving him in half with inhuman strength. Another came at him with a lance. Jon twisted aside, grabbed the shaft, and wrenched the rider from his saddle, finishing him with a brutal stab as he hit the mud. A heavy mace glanced off Jon's shoulder; he felt the jolt rattle his teeth, drove his boot into the knight's chest, and put Longclaw through the gap in his armor before the man could recover.

The battlefield became a churning mass of death. Tormund fought like a man possessed, his roars cutting through the clash of steel, his axe rising and falling until it was slick to the haft. The trenches Jon's men had dug forced the Bolton cavalry into a grinding melee, their momentum shattered. Horses went down screaming with broken legs, throwing their riders into the mud, where Free Folk spears waited. The sound was a continuous din of steel on steel, of men shouting and dying and horses shrieking.

From his vantage point, Ramsay scowled. He had been tricked, outmaneuvered by a bastard. If Karstark had stayed loyal—if he had those extra men—this battle might have been his. But it was slipping through his fingers like sand. He signaled his archers, commanding them to fire indiscriminately, even as his own men fought below.

Arrows rained down, thudding into the mud and hammering against raised shields like hail. The men led by Wun Wun raised their shields just in time, but many Stark soldiers were not so fortunate, falling where they stood. Bolton infantrymen fell to their own lord's cruelty, and some, seeing his disregard for their lives, threw down their weapons and fled into the trees.

The Bolton cavalry was finished. The combined might of Jon's forces overwhelmed them, and with their flank compromised, they were cut down to the last man. Now the remaining Stark and Free Folk soldiers turned to the fight ahead—where Wun Wun and his warriors still battled despite their numerical disadvantage. Each swing of the giant's massive arms sent Bolton men flying, their bodies shattering against the muddy ground.

Jon spurred his horse forward, leading the final charge, his cavalry crashing into the remnants of the Bolton forces. Behind them, Tormund's infantry surged ahead, sealing the fate of the battle.

Then came the turning point.

With his reserves collapsing and his army in tatters, Ramsay Bolton knew the battle was lost. He turned his horse and fled toward Winterfell, abandoning his men to die. But Jon had anticipated this. Without hesitation, he spurred his mount forward, his pursuit relentless, mud and blood spraying from his horse's hooves.

Ahead, Winterfell's gates loomed. Ramsay's men scrambled to close them. But before they could, Wun Wun roared and slammed his fists against the wood, splintering the gate. Jon leaped from his horse, landing with supernatural grace, and with a single, mighty blow, shattered what remained of the entrance.

Inside, Ramsay stumbled back, shock flickering across his face. He reached for his bow, but Jon was faster. He crossed the distance in a blur and struck Ramsay with a backhanded blow, sending him sprawling. Blood gushed from his nose and ears as he crumpled into unconsciousness.

Winterfell was theirs.

The battle was over.

But Ramsay's reckoning had only just begun.


Third-Person POV

Jon stood in the courtyard, his presence alone commanding silence. Blood clung to his body, a stark contrast against the snow, making him look less like a man and more like a wraith of vengeance. His gaze, cold and unyielding, swept over the gathered crowd. The weight of his fury pressed down on them like an unseen force, making even the bravest among them tense.

"Find the deserters," Jon ordered, his voice carrying like the edge of a blade. "Give them two choices—take the black or join their cruel lord in whatever hell awaits him."

The men on horseback—Free Folk, Manderly soldiers, and Northmen alike—nodded without hesitation. They had fought beside Jon Snow. Some had even been fortunate—or unfortunate—enough to witness him in battle firsthand. One thought bound them all: they were grateful they had not stood against him.

Jon was no mere warrior. He was a force of nature. His sword cleaved through men as if they were made of parchment, and no matter how many fell before him, exhaustion never seemed to touch him. They had watched him leap high into the air and hurl a steel spear with inhuman precision—piercing through both rider and horse, driving so deep into the frozen ground that even the dying beast couldn't move, the shaft still quivering above it.

He did not yet realize it, but his name would be whispered across the North as a legend. The man blessed by the Old Gods with the strength of giants. A warrior whose rage rivaled the ancient Kings of Winter. The sight of him and Wun Wun breaking through Winterfell's great doors—doors that would have taken twenty men with tree trunks to move—only cemented that belief.

Jon's gaze shifted to Ramsay Bolton's unconscious form, his expression unreadable. "Take him to the cells. Ensure he's awake when I give him the punishment he deserves."

The men carrying Ramsay moved quickly, almost stumbling over themselves in their eagerness to be out of Jon's presence. The air around him was heavy, suffocating, and charged with something unnatural. They didn't understand it, but they felt it—a bloodthirsty aura that made their instincts scream at them to run.

Unbeknownst to Jon, the ancient magic coursing through his blood—the blood of Winter Kings and dragonlords—was stirring. Winterfell was his by right, and the Old Gods knew it. The very land seemed to recognize its true ruler. His dragon blood, however, sang for chaos, reveling in the carnage, making those around him feel like prey before an apex predator. Hearts pounded wildly in their chests. The only thought in their minds: Run.

Jon looked down at his hands, now crusted with dried blood, and felt the echoes of something unfamiliar—joy.

He had relished the slaughter.

At first, he had told himself it was justice, but as the battle raged, something deeper, something primal had taken hold. The longer he fought, the clearer everything became. He knew where to strike, how to move, as if some buried instinct had awakened within him. And with every life he took, the pleasure grew.

His stomach twisted at the realization.

He clenched his fists, pushing the thought aside. He had no answers, but he knew someone who might. First, though, he needed to cleanse himself of the stench of blood before it stirred something in him again.

"Tormund," he said, his voice rough.

The red-haired wildling met his gaze, his jaw tightening. It took nearly all of Tormund's willpower not to flinch. He had seen Jon covered in blood before, but never like this. There was something different about him now. Still, deep down, he knew Jon would never harm him. No matter what changes had taken root, the man he called brother was still in there.

"I'll be in my old chambers. Sansa will know where to find me. Call me when every lord is ready for the meeting."

Tormund only nodded. Jon turned and walked toward the familiar halls of Winterfell.

Before leaving, he cast a final order. "Maester Wolkan, do everything in your power to save Wun Wun. If he dies because of your incompetence, you'll suffer the same fate as Ramsay."

The aging maester, who had served the Boltons before the battle, paled. His head bobbed in quick, terrified nods, though his trembling hands betrayed him. Some nearby soldiers caught the stench of piss and sweat, but no one commented on it.

Only when Jon disappeared into the halls did the tension finally ease.

The silence lingered before Torren finally spoke, his voice hushed. "What the fuck was that?"

Tormund exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Fuck me and the ice-cold arse of the Others if I know."

Without another word, he turned toward his Free Folk brothers, trying to shake off the lingering sense of dread that clung to his bones.

"Really? You will let me?" Torren called after him, but the question lingered in the air, lost to the silence, unheard and unanswered.

Jon Snow POV

"What was that, Aether?" The words left my lips the moment I sank into the chair in my small chambers, the weight of the battle still pressing down on me.

[No, it is not what you're thinking. It is not the consequence of Blood Magic.] Aether's voice echoed in my mind, firm and assured. [I've already told you—this world's Blood Magic is different. It's not entirely safe, but it leaves only minor traces on the caster. It would be a lie to say that your peculiar behavior on the battlefield was solely because of that. In truth, Blood Magic played such a small role that it's not even worth mentioning.]

I frowned. "Then what was it?"

[The ritual you performed awakened the dormant magical blood within you. One of the bloodlines you carry is inherently prideful and prone to chaos—I don't think I need to say which one. Awakening it alone wouldn't have made you blood-hungry, but combined with the lingering remnants of the ritual, it triggered the behavior you exhibited. However, you need not worry—it was an isolated reaction. It won't happen again.]

A breath of relief escaped me. Thank the Old Gods. The last thing I needed was to struggle with bloodlust every time I led a charge.

"And here I was thinking my next ritual would focus on bloodlines," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "It was meant to help me harness my inherited abilities more efficiently, but after what happened today, maybe I should choose another aspect to enhance."

[You need not hesitate.] Aether's voice was unwavering. [In fact, I was about to suggest the very same ritual. Before gaining any new magical abilities, you must first master what already exists within you. Considering you possess two of the most powerful bloodlines in this world, enhancing them is the wisest course of action.]

I hesitated. "Are you certain? If I lose control again, it will be disastrous. My allies would fear me, my enemies would exploit it, and before long, they'd whisper that I am no different from my grandfather." The mere thought sent a shudder through me. "The Mad King's shadow is not something I want looming over me."

[You can trust me, Master.] Aether reassured me. [However, I should warn you—awakening your bloodlines will heighten your emotions. Your temper, your passion—they will intensify to a level befitting a pure Targaryen. And do not forget, the Starks are known for their "wolf blood," which makes them wild in their own right. Once awakened, these traits will manifest in you as well. Their combined weight may be difficult to bear at first, but I do not believe it will drive you to madness.]

She paused before adding, [And remember—this world's magic has one unbreakable rule: "Sacrifice is the key to power."]

I fell silent, considering her words.

The benefits outweighed the risks. The curiosity burned within me—what would happen if Stark and Targaryen blood were refined to their purest form? What abilities would I unlock? Could they even mutate, becoming something greater than either bloodline alone? To ignore that potential would be foolish.

Fortune favors the bold.

After a few moments of contemplation, I made my decision. "Very well. We'll proceed."

But before Aether could respond, another thought surfaced. "What about the teleportation ritual? Have you finished it?" I had tasked her with devising a way for me to teleport—a skill far too valuable to ignore.

[It is complete, Master.] Aether confirmed. [All we needed was the stones from Melisandre. The ritual itself is simple. And the location you wish to teleport to—it's safer to perform the ritual here in Winterfell rather than deep within the Wolfswood.]

She hesitated before continuing. [However, I advise you to reconsider your decision. I see merit in your plan, but if their guilt over creating that abomination is too great, they may reject your offer outright. And if that happens, we will have wasted extremely valuable stones—stones that could serve future rituals.]

I sighed. "I doubt they will refuse. If given a chance to flourish, they will take it. But if they do reject the offer, then we'll just grab a wight in their place. What are a few stones compared to the life of a dragon?"

I could feel Aether mentally shaking her head in disapproval. But I ignored it.

If there was even the slightest chance that I could save another ancient, powerful, and near-extinct race from vanishing forever, then I would take it. Without hesitation.

Jon Snow POV

I sat at the high table, surveying the gathered lords—men who had pledged their support to restore House Stark to its former glory. To my right sat Rickon, who looked utterly bored and frustrated, shifting in his seat as if this entire discussion were a tedious punishment. Further down, Sansa listened intently, her sharp eyes measuring every word spoken by the lords.

"With Winterfell back in our hands, it is time we send letters to every lord in the North, commanding them to come and swear fealty to their new king—King Rickon," declared Lord Manderly, his tone warm as he offered a smile to the young boy. Rickon, however, merely returned an inquisitive stare, as if weighing the intent behind the words.

"But before that, we must name a regent," Sansa interjected smoothly. "Rickon is not yet of age to rule, and it falls upon us to choose wisely." Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall.

"There is little need for debate," said Lady Lyanna Mormont, her voice carrying the strength of a leader far beyond her years. "Jon Snow should serve as regent until Rickon comes of age. If we are to speak plainly, he should be king. He led the largest host in the battle to reclaim Winterfell, and he has ruled before—as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. His blood is Stark, just as much as Rickon's. And I know, from my mother's letters, that King Robb intended to name Jon his heir when Rickon was presumed dead."

A tense silence followed her words. Lord Manderly's face twisted into an unreadable expression—one of discontent, though he masked it well. Across the hall, Sansa's face remained neutral, though I could sense the calculation behind her gaze.

"I second that," said Lord Cley Cerwyn, nodding at me with respect.

"As do I," added Lord Hornwood, unsurprisingly. He himself was a bastard, legitimized only because no other male heir of House Hornwood remained.

Lord Manderly cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. "Let us not be so hasty as to challenge the laws of succession. Rickon Stark, son of Eddard Stark, still lives and stands before us. I do not dispute Lord Snow's valor, nor his service to House Stark, but the North has long been the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. There are many keeps in need of strong, honorable lords. Whoever the regent may be, their first act should be to grant Jon Snow a lordship worthy of his deeds."

A flicker of disapproval crossed Lyanna's face, and I noted the dissatisfaction in the expressions of Lord Hornwood and Lord Cerwyn as well. Yet I remained silent, leaning back in my chair. I wanted to see where this discussion would lead.

What followed was a back-and-forth—Manderly and Lyanna exchanging sharp words, Cerwyn and Hornwood interjecting with their support for me. I could feel the weight of the room shifting, a battle of politics as fierce as any fought with steel.

Then Sansa spoke.

"I have no objection to Jon being King in the North."

A stunned silence fell over the hall. Many turned to her with wide eyes, but she remained composed, her expression unreadable save for the small, polite smile she directed at me. But I had Jon's memories, and I knew a false smile when I saw one.

"With winter upon us, and the dead marching with it, we need a strong leader—one who can lead us not only to war but to survival," she continued. "My father, Lord Eddard Stark, would have wanted what is best for the North. And you, Lord Manderly, who knew him well, should recognize that as well. It is Jon who has proven himself worthy."

Lord Manderly paled under the weight of every gaze fixed upon him. Beads of sweat formed at his brow as he struggled for a response—only to be interrupted by a young, clear voice.

"I think Jon should be king, not me," said Rickon, a grin forming on his face. "If not for him, I wouldn't be here."

And just like that, Lord Manderly's last defense crumbled. With a reluctant sigh, he inclined his head toward Lady Lyanna in concession.

"Jon Snow, King in the North."

Lyanna Mormont was the first to kneel, her voice ringing with unshakable conviction. One by one, the other lords followed suit. The great hall echoed with their voices, their loyalty sworn.

Only Tormund and the other Free Folk chieftains remained standing. But I did not need them to bend the knee. Their nods of acknowledgment were enough. To ask more would be to ask them to break their very way of life.

Jon Snow POV

The Godswood of Winterfell was silent, save for the whispering wind rustling through the ancient weirwood's crimson leaves. I stood among the gathered lords of the North, the cold seeping into my bones, though I hardly noticed it. The air was thick with anticipation as we awaited the arrival of the condemned. Sansa stood beside me, her expression composed yet betrayed by the flicker of disappointment in her eyes—she had hoped to feed her former husband to his own dogs. Yet even she understood that Ramsay Bolton deserved a fate befitting the old ways.

The wait was not long. Two men entered the clearing, dragging a chained and gagged Ramsay Snow between them. A fresh bruise marred his face—a gift from my fist when I struck him earlier. He stumbled as he was forced forward, boots dragging furrows through the snow, but his gaze, filled with defiance and thinly veiled terror, never left me.

From the shadows of the trees, Ghost emerged, his white fur ghostly against the snow, his red eyes gleaming like embers in the dim light. His gaze locked onto Ramsay, a deep growl rumbling from his throat before he came to my side. I reached down, scratching behind his ears, feeling the tension in his body ease as he leaned into my touch. A small moment of warmth amidst the cold justice about to unfold.

Ramsay's stare darted between Ghost and me, fear flickering behind his usual arrogance. He understood. This was the end.

"Ramsay Snow," I began, my voice carrying through the stillness of the Godswood, "you stand before the Old Gods accused of unspeakable crimes—murder, torture, rape, kinslaying, and betrayal. You have brought nothing but suffering to the North. As King in the North, I, Jon Snow, pass judgment upon you. The sentence is death. Do you have any last words?"

His lips curled into a smirk, though I could see the cracks running beneath his bravado, the way his jaw trembled just slightly before he mastered it. "You won't believe me, but I'm truly at peace," he said, his voice hoarse yet mocking. "A bastard sits the throne of Winterfell instead of a trueborn son. Knowing that the lords of the North still bow to a bastard even after my death—" He laughed, though there was no humor in it, only the brittle sound of a man performing courage he no longer felt. "That is enough for me."

I held his gaze for a moment before stepping forward. "Then die with that thought in your heart."

With a swift, decisive motion, I thrust my hand through his ribs. Bone gave way beneath my fingers with a sound like a green branch snapping, and flesh tore wetly, the noise drowned out by Ramsay's choked gasp of shock and agony. His eyes went wide, horror replacing every trace of smugness as he looked down to see my arm buried to the wrist in his chest. His body trembled violently, convulsing once, twice, as my fingers found and closed around his still-beating heart.

In one smooth motion, I tore it free. A wet, sickening sound accompanied the sight of blood gushing from the gaping wound, spattering hot across the snow. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body swaying as if his mind still refused to accept what his eyes were telling him.

"Here, boy," I said, tossing the still-pulsing organ to Ghost. The direwolf caught it effortlessly out of the air, his powerful jaws snapping shut as he devoured it with relish, blood dripping from his muzzle onto the white snow. Ramsay, still conscious, watched in abject horror as his own heart was consumed before his eyes. His knees buckled, and he collapsed into the snow, his lips parting in a final, soundless gasp of defeat.

I unsheathed Longclaw. In one clean stroke, I severed his head from his body. The snow beneath him darkened, crimson spreading outward like spilled ink across parchment, steam rising faintly where the hot blood met the cold ground.

I turned to the men standing nearby, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Tossing Ramsay's head toward them, I gave my command. "Mount it on a pike outside the gates. Let all who see it know the fate of the last Bolton."

One of the men caught the head, nodding hastily before hurrying off to carry out my order, careful not to look down at what he held. The gathered lords exchanged glances, some with quiet approval, others with poorly hidden unease. Even those who had only heard tales of my strength now bore witness to the truth of it.

Sansa stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Ramsay's lifeless corpse. She exhaled slowly, relief evident in her posture. "His blood will feed the heart tree," I said. "When the last drop leaves his body, throw what remains to his own hounds."

She nodded in agreement, though I could see the flicker of grim satisfaction in her gaze. Some of the lords looked uneasy at my words, but none spoke against me. One another share the same satisfaction of Sana, that being the Magnar of Thenns.

With the judgment carried out, the gathering began to disperse. The lords departed with nods and short bows, leaving me alone beneath the weirwood. I sat down at its base, pulling a cloth from my belt to clean Longclaw. My thoughts drifted as I watched Ramsay's blood seeping into the roots of the ancient tree. The punishment I had chosen was neither simple nor excessively cruel—it was justice, as the North had always known it. Had I given him to the Thenns, they would have made his death an agonizing lesson in pain, but their particular skills were better suited to those south of the Neck.

I sheathed Longclaw and fastened it to my belt before standing. One last glance at Ramsay's body, and I turned away.

Justice had been served. The North would remember.

Third-Person POV

The wind howled through the Godswood of Winterfell as Jon knelt before the ancient heart tree, its red eyes staring deep into his soul. In his hands, he held a pouch filled with obsidian stones, each imbued with the power of fire sacrifices offered by Melisandre in the name of her Lord. But tonight, they would serve another purpose. Alongside them lay fragments of weirwood bark, roots, and leaves—conduits of the Old Gods, linking past, present, and future through the vast network of trees stretching beyond the Wall.

With deliberate precision, Jon arranged the stones in a circular pattern before the heart tree. Then came the time to draw runes within that circle, a painstaking process demanding perfection. Aether accepted nothing less. A single mistake could send him to an unintended location—or worse, scatter him across the void.

The icy air crackled with energy as he pressed his palm to the trunk, closing his eyes. A deep hum resonated within his bones, a whisper of countless voices lost to time. His blood sang in response, the song of Winter Kings and dragonlords intertwining, guided by something primal—something ancient.

[Speak up.] Aether's voice rang sharply in his mind.

Jon frowned, confusion flickering through him. Then, like an ember catching fire, knowledge unfurled in his mind—words not given by Aether, but drawn from something deeper, something older.

The words came unbidden, instinctual, whispered in a tongue of magic long forgotten.

"By fire and blood, by root and stone, from where I stand to where I've known, let the path through time be shown, weirwood's will, take me home."

Flames erupted from the stones, burning bright and cold, their light flickering in unnatural hues. The world tilted. Jon felt his body wrenched from Winterfell and flung through an abyss of crimson leaves and whispering shadows. The weight of the Old Gods bore down on him as his vision blurred into endless red and white.

Millions of eyes opened around him—no, not millions. There was no end to them. And they were all looking at him, with emotions beyond mortal comprehension.

[Close your eyes before you lose them, you idiot Master. You're not powerful enough to gaze back at them.] Aether's words snapped him from his trance, and Jon squeezed his eyes shut.

Then, with a sudden lurch, he was there.

The cave beneath the great weirwood tree.

He staggered forward, boots crunching on frost-laden dirt. The air was thick with magic, heavy with the scent of age and decay. Bran sat at the center of the cavern, eyes unfocused, lost in a vision. Hodor loomed protectively over him, hands trembling. Meera Reed gripped her spear tightly, her eyes darting toward the passage leading outside. Summer growled low, ears flattened against his skull.

And then there was him—Brynden Rivers, the last greenseer, seated upon his throne of roots and decay. The ghost of a man, his milky red eye fixed upon Jon.

A warmth spread around Jon's eyes and nose. He reached up and felt liquid—thick, warm, and unmistakably blood. He brought his hand forward, staring at the crimson staining his fingers. He wiped his face, shaking his head with a helpless smile.

"Not even a second, and my eyes are bleeding. And here I thought only the Others were strong in this world."

[Another second, and you might have lost your sight permanently. Not even rituals could have restored your eyes.] Aether's words only deepened Jon's sense of insignificance. [You have the potential to rise above all, but power like this is not gained in months or years. Be patient. Work hard.]

Jon clenched his fists, determination burning in him.

"You came sooner than I expected," Bloodraven murmured, his voice like rustling leaves.

"And you're leaving later than you should," Jon shot back, meeting the ancient stare without flinching. "The Others are coming. It's time to go."

Bloodraven studied him for a long moment, his one red eye unblinking. "You have touched the weirwood's power in a way few ever have. Do you understand what you have done? You could have died, and with you, the last hope of the living. And here I thought coming back from the dead might have made you a little less reckless."

"I did what I needed to." Jon's voice hardened. "We don't have time for lectures on what could have been. I can take them all south of the Wall, but we have to leave now."

A rustling came from the shadows. Leaf, leader of the Children of the Forest, stepped forward, her ancient face unreadable. "The trees whisper your name, Jon Snow. They call you something else… something old, something not entirely man."

Jon's jaw clenched. "They do more than whisper. But that conversation can wait. The dead are coming. Will you follow, or will you fall here?"

Leaf exchanged a glance with Bloodraven, something passing between them too old for Jon to read. "My time is at an end, but not my kin's. They will join you, if you will take them." Her gaze slid to Bran, and something in it softened, though her voice did not. "But the boy must live. He carries the future of the greensight. We have lost some of our gifts over time. He is the only one who still possesses it."

Bran stirred then, his eyes refocusing, blinking as if surfacing from deep water. "Jon? You're really here?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, and I'm getting you out." But his gaze lingered on Leaf a moment longer, her words settling like a stone dropped into still water, answering doubts that had lingered in the depths of his mind.

The ground trembled. A distant, inhuman shriek echoed through the cave. Ice and death were near.

Jon turned to Bloodraven. "I don't think we'll ever meet again, old man. If you have any last words, now's the time."

Bloodraven gave him a slow, knowing smirk. "I have done my duty, nephew. Now it's your turn. Winter is almost upon us. A Targaryen is needed to unite the realm against the threat that is coming."

Jon pulled a final stone from his belt, its surface carved with ancient runes. He crushed it between his palms, feeling the magic pulse through his veins. He reached out, grabbing Bran's wrist, motioning for Meera, Hodor, and the remaining Children to do the same. Summer whined, pressing close against Bran's side.

"Close your eyes. Do not open them under any condition until we reach Winterfell."

The heart tree's roots pulsed with energy, the very air twisting around them as Jon whispered the words once more.

"By fire and blood, by root and stone—"

A blinding light consumed them, and the cave beneath the weirwood was left to the silence of the dead.

Jon Snow POV

I stood amidst the Godswood of Winterfell. Around me, Bran, Meera, Hodor, Summer, and nearly fifty of the Children of the Forest stood in silence, their golden, cat-like eyes reflecting the pale moonlight. We had arrived in an instant, torn from the frozen depths of the cave beyond the Wall and delivered into the sacred heart of my ancestors.

I was the first to open my eyes, steadying myself as the residual magic thrummed through my veins. One by one, the others followed, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief.

A sense of relief settled over me, but it was fleeting. I turned to the Children, their small, lithe forms blending with the trees as if they had always belonged there.

"I would have offered you shelter in the halls of Winterfell," I said, my voice carrying in the stillness, "but I imagine you'd rather dwell among the trees than within walls of stone."

One of them stepped forward—a female, judging by her delicate features, much like Leaf, and the sharp intelligence behind her golden eyes. "I am River," she said, her voice like the rustling of leaves. "You have given us safe passage when all seemed lost. In return, we offer you our aid, should you ever need it. Call upon us, and we shall answer." She paused, glancing toward the towering weirwood. "You are right—we will make our home in the forests beyond your great stone keep. May the Old Gods watch over you and keep you from harm."

Without another word, they melted into the darkness, moving with the silent grace of spirits.

"Don't need their eyes on me," I muttered under my breath, watching them disappear into the treeline.

That left just the four of us—Bran, Meera, Hodor, and Summer—standing in the Godswood, the sacred space now eerily quiet.

Before I could speak, Bran did. His eyes, dark and endless, peered into me as if he saw something beyond the here and now. "Jon… or do you prefer Daeron?" His voice was calm, detached, yet heavy with meaning. "You should go to Moat Cailin. Caraxes waits for you there."

I stiffened. "Caraxes?"

Bran nodded, his gaze unfaltering. "He is waiting for you to come to him. Just as you were brought back, so too was he."

My breath hitched. Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm. The fearsome red dragon of Daemon Targaryen. A beast long thought lost to time, now alive again.

[The gift that was promised to you,] Aether's voice echoed in my mind, the weight of its words settling over me like a shroud. [If you are strong enough to claim it.]


Hey, am I uploading right? I do not have any experience with how to upload on this site. So if I'm making any mistakes, then please do point them out, and a small guide on how to correct them would be most welcome.

 

[Thiccc Shaedy]

Hey, am I uploading right? I do not have any experience with how to upload on this site. So if I'm making any mistakes, then please do point them out, and a small guide on how to correct them would be most welcome.

Click to shrink...

So... Chapters go in "Threadmarks" not "Index." Just saying. Feel free to ask a mod for help if you're having problems.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Absolute Cinema
10/10

 

[ketan1578]

So... Chapters go in "Threadmarks" not "Index." Just saying. Feel free to ask a mod for help if you're having problems.

Click to shrink...

Done, all of them are in the Threadmarks. Thank you for pointing it out.

 

[ketan1578]

Jon Snow POV

"Are you an idiot?" Sansa snapped, her fury barely restrained. "What do you think the people who made you king will say when you abandon Winterfell the day after your coronation?"

I met her glare with the same indifferent stare I had learned from the Starks.

"Jon, they will think you're irresponsible. That you're unfit to be King in the North." She shook her head in clear disapproval before sinking back into her chair.

I placed a steady hand on the table, straightening my back as I spoke. "Do you think I don't know that? And yet here I am, asking you to handle things in my absence. What does that tell you, Sansa?"

She exhaled sharply, the fight in her gaze giving way to understanding. "It means that whatever business you have at Moat Cailin is more important to you than the trust of your supporters. I understand that, Jon. But can't you at least tell me what's so important about that ruined castle?"

My expression must have given her the answer she dreaded, because she stood abruptly, gathering her skirts with a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But you had better be back in Winterfell within two days—not a moment more."

"I'll return sooner than that. You have my word." I stood as well, my voice firm.

Sansa gave me a searching look before nodding. She turned toward the door, but I stopped her with a single word.

"Sansa."

She glanced back.

"Thank you."

She only smiled before leaving the chamber.

With a quiet breath, I crossed the room to the far corner and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Carefully, I unwrapped it, revealing the dark, gleaming Valyrian steel of Dark Sister. My fingers traced the ancient blade, admiring its lethal beauty before I fastened it to my belt.

I had no intention of hiding my identity forever. But the truth—who I truly was—needed to be spoken by a man whose word carried weight, not simply because Bran had seen it in his visions.

That was why I had sent a raven to Howland Reed. The original plan had been to gather the Northern lords and have him reveal the truth of my birth. But last night, everything changed.

Bran had spoken of the gift that was promised to me.

A dragon.

With Caraxes at my command, no one would doubt that I had Targaryen blood.

That was why I had called Sansa—to leave Winterfell in her hands for the next two days. Though I could reach Moat Cailin in a single day at the speed I could now travel, I would need rest before facing one of the fiercest dragons in history.

Before standing before Caraxes.

Third-Person POV

The first light of dawn broke over the Neck, casting pale gold across the mist-choked swamps. The ruins of Moat Cailin loomed ahead, jagged stones thrusting from the earth like the bones of some long-dead giant. The air was thick with dampness, heavy with the stench of stagnant water and decaying wood. It was the kind of place where men vanished, swallowed by the land itself.

Jon Snow ran through the morning fog, his cloak damp with dew, his breath visible in the chill. He had taken brief stops to hunt and rest—there was no point rushing into a meeting with a dragon unprepared. The night before, he had hunted with Ghost's help, taking down a stag and roasting the meat beneath the stars. Not that his mind had been at ease.

High Valyrian lessons had continued relentlessly in his head, courtesy of Aether.

[Naejot Māzīs Caraxes,] Aether instructed in that ever-so-patient, ever-so-irritating tone.

Jon had scowled. "Come forth, Caraxes?"

[Correct! Now say it again.]

He had.

It sounded like he was trying to sneeze.

[Impressive. You have now declared yourself a very aggressive goose.]

Jon had sworn, thrown a bone into the fire, and given up for the night.

Now, with Moat Cailin ahead and Caraxes waiting somewhere beyond the mist, his amusement was long gone. His fingers tightened around Dark Sister's hilt as he exhaled, steadying himself.

The blood of the dragon ran through him.

Now was the time to prove it.

Jon felt it before he saw it.

He had been searching through the mist for the past hour, repeating what Aether had taught him, but with no success. Just as he was about to take a brief rest, he felt it.

A presence. Ancient. Immense. His enhanced sense screamed at him to run before it came any closer.

Something vast lay ahead, slumbering beneath the mist. He moved forward cautiously, Ghost at his side, silent and alert.

Then the fog thinned, and the ruins revealed the beast.

Caraxes lay stretched across the ruins, his long, sinuous body draped over the broken towers like a serpent basking in the morning sun. Crimson scales shimmered as he shifted, wings rustling, his elongated neck curled lazily across the stones. His tail flicked once, shattering loose rock, before he settled again.

The dragon's golden eyes flicked toward Jon.

And then—

Dismissal.

A slow exhale. A flicker of his tail. A shift of his massive form that spoke not of wariness, not of curiosity—merely disinterest.

Jon stepped closer. "Dohaerās, Caraxes."

The dragon did not move.

Jon took another step, his boots crunching against the gravel. He knew he was potentially walking to his death, but did he care? No, he fucking wanted this dragon.

Still nothing.

Ghost growled low, ears flattening. Jon understood the warning. The dragon's indifference was not an invitation—it was a declaration.

Caraxes did not see a rider before him.

He saw a wolf that had wandered too close.

Jon exhaled sharply, fingers twitching over the pommel of Dark Sister. He had expected resistance, but this was something else entirely.

A deep rumble vibrated through Caraxes's chest, low and thunderous, the kind that made bones shudder. A flicker of heat curled from his nostrils, an unspoken warning.

And still, Jon stepped forward.

But there was no movement from Caraxes, and Jon was no fool. He knew when he was being ignored.

His grip on Dark Sister tightened.

Something inside him snapped.

Jon surged forward, boots slamming against the stone. The sudden motion made Caraxes pause, one wing twitching, his gaze flicking back to him.

Jon lunged for the saddle rope wrapped around Caraxes's wing.

Caraxes moved like lightning.

The dragon's head shot up, his maw opening wide, and then—

Fire.

A roaring inferno, crimson and unrelenting, engulfed Jon in an instant. The roar rattled his teeth; the force of it shook the ground, heat curling into the sky, turning the air into a shimmering haze. Behind him, Ghost scrambled back with a yelp. Jon's clothes were the first to go, black wool and leather flaring to ash in a single breath.

Jon's breath caught. The flames roared around him, but there was no pain. No burning.

The heat licked at his skin, but it did not consume him—just as it hadn't the two times before.

He stood in the fire, unmoving.

And when the flames died, he still stood.

Only naked this time.

Caraxes stared.

For the first time, the dragon hesitated.

Jon could feel it. He had his attention now.

Breathing hard, he started to move again. A growl rippled through Caraxes's throat, and his wings flared. A beat of his wings sent dust and debris scattering.

"Lykirī, Caraxes," Jon said.

The words had an effect. Caraxes calmed—if only for a moment—before his posture stiffened again.

Jon did not falter.

One step.

Two.

Then—

A moment.

A shift.

Something clicked between them, a thread snapping taut, binding something ancient and deep.

Caraxes stilled.

Jon saw it in his eyes—that flicker of recognition, of something changing.

A sound rumbled through the dragon's chest.

Not anger.

Not irritation.

Acceptance.

The great beast lowered his head, his massive snout mere feet from Jon. Close enough to see the heat rising from his nostrils, close enough to feel the weight of his breath.

Jon did not move.

Slowly, he raised a hand, placing it against Caraxes's scales. Warmth spread through him, comfort wrapping around his very being. He leaned toward Caraxes's snout, letting the sensation wash over him.

If someone had asked Jon what he felt in that moment beyond warmth and comfort, his answer would have been simple:

Alive.

For the first time since coming into this world, Jon Snow—no, not Jon Snow, but Daeron Targaryen—felt truly alive.

And he did not want to let go of this feeling.

The Neck

Caraxes's wings sliced through the morning mist, his massive form casting a shadow over the land below. Jon held on tightly, the wind rushing past him as his muscles instinctively adjusted to the flight. After putting on the spare clothes he had brought with him, he had quickly taken to the sky with Caraxes.

And it felt right.

Like something he had always known. Like something that had been waiting for him to remember.

Far below, the Neck stretched into the horizon—swamps, rivers, and ruins fading into the distance.

And then—

A vast encampment.

Banners of the Vale flapped in the wind.

Jon's grip tightened on the saddle-spine.

Caraxes rumbled beneath him, sensing his rider's intent. "Lykirī, Caraxes. Lykirī." Caraxes, who had been diving with the intent to flame the men down below, calmed at Jon's command, and Jon steered him northward with a few other High Valyrian words learned from Aether.

Jon Snow POV

It took Caraxes only a few hours to carry me from the Neck back to Winterfell. We soared over the Wolfswood, the wind roaring in my ears, the world below a blur of green and white. Once we neared Winterfell, I guided Caraxes toward a secluded cave, hidden deep within the forest—a temporary home for him, away from prying eyes.

As we landed, I dismounted from the saddle I had been strapped into for what felt like forever, though it had only been half a day. The moment my boots hit the ground, I turned toward Caraxes, stepping closer to his massive snout. My hand brushed over the smooth crimson scales, a silent farewell.

Caraxes growled low as I turned to leave, his displeasure vibrating through the air like a distant roll of thunder.

"I'll be back soon, Caraxes," I said—not in High Valyrian, since my grasp of the language wasn't strong enough for that yet, but he understood all the same. His great serpentine neck dropped heavily onto the ground, golden eyes following me as I walked away.

I glanced back one last time before sprinting toward Winterfell.

I had landed in the Wolfswood rather than the castle itself for obvious reasons—revealing Caraxes's presence now would cause chaos, and not because I was looking to make a grand entrance before every Northern lord when they arrived. No, Ser, I'm not that vain.

So, where was I? Ah, yes—back at Winterfell, where the Northern lords would soon arrive to swear fealty. But before that, I needed a better understanding of the current political situation in the Seven Kingdoms.

From what I'd observed so far, this world seemed to be a strange mix of the books and the show from my old world. The Vale army, for instance, should be marching north by now—not camping in the Neck. And yet I had seen their banners there.

Something wasn't adding up.

And I knew exactly who would have the answers I needed.

Brandon Stark, here I come.

Jon Snow POV

I sighed, turning my gaze out of the window as dusk crept over the snow-covered fields. The creeping darkness mirrored my own thoughts. In the chamber with me, Bran sat silently, watching me with that same blank stare, as if he were speaking to a stranger.

After returning to Winterfell, I had eaten a modest meal before making my way here. Bran had been more than willing to tell me all he knew about the Seven Kingdoms, and as he spoke, my suspicions about this world were only further confirmed—it was a mix of the books and the show.

Some figures absent from the show existed here—Aurane Waters, who after stealing the Crown's fleet had sailed to the Stepstones, while Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell were active in their respective domains. Their presence had altered the timeline in ways I had yet to fully grasp. But for the most part, things followed the show's events rather than the books'.

"Bran, can you warg into dragons?" I asked, the question that had been on my mind for some time. Bran only looked at me with one brow raised, as if to say I should know the answer.

"My bond with Caraxes is new, and I haven't tried to warg into him yet," I replied to his unasked question.

"It is not possible," Bran said. "A warg or skinchanger will never be able to skinchange into a dragon. Even greenseers, who are more powerful than them, cannot do it. Dragons were created by the magic of the Valyrians, and they ensured that none could control their powerful weapons except themselves."

That sounds like the Valyrians.

"I think you might succeed in skinchanging into Caraxes, with dragon blood in your veins. However, I can't say for certain, as Brynden, with all his experience in magic, couldn't fully understand the bond that exists between a dragon and its rider."

"I will certainly try," I said, resting a hand on Dark Sister, which lay across my lap. "Bran, it was your dream to become a knight like Ser Barristan, no?" His eyes widened slightly in surprise, a flicker of old emotions passing across his otherwise impassive face. Sadness. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that eerie, knowing calm.

"Aye, I had that dream. But it seems the gods had another plan for me. They wanted me to fly and see far-off things, rather than walk and experience them," Bran said, looking down at his legs, which were covered in fur.

As he turned his gaze back to me, I mentioned the reason I had started this conversation. "I assume you've seen what I'm capable of now, after coming back, I mean." Bran nodded in response. "I could restore your legs to health again, if that is something you desire. I know you wouldn't be able to escape this three-eyed raven business. But no one said you couldn't become a ser while saving the world from darkness with your expertise." I smiled at him, waiting to hear his response.

Bran's expression didn't change, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of hope buried beneath the cold.

"You of all people should know that doing magic always comes with a price," Bran said. "Granted, those of us with certain bloodlines pay less than others. Nevertheless, after a certain point, I will no longer have dreams or emotions. The more I see, the more I merge with the weirwood, and soon I will cease to be Bran Stark and instead become the Three-Eyed Raven." Even as he spoke of this, his tone and expression remained devoid of emotion.

His words sent a shiver down my spine. "Why?" I demanded. "Why go so deep? We know the threats we face. We know how to stop them. You only need to warg into ravens and track their movements—that should be enough."

Bran furrowed his brow and looked at me with curiosity, which confused me. But what he said next came as a shock: "Did the gods not tell you that what you saw at Hardhome is only the beginning?" His question stirred many emotions within me, but I managed to maintain my composure. I laughed bitterly in my mind, realizing I had been a fool to think I would only have to deal with politics and White Necromancers in this world.

Before I could respond, Bran continued, "Our world holds many buried secrets, Daeron. The Long Night will be a time when these buried ghosts attempt to annihilate the living. As the Three-Eyed Raven, I have the power to learn about their origins and weaknesses, to help you defeat them or drive them back. These walkers, a threat created by the Children of the Forest, are nothing compared to what awaits us in the future."

I sighed; this was just what I needed to hear right now. "If it's any consolation, you might be relieved to know that we have a few years before this chain of events begins. And you won't be alone in carrying the burden of being a savior."

Before I could ask him what he meant by that, the chamber door creaked open.

Sansa and Rickon entered, wrapped in thick fur and leathers, the cold growing harsher by the day.

"Jon!" Rickon cried, dashing forward to hug me before plopping down in the chair beside me.

Sansa took her seat next to Bran, her keen eyes flickering between us. "What were you two talking about?" Rickon asked, curious.

He grinned, eager to hear whatever secrets his older brothers had been discussing. His recovery had been slow, but the constant presence of family had helped draw him out of the shell he had built around himself after Shaggydog's death.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" I said. "We were talking about Ghost. I have sent Ghost to the Wolfswood to become the leader of a pack of wolves. Although these wolves won't grow as large as your departed companions, they will defend you from threats with the same ferocity as direwolves." Hearing this, Sansa looked doubtful, but since she didn't voice any disapproval, I believed there was still a chance she might try to bond with one of them.

"You're the best brother ever, Jon," Rickon said happily, almost jumping out of his chair. "When will Ghost come back?" he asked, trying not to seem impatient, but his body language said otherwise.

Sansa and I laughed at his antics, and although it might not have been noticeable to outsiders, there was a small smile on Bran's face as he watched Rickon happy again. Rickon then began to share stories about his time with Shaggydog, describing how he had experienced the world through Shaggydog's eyes. We all started to recount stories from the time we were separated, omitting the more difficult parts.

"Jon, the ravens bearing replies from the lords of the North arrived while you were out," Sansa said, after Rickon had gone to the kitchen to satisfy his hunger. Now only the three of us were left in the chamber. "Almost all the houses have replied, except for House Ryswell and House Dustin. House Tallhart also hasn't sent any word, but there are rumors that some no-name Ironborn has taken control of Torrhen's Square."

Ryswell and Dustin's lack of response was somewhat expected, given the grudge the current Lady Dustin held. It stemmed from either Lord Brandon Stark, my uncle, not marrying her, or Lord Eddard Stark not bringing back the body of her husband. As for Ryswell, it was her maiden house, which had been slighted when she was passed over in favor of House Tully. That man was too ambitious for me to let him remain in power. Their fate was all but decided: both houses would be replaced by loyal men. Regarding Torrhen's Square, it would only take one visit from me, or a few men, to deal with the Ironborn.

"They are not just rumors, Sansa. It is Dagmer Cleftjaw, the master-at-arms of House Greyjoy, who has taken control of Torrhen's Square. Additionally, the brother and daughter of the previous Lord Tallhart are still held captive in their own keep," Bran said. Sansa raised an eyebrow but nodded, storing away the information he had provided.

"Nevertheless, all the lords will be arriving in a few weeks. Therefore, I advise you to decide what to do with Last Hearth. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to oversee their accommodations, as some of them will be arriving next week." With that, she took her leave, reminding me once again about Last Hearth. I sighed and stood up, preparing to leave, as I needed to get ready for the bloodline-enhancing ritual. That was also one of the reasons I had sent Ghost to take on a leadership role; I needed the heart of an alpha as part of the ingredients.

"We will discuss the threats you mentioned at a later date, just the two of us, with wine cups in hand." Those were the words I left Bran with before closing the door to his chambers.

Third-Person POV

The Wolfswood was quiet, the night air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. A bitter wind howled through the trees, yet Jon Snow barely felt it. He stood at the edge of a clearing, just beyond the yawning mouth of a great cave where Caraxes slumbered. The firelight from a small brazier flickered, sending shadows dancing across the snow. Beside it, the heart of the alpha wolf, still warm, lay among the other ritual ingredients.

Ghost prowled the clearing's edge, his white fur a ghostly blur against the snow, his dark red eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then he stopped. His ears pricked forward, his body tense. He stared into the treeline, sensing something Jon could not yet see.

The sound of rustling leaves followed.

Jon turned sharply, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. From the depths of the forest, a figure stepped forth—small, slight, and otherworldly. A Child of the Forest. Their skin was the color of earth, their golden eyes luminous in the dark. Their hands—three fingers and a thumb—curled around a small wooden bowl. Inside, a thick liquid swirled—a red deeper than blood, richer, alive.

The Child tilted their head, studying him with an expression caught between curiosity and reverence.

"We sang to the earth," they murmured, their voice a melody more than speech. "It listened. And gave us this."

They lifted the bowl for Jon to see.

"It is old magic—of root and stone, of blood and time. Drink, and your song will be heard clearer."

Jon hesitated, but only for a breath. Then he stepped forward, taking the bowl with careful hands. The liquid within was warm despite the night's chill, and its scent filled his senses—earth after rain, weirwood sap, something ancient and knowing.

And then the ground trembled.

A heavy thud, then another. The deep shadows within the cave stirred as something vast moved within them. A low, rolling growl like distant thunder rumbled through the clearing.

Caraxes unfurled from the darkness, his massive wings stretching wide as he emerged, molten eyes locking onto the Child. His long, sinuous neck arched as he exhaled, sending a gust of heat into the freezing air, melting the frost at his feet. His growls were high-pitched and guttural, filled with something unreadable.

Yet the Child did not flinch. Instead, they placed a hand upon their chest and bowed their head in quiet acknowledgment.

Caraxes loomed over them, nostrils flaring as he took in their scent. A long moment stretched, thick with silent meaning. And then, to Jon's astonishment, the great dragon lowered his head—not in submission, but in recognition.

The Child turned back to Jon, their golden eyes gleaming like embers in the night.

"Sing your song, Stark." Their voice was like wind through leaves, like whispers in old stone. "The earth will listen. For yours is the Song of Ice and Fire. The song of the world."

Jon nodded and stepped into the ritual circle he had prepared. The brazier's flames flared higher as he crushed the wolf's heart into the thick weirwood sap, mixing it with the scales of Caraxes and the latest gift the Children had given him. The ice taken from Winterfell's crypts rested within the mixture, absorbing its power, the whole bowl steaming faintly in the cold night air.

Kneeling, he dipped his fingers into the thickened liquid, tracing it over his heart, down his arms, and across his brow. The substance was pure white, and after Aether's confirmation, he knew he had drawn everything correctly. Taking a deep breath, Jon moved to the center of the ritual circle he had inscribed beforehand and sat.

As soon as he settled, a pulse of energy thrummed through the clearing, a vibration that sank deep into his bones. The brazier's flames twisted and flickered—orange shifting to blue, then to something more ethereal, a shimmer of shifting hues. The wind howled through the trees, and Ghost tilted his head back, letting out a long, haunting cry that echoed through the Wolfswood.

Jon, however, remained focused. He picked up the knife at his side and dragged it across his palm, opening a deep gash. Blood welled up, crimson and hot, spilling onto the circle he had carved into the ground. The ritual circle now gleamed as if drawn in blood. Jon hesitated for a brief moment before allowing a few drops of his own blood to fall into the bowl.

He frowned. Why did these rituals always demand that he drink something unnatural? Yet he already knew the answer. Steeling himself, he lifted the bowl and brought it to his lips.

The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he felt it—heat and cold, burning and freezing all at once, searing through his veins, numbing his lungs, igniting something deep within. His vision blurred, the world around him dissolving into shadows and light, into something ancient and primal stirring within him.

And for a moment, he saw.

A wolf, standing upon a field of snow, eyes like his own, piercing and fierce.

A dragon, wings unfurled, roaring into a crimson sky.

A weirwood tree, its carved face weeping red tears, whispering his name.

Then the vision shattered, and Jon collapsed, gasping for breath, his whole body seizing as though the cold had reached his bones from the inside. Ghost was beside him in an instant, pressing his great head against him. Caraxes loomed overhead, wings half-mantled, watching with an understanding far too deep for a mere beast.

Jon clenched his fists, but his body would not respond. He could not stand, could not even twitch his fingers.

He was changed. How, he did not yet know. But the helplessness of being unable to control his own body irritated him far more than it should. He lay on the snow-covered ground, staring up at the stars and the moon hanging high in the darkened sky, surrounded by the quiet peace of nature.

Distantly, wolves howled, but Jon remained unworried. Ghost was with him, and even if he weren't, Caraxes's mere presence was enough to ward off most predators lurking in the Wolfswood.

"Aether, I know you told me that changes would be slow, but I didn't expect this," Jon murmured, more out of boredom than complaint. Sleep refused to come, and he had already studied the stars enough for one night.

[Well, you'd be surprised by what I found.] Aether's voice echoed in his mind. [Half an hour after the ritual, I suddenly felt your bond with Caraxes deepen. It's grown so strong that I can now access his memories.]

Jon would have jolted upright if he could, but in his current state, he could only express his shock through words. "What? How can you access his memories?"

[As you already know, I'm bound to your soul. And a dragon's bond with its rider? It's also a connection between souls. When your link with Caraxes deepened during the ritual, it allowed me to tap into his memories—just as I can access yours.]

Jon's mind whirled. A bond between souls... He had known that dragon and rider shared a connection, but to have it confirmed as something so profound? It was both wondrous and terrifying.

[But that's not even the most surprising part,] Aether continued, her voice laced with curiosity. [Caraxes blocked me from viewing certain memories. He deliberately hid them from me.]

That, more than anything, made Jon pause. Dragons were ancient, powerful, and intelligent in ways humans barely understood. But for Caraxes to consciously restrict access to his memories? That implied awareness far beyond even what Jon had expected.

Jon exhaled slowly. "With every new morning, I learn that this world holds more than meets the eye." He let his thoughts settle before speaking again. "Aether, I trust you're already looking into more information on bonds—and on Caraxes himself?"

[I'm already on it, Master,] Aether confirmed in her usual blank tone.

Jon let his eyes drift closed, exhaustion finally creeping in. But before sleep claimed him, another thought took root in his mind.

"Aether, I think it's time we expand our focus beyond rituals. After speaking with Bran, I've been considering delving into potion-making."

[I only have knowledge and information about rituals,] Aether admitted. [But we could approach potion-making through trial and error.]

Jon smirked faintly, even as sleep finally tugged at him. "Then we'll begin experimenting soon."

And with that, he let the darkness take him.

Jon Snow POV

I stood over the railing, gazing down at the courtyard as servants bustled about and armored men went about their duties. It had been a week and a half since I performed the ritual enhancing my bloodline abilities. Aether had warned me that it would take time for the magic of both my bloodlines to manifest. She was right. Over the past week, my warging abilities had strengthened to an astonishing degree—I could now warg into the entire wolf pack Ghost led, controlling them with ease.

But it wasn't just warging. Dreams had begun to haunt me these last few nights. At first, I dismissed them as fragments of my imagination, mere echoes of my thoughts. That changed the moment I saw the grey-haired man arriving at Winterfell alongside Lord Reed and those we had presumed dead at the Twins. I had seen this very man in my dreams, standing beside me, though his face had remained obscured. His arrival confirmed what I had suspected—my Targaryen blood carried more than just dragons. It carried dreams. Yet, oddly enough, this had been the only prophetic vision I had received in the past week.

"It is time, Your Grace. They have all assembled in the Great Hall," came a voice beside me. I turned to see Ser Davos standing there, his hands clasped behind his back. I gave him a nod before stepping away from the railing and heading toward the hall, with the Onion Knight following closely behind.

"Do you think my reign as king ends today, Ser Davos?" I asked, a small smile playing on my lips. Davos mirrored my expression, amused by my nonchalance.

After a moment's pause, he finally spoke. "The North is quite different from the South, Your Grace, as I have come to learn in my short time here. If they did not deem you just and worthy, they would never have crowned you in the first place."

His words would have been reassuring, if he had known what was about to unfold.

As we entered the Great Hall, Davos gave me a reassuring nod before taking his place among the gathered lords. I strode toward the high table where the Starks sat, their faces cold and unreadable. Along the way, I felt the weight of curious and uncertain gazes upon me—no doubt drawn to the sword at my side. Though Dark Sister was not as renowned as Blackfyre, it was still a legendary blade, and those who knew its hilt would recognize it.

Sansa's voice rang through the hall, quiet yet firm. "Since nearly all the lords and masters of the North are here, I believe we should begin by reaffirming our fealty to the King. Other matters can follow."

A murmur spread through the room as the gathered lords exchanged glances, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. Then Maege Mormont rose to her feet, and a hushed shock rippled through the hall at the sight of her alive, several lords half-rising from their seats as if to be sure their own eyes weren't deceiving them. Lord Reed and his company had arrived mere hours ago, and while some had seen them enter Winterfell, others had yet to be informed.

"I bear a decree entrusted to me by King Robb himself, one that Lord Glover and I were charged with delivering to every Northern lord. Do I have your leave, my King?" she asked, her gaze locked onto mine.

I nodded, fully aware of what was coming.

She unrolled a parchment bearing the direwolf seal, and all eyes were drawn to it as she read aloud, her voice carrying clean and unwavering to every corner of the hall:

"By my word as King of the North, let it be known to all lords and vassals of these lands:

With my sisters, Sansa and Arya Stark, held in the clutches of our enemies, and my brothers, Bran and Rickon Stark, slain by the treachery of Theon Greyjoy, the line of House Stark grows perilously thin.

Thus, I, Robb of House Stark, King in the North, do hereby decree:

First, my brother, Jon Snow, is freed from his oaths to the Night's Watch, for no man should be bound by duty when his family and his people have need of him.

Henceforth, Jon Snow shall be known as Jon Stark, my trueborn brother and rightful heir to Winterfell and the North. Let no man call him a bastard, nor question his claim..."

As she finished listing the names of those who had witnessed Robb's decree—most of whom were now dead—an uneasy silence settled over the hall, broken only by the shifting of feet and the creak of old benches.

Then Lady Lyessa Flint of Widow's Watch broke it. "Would King Robb have still named his half-brother as heir, if he had known that his trueborn brothers were alive? That Lady Sansa had safely returned to the North, beyond the grasp of the golden-haired cunts in the South?"

Murmurs erupted once more as the lords debated amongst themselves, voices rising and overlapping until the hall was a low roar.

"I have heard of how you reclaimed Winterfell from the Boltons, King Jon. If nothing else, it proves King Robb was not wrong in naming you his heir," Lady Mormont declared, moving to kneel before me.

But I stopped her.

"Wait, Lady Mormont."

Confusion flickered across her face as all eyes turned to me, the murmuring dying into an expectant hush. I swept my gaze across the room until I found Howland Reed, standing at the far end of the table, staring at me like he was seeing a ghost.

"Before you kneel and crown me king, I believe it is time you all knew the truth of my parentage."

The murmurs intensified as anticipation and bewilderment rippled through the gathered lords. To them, I was about to reveal the name of Ned Stark's supposed lover—the woman they assumed had birthed his bastard.

"Jon, I don't think this is the time or place…" Sansa whispered urgently beside me, her hand brushing my sleeve.

I met her gaze and whispered back, "Trust me." Reluctantly, she leaned back into her seat, though her fingers stayed knotted in her lap.

"I could have hidden the truth and accepted the crown as Jon Stark. Neither Bran nor Rickon would have opposed me. And the secret Eddard Stark took to his grave would have remained buried. But I was raised here, in the North—a land of hard people, where honor and honesty are valued over treachery and deceit, unlike the South."

A chorus of "Aye" rang out in the hall as many lords nodded in approval, fists thumping against tables in Northern agreement.

"I will not sugarcoat my words. I have recently learned that I am not the son of Eddard Stark. Though Stark blood flows in my veins, it comes from another child of Rickard Stark."

Chaos erupted. Lords shouted over one another, some calling me mad, others blaming the Free Folk, with Tormund shifting into a defensive stance near the doors, one hand drifting to his axe. Sansa and Rickon stared at me, their faces etched with confusion and betrayal.

It was Lord Harald Karstark who finally raised his voice over the din, cutting through it like a blade. "Then who is your parent, Jon Snow?"

I met his gaze and let the silence stretch a beat before I answered. "I am the son of Lyanna Stark."

Recognition dawned on Maege Mormont's face as realization set in, her expression shifting from confusion to something closer to awe. I slammed my hand onto the table, the wood cracking under the force, the sound ringing out sharp enough to silence the room outright. The hall fell silent.

"Before you spiral into more murmurs and whispers, let us ask the one man who was there and whom you all trust—Lord Howland Reed. Step forward."

Every eye turned to the crannogman, who let out a sigh before rising from his seat and making his way toward the high table, the sound of his boots against the stone floor the only thing breaking the stillness.

 

[Lillie Jones]

Absolute Cinema
10/10

 

[ketan1578]

Jon Snow POV

Howland Reed stood before the High Table, bowing before he spoke. "I thought Lord Eddard never told you about your parentage, Your Grace."

Though framed as a question, his tone held no curiosity—only a need for confirmation, not an answer.

"He promised to tell me when we met again." I met his gaze, letting my words settle. "But that day never came. I only learned the truth after being given another chance to live."

I deliberately mentioned my resurrection. Lord Reed nodded in understanding, but his clenched fists betrayed his true emotions.

"I came to Winterfell before King Robert Baratheon rode north to name Eddard Stark as Hand," Howland continued. "I knew you wished to take the black and urged him to tell you the truth before you did. But it seems he chose otherwise—for the realm's stability."

A hush fell over the hall. Lords and ladies exchanged glances, their expressions darkening at the implications of Howland's words. Maege Mormont and several other Northern lords frowned, realizing what it meant.

"It matters little now," he continued. "The realm that Ned Stark tried to protect returned his efforts with betrayal and treachery. They disrespected his honor, slaughtered his family, and turned against one another—never realizing that he had sent his own nephew to the Wall, believing it would prevent the realm from descending into war."

"Ned, you fool," Maege muttered under her breath, loud enough for all to hear.

I couldn't help but smile, remembering Jeor Mormont's words about his sister—short-tempered and willful, indeed.

Then Lord Howland turned to the gathered lords and recounted the truth of the Tower of Joy. How Varys had provided them with information. How he, Eddard, and a handful of men had ridden south, only to find a lone tower standing amidst the desert—where Rhaegar Targaryen had kept Lyanna Stark, guarded by three Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull; Ser Oswell Whent; and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

Howland spoke of the battle that followed—the clash of steel, the blood spilled. And how he and Eddard Stark had taken down Arthur Dayne.

Murmurs filled the hall. Faces darkened at the mention of striking the legendary knight down. Accusatory stares turned to Howland Reed, but he remained unmoved, continuing his tale.

How, after the battle, he had gone into the tower when Eddard did not return. How he found Ned Stark grieving, his sister lying lifeless upon blood-soaked sheets, her eyes vacant. How a wet nurse stood nearby, holding a wailing babe in her arms.

How, when Eddard came back to himself, he took the child and named him Jon Snow—to hide his true name, to shield him from Robert's wrath.

"But I demanded to know what Lyanna had named her son," Howland said, voice steady. "She was my friend, and I had the right to know."

The hall was silent, every eye fixed on him.

"And when Eddard spoke the name, I could not breathe a word of it. Not until we had left that accursed tower."

Howland took a breath before uttering the name that changed everything.

"Daeron Targaryen. Trueborn son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—the Last Dragon—and Lady Lyanna Stark. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne, with his siblings butchered in the Red Keep. Those three Kingsguard did not hold Lyanna captive; they were there to protect the last hope of House Targaryen."

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

All eyes turned to me. I met their stares evenly.

Lady Barbrey Dustin rose abruptly, her voice ringing with fury. "So you mean to tell me the rebellion was built on a lie? That thousands died because a married prince and a girl of sixteen ran off without telling anyone?"

She and Lord Ryswell had arrived at Winterfell without prior notice. They'd claimed the raven might have been lost, as an excuse for their sudden appearance, and then secluded themselves in their chambers for a day, avoiding us like the plague. Their secret meeting with other Northern lords, however, had not gone unnoticed by Sansa and me. Sansa had persuaded me to give them one chance to bend the knee, and so here we were.

"You would do well to hold your tongue, my lady. In fact, Lady Lyanna sent a raven to Riverrun for her brother and father after she married Prince Rhaegar before the Old Gods."

The voice was unfamiliar. A man with graying hair and dark indigo eyes stepped forward. I studied him closely—nothing about him reminded me of any character from the show, as I couldn't place any distinctive facial features. The only thing I could say was that he belonged to noble birth, his features too sharp and refined for anything but aristocracy.

"Who are you?" Lady Barbrey snapped. "And how do you know if they did or not?"

Howland Reed answered for him. "He is Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."

Gasps rippled through the hall.

I, too, stared in shock.

"You said you killed him," Galbart Glover said slowly, eyes narrowed at Howland.

Howland let out a humorless chuckle. "Aye, I struck him down. But there was still life in him. I begged my liege to spare him. And he agreed—on the condition that we tell House Dayne he was dead, until he swore to keep Daeron's identity secret."

He exhaled. "But Ser Arthur never woke. He lingered on the edge of life, trapped in a sleep he could not escape." His gaze darkened. "Until King Robert came to Winterfell."

Ser Arthur stepped forward with a noticeable limp. He knelt, using his sword for support. "Forgive me, my king." His voice was steady despite the strain on his body. "If only I had woken sooner, I might have convinced you not to take the black by revealing the truth. But when I finally opened my eyes, I found myself broken. I could not even walk. I was ashamed to stand before you, knowing I would never serve you as I once served your father."

I studied him for a moment before smiling. "Rise, Ser Arthur."

His head lifted, surprise flickering in his expression before he slowly stood.

"You have nothing to seek pardon for, Ser. And you will not be retiring from your duties just yet."

He blinked.

"The gods have seen fit to grant me certain… gifts," I continued, letting my words sink in. "With one of them, I can restore your strength—if you will honor me with your service." The gifts I was referring to were potions I'd been attempting to create for Bran. After many trials and errors, and with Aether's assistance, I had successfully developed one: a healing potion. It healed nearly all physical injuries for anyone who drank it. It was not miraculous—it wouldn't heal a person instantly—but taking regular doses over the course of a moon would restore health significantly.

A long silence stretched between us.

Then Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, nodded. And when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of solemn devotion.

"It would be my utmost honor, Your Grace."

I smiled. "Then take your seat, Ser Arthur. We will have much to discuss after this."

Lord Ryswell's voice rang through the Great Hall, pointed and sharp. "So, do you mean to go for the Iron Throne, King Daeron?"

Every pair of eyes turned toward me—some judging, some hopeful, others unreadable. The weight of their gazes pressed upon me, yet I straightened my posture, meeting them with unwavering resolve.

"Aye! I will go for the Iron Throne," I declared. The silence that followed was not welcoming, so I continued, my voice steady but fierce. "Not for myself. But for the North! For men! For the whole of humanity! I have seen what is coming, and the realm must stand united if we are to have any hope of survival. It is for this battle that I have been given a second chance. And so I will unite the realm—alone if I must. But hear me well: I will fight for the living!"

My voice rose with each word until I was nearly shouting. The hall, once tense with uncertainty, now rippled with murmurs.

"House Reed will stand with you, Your Grace," Howland Reed spoke first, bowing his head in solemn respect.

Lady Flint, however, remained skeptical. "But surely a united North could face them? And there is still the Wall, miles long, between us and them."

I let out a mirthless chuckle. "Do you truly understand what we are up against, Lady Flint? More than a hundred thousand dead men, not counting their monstrous beasts. Hundreds of giants like the ones you saw outside. Spiders the size of hounds, their riders more skilled than even the finest knights of the Seven Kingdoms. And the cold they bring—it drains the strength from living men, leaving them weak before they're torn apart. The Free Folk and I saw only a fraction of their might at Hardhome. Gods only know how much stronger they've grown since then."

The reaction was instant. Horror and fear flickered across the faces of the gathered lords.

"King Jon, you must be exaggerating—" Lord Cerwyn began, but Tormund cut him off with a snort. "He is not! I was there! Every Free Folk survivor standing among us was there. Ask any one of them, and they'll tell you the same tale King Crow speaks of now."

"How are we to survive this?"

"Only the gods can help us now."

"They have helped us, you fools—that's why they brought the Stark back!"

"But even he is only one man. How could he save us alone?"

Murmurs of uncertainty and disbelief spread like wildfire, but then Lord Ryswell stood, his tone defiant. "How do we know you speak the truth? What proof do we have that you are not merely using the wildlings to further your own ambitions? That you are not using us to seize the Iron Throne for yourself?"

His words drew scoffs from several lords, for he was denying what thousands had already witnessed with their own eyes. But I had expected such doubt, and I was prepared.

"I knew there would be those who refused to believe my word—or that of the Free Folk. That is why I have invited guests you may find harder to dismiss."

I nodded toward the Free Folk standing by the doors. A moment later, the great wooden doors swung open, and in walked a figure so unexpected that gasps filled the hall.

River, a child of the forest, moved with graceful steps toward the high table, her presence an echo of an age long past. Many lords stood in shock, and some even bowed, instinctively recognizing her from tales they'd heard as children.

She inclined her head toward me respectfully before turning to address the gathered lords.

"Greetings, children of men. I am River. The son of Ice and Fire has called me here to warn you of the threat that stirs beyond the Wall. I am surprised that you still doubt him. Have you forgotten the words of the Starks, passed down through the generations? Winter is coming. And with it, death. The Others. If you do not unite now, there will be no realm left to rule. Prepare to fight for survival, as your ancestors once did in the Age of Heroes."

Her voice, melodic yet firm, carried a weight no man could dismiss. The Great Hall fell into hushed contemplation, and then—

"We named Robb Stark King in the North, because the South has never cared for us except when they need us to fight their petty conflicts," Maege Mormont said, stepping forward. "But now we have an heir to the Iron Throne who was raised in the North. He grew up in Winterfell, among the Starks. He prays to the Old Gods, just as we do. He adheres to the Old Ways, as we do. I propose we place him on the Iron Throne and allow a man of the North to rule the Seven Kingdoms!"

With that, she slammed her spiked mace onto the ground, knelt, and bellowed, "Daeron Targaryen! Our King from the North!"

A roar of voices followed:

"King from the North!"

"Our King from the North!"

"The Targaryen King from the North!"

"Dragon King of the North!"

As the chants echoed through the hall, I knew it was time. Time to reveal the final gift the gods had given me.

The chorus of voices began to die down, and then, piercing the silence, a high-pitched roar split the air. A sound so alien, so powerful, that every lord and lady stiffened in shock.

I turned and walked toward the Great Hall's doors. "Follow me," I commanded in a quiet but firm voice.

Though confusion and shock flickered across their faces, they obeyed.

Outside, the midday sun shone high in the sky, but its light was soon swallowed by an immense shadow.

I spread my arms wide and proclaimed, "Lords of the North! Let me introduce you to one of the gifts the Old Gods have given us to fight the coming darkness. You may have read of him in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms—a beast so ferocious his name alone struck fear into the hearts of men. Behold, Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm!"

From the clouds above, a monstrous figure dived, his crimson scales glinting in the sunlight. With a deafening roar, Caraxes folded his wings, plummeting toward the ground before unfurling them at the last moment. This sent a gust of cold wind rippling through the gathered crowd. Another thunderous roar shook the land beneath us, and as the mighty dragon soared overhead, his vast shadow engulfed the Great Hall and all who stood before it.

The lords of the North stared up at him, awe and wonder written upon their faces.

The North had chosen its king. And the world would soon know of the Northern dragon who would fight for the living.

Sansa Stark POV

Sansa placed a piece of honeyed meat in her mouth, savoring the taste as her eyes flicked to the side, lingering on the lemon cake resting on the table. It had already been ravaged—half gone—by none other than Tormund, Jon's wildling friend, who had taken a small bite and apparently enjoyed it too much. But Sansa would not stand for this. She did not share her lemon cakes, not with Arya, not with anyone. So who did this Tormund think he was?

As he reached for the last piece, Sansa discreetly stepped on Brienne's foot. The knight, seated beside her, let out a grunt and shot Sansa a questioning look, her brow arching in confusion.

That grunt, however, was enough to distract Tormund. He pulled his hand back, turning his attention to Brienne instead. "You alright, woman?" he asked, eyes alight with concern.

Seizing the opportunity, Sansa quickly snatched the last piece of lemon cake and placed it on her plate. A victorious smirk curled her lips as she savored her success.

Tormund, getting no reply from Brienne, turned back to the table—only to find the plate empty. He let out a small grunt of disappointment before stuffing a piece of meat into his mouth, his gaze shifting back to Brienne. He chewed thoughtfully, sending her glances and toothy grins between bites.

Sansa, meanwhile, enjoyed her lemon cake while casting her gaze toward the head of the table, where Jon—no, Daeron—was eating with as much dignity as he could muster, despite consuming nearly ten times what was on her own plate.

It had not escaped Sansa's notice that Jon had changed—not just in title but in presence, in appearance. His face, which had once borne the long, solemn look of the Starks, was now sharper, more refined, a reflection of his true lineage. His eyes, once the stormy grey of their father's house, had deepened into a dark violet—the unmistakable mark of a Targaryen, if the whispers in Winterfell were to be believed.

But the most striking change was his height. When he had left Castle Black for Crofter's Village, Jon had barely been taller than her. Now he stood over a head above her, nearly the height of Robert Baratheon himself.

Sansa had been stunned when Jon had not raised his voice, had not even faltered once, as Lady Lyanna Mormont declared him King in the North. But now she understood—Daeron had already set his sights beyond the North, beyond Winterfell. He was moving toward the Iron Throne, and Winterfell would one day pass to Rickon.

A flicker of frustration still lingered within her. He had not confided in her about his parentage before revealing it to the lords of the North. Did he not trust her? Had she given him any reason to doubt her loyalty? She had supported him, even when she knew their mother would never have. Catelyn Stark would have opposed crowning him King of the North with every breath in her body.

But Sansa had learned hard lessons. She had learned that she could not stand alone, that family was a shield—one that protected, one that endured. Even Theon, the traitor who had betrayed their house, had risked his life to save her.

Her father had been right, as he always was. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

She should have listened to him, not to Septa Mordane. Not to Littlefinger, certainly not to Cersei or anyone from the South.

But the past was past. Only the present mattered now.

Her gaze shifted toward Daeron, then to Rickon and Bran, seated beside him. She still had her pack, and she would protect them from the vipers that lurked in the South. Granted, one of their wolves had the blood of a dragon.

A small smile touched her lips, and as if sensing her gaze, Daeron looked up. When he saw her smile, he returned it, his expression warm, genuine.

Talking of their pack, of family, reminded her of Daeron's words about Arya.

"Our little sister is alive, out there in the world, hunting her prey like a true Northern wolf should."

And Sansa was not surprised. Knowing Arya, she could well imagine her carving a bloody path through their enemies. And there were many.

But that did not mean she did not worry.

"Jon, can you take me to see your dragon? Please?"

Rickon's pleading voice pulled Sansa from her thoughts.

Daeron smiled, his enthusiasm evident. "Of course. Once we're done eating, I'll take you to see Caraxes."

Sansa frowned slightly. "Daeron, is it safe for him to go near Caraxes? You've only recently bonded with him."

She could not help but worry. Caraxes was said to have been the mount of Prince Daemon Targaryen, and from what Daeron had told her, he was just as temperamental now as he'd been then. Daeron might be unburnt, but Rickon was not.

Daeron's reassuring smile did little to ease her concern. "I wouldn't have agreed if I wasn't confident in my control over him, Sansa." Then, as if sensing her hesitation, he added, "Why don't you come as well? Don't you want to see him up close?"

She did.

But fear warred with excitement. She still remembered the high-pitched roar that had echoed across Winterfell, shaking her to her very core. No chill of the North had ever made her shudder the way that sound had.

And yet…

Trust in Daeron won out over fear.

"I will join you," Sansa said, masking her nerves.

"I want to see it up close too, Crow," Tormund declared, grinning at Daeron.

Daeron nodded, then turned toward Ser Davos, who had been quietly dining with them. "Ser Davos?"

The old knight gave him an uneasy smile. "I'd rather remain here, Your Grace."

A chuckle rippled through the table at the Onion Knight's response, and even Sansa found herself smiling.

Sansa rode atop a dark brown palfrey mare, her cloak billowing slightly as she guided her horse closer to Daeron. The crisp Northern air carried the scent of pine and fresh snow as they rode beyond Winterfell's walls. Rickon, Tormund, and a few guards accompanied them, their horses' hooves crunching against the frozen ground. But Sansa had a question that had been nagging at her since she'd heard the news, and now was the time to ask it.

"Daeron," she began, her voice steady but curious. "Why did you send Larence Snow to Torrhen's Square to aid the Tallharts? You could have gone yourself with your dragon, or taken the Free Folk with you. That would have secured their gratitude and ensured their loyalty, as it did with the other Northern houses."

She studied Daeron's expression carefully, hoping his reasoning was not what she suspected.

"Because if Larence saves Leobald Tallhart's two sons and the daughter of Lord Tallhart, the Tallharts would be indebted to him," Daeron replied evenly. "And in doing so, the conflict over Hornwood's succession could be settled before it even begins."

Sansa exhaled sharply. It was exactly as she had feared.

"What makes you think that saving the Tallharts would be enough to make them willingly leave Hornwood to Larence?" she asked, exasperation creeping into her tone. "Nobles will do anything to claim more land and power. You should know that by now."

Daeron met her gaze, his violet eyes unwavering. "You forgave Theon, did you not? Even after he took our home, exiled our brothers, and killed loyal men of House Stark? If the Tallharts make a fuss about Larence taking Hornwood after he saves their lives—and believe me, there is little chance of that—then I will use force if necessary. Nevertheless, Larence's loyalty to House Stark deserves to be rewarded. Do not forget, Sansa, he was the first to declare his support for our cause."

His words were sound, but Sansa still believed he underestimated the self-interest of others.

"I have no objection to Larence becoming Lord of Hornwood," she said after a moment. "But I still think you should speak with Lord Glover. If Beren Tallhart lays claim to Hornwood despite everything, you will need his counsel."

Daeron gave a small nod, his expression unreadable, before turning his attention back to the road. The towering trees of the Wolfswood loomed in the distance, their dark silhouettes standing stark against the grey sky.

"Jon, can you take me for a ride on your dragon?" Rickon's voice cut through the silence, his boldness growing with each passing day. Sansa couldn't help but smile at her youngest brother's hopeful expression.

Daeron chuckled, guiding his black destrier closer to Rickon's horse. He reached out, ruffling Rickon's hair in amusement. "Aye," he replied, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. "But only if you hold on tight."

It had only been a few minutes since Rickon had asked his question when Daeron dismounted his destrier. Almost immediately, the horses began to neigh and shift uneasily, their fear palpable. Sansa knew what that meant. They were close. She dismounted as well, as did Rickon and Tormund, their boots crunching against the snow-laden earth as they approached Daeron, who was waiting for them.

"You all stay here and watch over the horses," Sansa instructed the guards. They nodded, their eyes darting warily toward the unseen presence that had unsettled their mounts. Then she turned and followed Daeron westward.

The first sign of the dragon's presence wasn't its sight, but the change in the air—a slight lessening of the cold, an eerie stillness. But then all doubt vanished.

There, sprawled across the snow, was a colossal crimson beast.

Sansa froze. She had seen the dragon fly before, but standing before it—this close—was an entirely different experience. Caraxes lay coiled in the white expanse, his sinuous body stretched lazily over the frozen ground. The contrast between his deep red scales and the snow made him look like something from a legend, a myth come to life. As if sensing their approach—or perhaps merely his rider's presence—the dragon stirred. His long neck rose, shaking off a blanket of accumulated snow, and then, with a powerful motion, he reared onto his hind legs, wings flaring slightly before folding back into place.

Then those golden, slitted eyes turned toward them.

Sansa's breath caught in her throat. The dragon exhaled, a puff of hot air escaping his nostrils, melting the snow beneath him. His gaze lingered on them for a moment before shifting to Daeron.

"Wait here. Do not approach until I tell you," Daeron instructed, his eyes locking onto Rickon in particular.

Sansa could only watch in stunned silence as her cousin strode forward with the ease of a man greeting an old friend. The massive beast lowered its neck without hesitation, inviting Daeron's touch. He ran a hand along its scales, a chuckle escaping him. The sound was met with a low, rumbling growl—not a warning, but something almost… content.

Sansa had read about dragons, as had most noble children. Tales of Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes filled the histories, but dragons were long gone—or so she had been told. As a girl, she had once dreamt of flying with a dragon prince, but her septa had laughed, dismissing it as childish fancy. Sansa had cried then, running to her mother for comfort.

But now, standing here, she wished Septa Mordane could see this.

Maester Luwin had once told Robb, Jon, and her that Caraxes had been half the size of Vhagar. Sansa thought back to the skull she had seen in King's Landing, the one Joffrey had claimed was Vhagar's. If that was true, then either Luwin had been mistaken, or the skull was not truly Vhagar's, because Caraxes—standing before her now—was far larger than she had imagined. He was not as massive as the dragon of Aegon's sister-queen, but his sheer size was staggering.

A low whistle of appreciation came from beside her.

"Fuck the Others… look at the size of that thing," Tormund muttered, equal parts awe and disbelief in his voice.

Caraxes let out a growl in response, his golden eyes narrowing at the wildling's words. Sansa tensed.

Daeron, unfazed, pressed his forehead to the dragon's snout and whispered something in High Valyrian. The words were soothing, a command and a reassurance all at once, and Caraxes settled, though his gaze lingered on Tormund with clear distaste.

After a moment, Daeron gestured for them to approach.

Rickon wasted no time, practically bounding forward. Tormund followed at a more cautious pace, while Sansa hesitated before finally stepping toward them.

The dragon rumbled again, his displeasure resurfacing as Tormund neared. But before he could react further, Daeron raised a hand and smacked the dragon's snout—not harshly, but firmly enough that even Sansa was taken aback.

"Daor, Caraxes. Lykirī," Daeron commanded in Valyrian.

Sansa didn't understand the words, but their effect was immediate. The dragon huffed, exhaling another puff of steam, before turning his attention away from Tormund and back to Daeron.

Rickon reached up first, his small hands running along the dragon's heated scales. Caraxes let out a pleased grunt, the sound almost like a cat purring.

Sansa followed, removing her leather gloves. Daeron took her hands in his own and guided them to the dragon's scales.

Heat. Raw, searing heat, even in the midst of the Northern cold.

And power.

It radiated off the beast in waves, a force unlike anything she had ever felt before. This was why people had once thought the Targaryens closer to gods than men. No man could command a beast like this. No man should be able to. And yet Daeron stood before it, unafraid, in complete control.

For the first time, Sansa truly understood why House Targaryen had ruled Westeros for nearly three centuries.

A thought crossed her mind then—a vision of Robert Baratheon, his face twisted in rage and disbelief as a dragon like this bore down upon him. She smiled slightly at the image before shaking it away.

Meanwhile, Daeron had already lifted Rickon onto the saddle atop Caraxes's back. He turned to Sansa.

"Would you like to join us?"

She hesitated. The offer was tempting, but she knew herself well enough—she would scream the moment they left the ground. And she wasn't about to give Tormund or Daeron that kind of entertainment.

So she shook her head.

With a few powerful steps, Caraxes moved forward, wings unfurling. Then, with a mighty flap, the dragon took to the skies, effortlessly lifting into the air.

Rickon's voice rang out, echoing through the cold air.

He was screaming.

But not in fear.

In joy.

Daeron Targaryen POV

"You look like you'll be back to being the finest sword in the realm within a fortnight, Ser," I said, watching Ser Arthur move with ease. His color had returned, and he no longer needed a cane or even a sword to lean on. Though his steps were still measured, his recovery was nothing short of remarkable.

Arthur met my gaze with gratitude and a flicker of wonder in his violet eyes. "Aye, Your Grace. Those potions you gave me taste absolutely vile, but I can't deny their effects." He grimaced, as if recalling their bitter flavor. Then his expression softened into something close to pride. "But I must disagree—I may have been the best once, but with your strength and skill now, I doubt even I could best you."

I chuckled at that, shaking my head. "Ah, I wouldn't be so sure, good Ser."

I dismounted and walked alongside him, keeping our pace slow so he wouldn't strain himself. We made our way to the courtyard, where the clang of steel and the shouts of sparring warriors filled the air. Men honed their skills with all manner of weapons, from blades to bows. Free Folk and mountain clansmen had taken to competing against one another—sometimes in friendly matches, other times in bloody brawls that needed Northern men to step in before they turned lethal.

It had been over two weeks since I had taken Rickon on Caraxes. In that time, the lords and masters of the North had rallied their forces, eager to avenge the Red Wedding and see me crowned on the Iron Throne. Their numbers had swelled beyond my expectations. The North alone had mustered over eleven thousand men, with the mountain clans contributing the most. Houses Ryswell, Dustin, and Manderly had also answered the call, though not without persuasion. Lady Dustin, in particular, had been reluctant—until she laid eyes on Caraxes. Faced with the wrath of a dragon, she'd begrudgingly pledged the full strength of her house.

Even the Free Folk had chosen to fight, though I'd convinced Wun Wun to stay behind. His role was more important—guarding the few remaining giant children left in the world. Meanwhile, the other Northern houses sent every able-bodied man they could.

Yet my forces were not complete. The Vale army still needed to be secured, and I had no doubt the Reach could still turn to Aegon. If I wanted to sit the Iron Throne with all of Westeros behind me, I would need either the Reach or Daenerys at my side.

King's Landing could fall to me at any moment—with Caraxes and three kingdoms behind me, the capital was vulnerable. But I had made the North a promise. I would unite the realm before the White Walkers brought down the Wall.

Bran's warning lingered in the back of my mind. The Long Night was coming. While my focus remained on the Iron Throne, I had not ignored the threat of the Walkers. Bolton deserters had bolstered the Night's Watch, and every scrap of dragonglass found in the North had been gathered at Winterfell. I had even sent a small band of Free Folk to deliver the obsidian to the Children of the Forest—they knew better than anyone how to forge weapons from it.

"Your Grace?" Arthur's hand on my shoulder pulled me from my thoughts. I turned to him with a questioning look.

"You seemed lost in thought," he said. "Your cousin Sansa is waiting for you in her chambers. She has something important to discuss."

I nodded. "Forgive me, Ser Arthur. I was thinking of many things. After I freshen up, I will meet with her."

Arthur gave a small nod. "As you will, Your Grace." Something in his expression turned faintly knowing.

"Ah, of course," I said with a smirk. "You should be on your way to your own chambers as well. Wouldn't want you to miss your dose of potion, would we?"

His face twisted into a grimace, but he nodded nonetheless. "With your permission, Your Grace."

I waved him off, watching as he turned toward the keep. Then, quickening my pace, I made my way to my chambers. The modest quarters I had once occupied as Jon Snow were far too small for a king, so I had taken a larger suite. As expected, the servants had prepared a steaming bath, just as I had instructed.

Shedding my clothes, I stepped into the water. The heat might have been unbearable for others, but for me, it was perfect.

I knocked on the heavy black wooden doors of Sansa's chambers. Ghost stood at my side, his crimson eyes half-lidded in contentment as I scratched behind his ears. His visits had become fewer lately, his duties as leader of his pack keeping him occupied. And when he did come, his pack usually followed, resting in the kennels or the godswood.

The door creaked open, revealing Sansa clad in fur and leather. Her expression was unreadable at first, but the moment she saw me, a warm smile broke across her face.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside.

I entered and took a seat in one of the chairs set near the hearth. Sansa followed, settling across from me, and poured wine into two cups from a waiting jug. She handed me one before taking a slow sip from her own.

"Why must you always train in the Wolfswood?" she asked, watching the firelight dance in the hearth. "Everyone already knows of your strength. You need not hide it."

"It's not about secrecy," I replied, swirling the wine in my cup. "The Wolfswood offers solitude. It's quiet. Peaceful."

Sansa hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip. Then, after a brief silence, she asked, "So you're leaving today?"

She tried to sound indifferent, but I caught the flicker of unease in her posture, the way her fingers tightened slightly around the cup.

"Aye." I set my empty cup on the table. "Time is not something we have in abundance." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm naming you regent in Rickon's stead until he comes of age."

Surprise flashed across her face before gratitude settled in.

"This is your chance to prove yourself, Sansa," I continued, my voice steady and firm. "The North remembers. The lords still recall the whispers of your time in the South. Many of those who could have taken Rickon's regency are marching with me to avenge the Red Wedding. You must show them you are a Stark of the North—loyal, just, and strong. You know these people. You grew up among them. They ask for little—meat, mead, and the respect they rightfully deserve."

Sansa straightened, the weight of responsibility settling over her, but she met my gaze with quiet determination.

"I will not fail," she promised.

Satisfied, I nodded. "Now, the reason I presumed you asked to see me is to settle the fate of Last Hearth and House Umber."

Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Many lords have reached out to claim the Umber lands for themselves," she said, a trace of disapproval in her tone.

"They will be disappointed," I said firmly. "I will not grant Last Hearth to anyone other than the house that has ruled that land for thousands of years."

Sansa's eyes darkened slightly. I knew where she stood on the matter—she did not believe the Umbers should rule Last Hearth any longer.

"Do what you think is right," she said at last. "You already know my thoughts."

"I do."

A pause. Then I asked, "I presume you've already summoned the lords to the Great Hall?"

She nodded.

We spoke for a little longer—Sansa briefed me on our food supplies, detailing how long we could sustain ourselves before hunger became a concern. Before long, a servant arrived, bowing slightly as he announced that the gathered lords were waiting.

Sansa and I rose in unison and made our way toward the Great Hall of Winterfell.

I strode into the Great Hall of Winterfell, Ghost padding silently beside me, his blood-red eyes scanning the gathered lords. His presence was enough to command respect—and fear. Behind me, Sansa walked with measured grace, her expression poised and unreadable. The assembled lords rose from their seats, bowing as I passed, their eyes brimming with expectation.

Once seated, I raised a hand, signaling for them to do the same. The hall was heavy with tension, the crackling torches casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. My gaze found Ned Umber, the boy standing at the far end of the table, his small frame trembling under the weight of the judgment to come. Fear was written all over his face, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"My lords, I assume you all have an idea why I have called this gathering," I said, my voice ringing clear through the hall.

A chorus of "Aye" answered me, but it was the glances—sharp, accusing—that they sent toward young Ned Umber that spoke the loudest. The boy shrank under their scrutiny, looking as though he wished to be anywhere but here.

"House Umber will not be stripped of their lands or titles," I declared, my tone firm, unwavering. Murmurs rippled through the crowd, some in surprise, others in disapproval. "However, there will be punishment. Ned Umber, son of Smalljon Umber, will be fostered here in Winterfell, under my watch. Until he comes of age, a man loyal to House Stark will govern Last Hearth in his stead." My gaze swept over the gathered lords, daring them to challenge my decree. "Furthermore, once this war is won and peace is restored, House Umber will pay fines for several years—a lasting reminder of the cost of betrayal."

The reaction was immediate.

"My King, with all due respect, Smalljon Umber delivered Rickon Stark into the hands of Ramsay Snow," Lord Larence Hornwood protested, his voice hard with conviction. "That is treason. House Umber deserves no mercy!"

A chorus of agreement followed, fists banging against the heavy wooden tables in a show of outrage.

I let them voice their fury, waiting until the echoes of their protests began to fade. Then I spoke again, my voice cutting through the din like a blade.

"I haven't forgotten what Smalljon Umber did, but we must also remember that House Umber has been loyal to House Stark for many years. Smalljon's father led the vanguard for my brother Robb and served him faithfully until the Freys took his life, just as they did with so many other good men. It's said that Greatjon took all of his able-bodied men to fight alongside my brother, leaving only a handful to protect his keep, knowing the number of raider attacks was increasing day by day. Such was his loyalty to his liege. He fought alongside my father, Lord Eddard Stark, during the rebellion, and played a crucial role in crowning my brother, Robb Stark. Furthermore, Smalljon Umber kept Rickon safe until the Free Folk crossed the Wall."

I paused, letting my words settle. Some lords still looked unconvinced, but others exchanged thoughtful glances, the weight of history tempering their anger.

"Aye, he made a mistake by going to the Boltons instead of coming to me directly. Because of that decision, he died fighting for the bastard of House Bolton—a meaningless death. Now here stands Ned Umber, a child by all accounts, awaiting the fate his father's actions have brought upon him. Should I ignore that he is also the grandson of Greatjon, and punish him and his house nonetheless? To strip him of his lands and titles would be a betrayal of Greatjon and his ancestors' loyalty, and I will not do such a thing, my lords."

Silence fell over the hall.

Some lords still bristled, their pride wounded, but one by one their heads dipped in reluctant acceptance.

Across the table, Ned Umber's wide eyes glistened with unshed tears, his small hands trembling as he struggled to keep his composure. Then, as if summoning every ounce of strength left in him, he fell to one knee, bowing his head.

"I swear fealty to Rickon Stark, Lord of Winterfell," he declared, his voice shaking but resolute.

A murmur ran through the gathered lords, but no one voiced further dissent. He had proven himself worthy of the chance I was giving him.

With that settled, I leaned forward, my expression hardening once more. "Now, the second matter I wish to announce."

The lords straightened, awaiting my next words.

"My sister, Sansa Stark, will serve as regent for Rickon," I declared. "As we march to avenge the Red Wedding, let the realm know—the North remembers."

 

[Lillie Jones]

Absolute Cinema
Is Jon Snow Si going to seize the Dragon Queen or Margaret Tyrell for the Reach army.?
Or both.
Craxas bought back from the dead is a legend reborn for the Final night and the others.