The Dragon in the North - Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“And now it begins,” said Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. He unsheathed Dawn and held it with both hands. The blade was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

“No,” Ned said with sadness in his voice. “Now it ends.” As they came together in a rush of steel and shadow, he could hear Lyanna screaming. “Eddard!” she called. A storm of rose petals blew across a blood-streaked sky, as blue as the eyes of death.

(Game of Thrones, Chapter 39, Eddard X)

Daenerys Targaryen looked very much like Jon had expected. When he’d first seen her, through the dragon’s eyes, she’d seemed rather blurred around the edges. The defining details were the same, though – long silver-white hair, purple eyes.

Jon knew he should be answering her question, but it had been an extremely long day, and the ground was starting to seem less steady than he’d initially thought. He held onto the dragon, who huffed encouragingly, calmer now. Jon cleared his throat.

“He saved my life. Besides,” he scoffed, “what could I do to him? Look at the size of him!” He gave the creature an affectionate pat, forcing down an impulse to call the dragon a good boy, and scratch behind his ears.

A beautiful smile broke out on Daenerys’s face – so he’d been right. Praising a woman’s children was always the way to curry favour. He’d learned that dealing with Lady Catelyn, though that hadn’t always worked. She’d been much more terrifying than Daenerys, dragons or no.

Jon turned to the dragon again, not sure if thinking at it was going to work again. “Why don’t you go and get yourself something to eat?” The dragon huffed at him, and Jon was struck, again, by how huge the creature was. “He must be hungry. Or is it 'she'?” It was a ridiculous thought to focus on, at such a time, he knew.

Tyrion shrugged. “Eh. Opinion remains divided. One book even asserted that they are both male and female – I only ever read a fragment, as the work was destroyed by Baelor the Blessed, my Queen.”

Daenerys gave a small half-smile, which seemed to say exactly what Jon was thinking: Tyrion and his books. She was so young, Jon realised. They were of an age, of course, but he felt like an old man right now.

“I’ve never thought of my dragons as anything other than male,” she said, still smiling. She walked closer, and scratched the dragon’s nose. He purred. “His name is Viserion,” she added, and Jon nodded.

“After . . . Visenya?” he asked, tentatively, struggling to recall long-ago history lessons with Maester Luwin.

“And my brother, Viserys.”

Viserion butted Jon in the side gently (gently for a dragon – Jon almost lost his footing) and turned around with an agility Jon hadn’t expected in such a huge creature. He ran a few steps and then launched himself into the air.

Jon staggered again, and the pain in his ribs and other wounds washed over him like an enormous wave. He was sure he’d have fallen if someone hadn’t appeared at his side and supported him.

He looked up into a frowning face.

“I am Grey Worm, of the Unsullied. If you try to hurt my Queen, I will kill you.”

“Oh, don’t mind him,” Tyrion added. “That’s just his way of saying hello.”

“Is that the way he said hello to you?” Jon asked, trying hard to pretend he wasn’t in agony.

They were walking carefully towards the Queen’s tent. Jon wasn’t sure if he was being treated like a guest or a prisoner – all he knew was that he needed to sit down, at least for a few minutes.

“Do you know, I can’t remember? I must admit, we were in Meereen at the time. Terribly distracting place, Meereen.” Tyrion turned to the tall woman who accompanied them. “Missandei, my dear, could you ask one of the Unsullied to fetch the Maester? Lord Snow – I beg pardon – his Grace needs his skills.”

Missandei glanced at Daenerys, who nodded, and she left the tent for a few seconds. Then, what Tyrion said sunk in. Jon would have rolled his eyes except he was quite sure it would be painful. Everything hurt.

“Will you stop that? I never asked for it. I never wanted it.” No, but you loved it, didn’t you, his inner voice asked, and he couldn’t lie to himself. How much better was King in the North than Lord of Winterfell, he’d thought, and for a horribly uncharitable moment, had wished Lady Stark back to life just to see her expression. Look, he’d wanted to say – your husband’s bastard, a king.

“Yes, we were given a stirring account of the coronation by acclaim,” Daenerys said, as if Jon hadn’t spoken. Given, he thought. By whom?

The question must have shown on his face. Tyrion shrugged.

“Lord Varys knows all. And if you never wanted it, as you say, why not refuse the crown? The North hasn’t had a king in hundreds of years – not including your late brother, of course.”

Jon bristled. Not this argument again. Surely they knew why the North had to unite, why petty differences no longer mattered, why all their games, all their thrones, were nothing more than ashes, now.

“Surely you know why,” he started, and then stopped himself. Did they know why? They knew about the Lords of the North declaring him King, but that was just another part of their thrice-damned game of thrones. Then he remembered.

“My lady- your Grace,” he said, turning to Daenerys. “You were with Viserion today. You flew overhead, and-“

A sudden wave of dizziness overcame him, and the twinge in his ribs threatened to flare up once more. But Daenerys nodded. She turned to Grey Worm, Tyrion and Missandei, who were looking at her with varying degrees of disapproval.

“My Queen, why do you put yourself in danger?” The young warrior looked and sounded the most reproachful of all, and she put a hand on his arm.

“I must know more about the land of my ancestors, Grey Worm, if I am to rule it.” She sighed. “This morning I told you the dragons needed exercise, but in truth, I told Drogon to go as far North as he could.”

Tyrion snorted and poured himself a cup of wine, then seemed to remember his manners, and offered it to Jon, who shook his head. He was already half out of his mind with pain; he need not be in his cups, too.

“I wanted to see the North – I was curious. It is already cold here, but past the Neck, my friends . . . “ She shook her head. “It is buried in snow and ice. It is like nothing I have ever seen.”

Tyrion looked knowing, but the two foreigners exchanged horrified looks. Jon was sure they’d thought this weather, which was comfortably cool to him, was the coldest they’d ever felt.

“We had passed over so many snowy fields, snowed in keeps, when Drogon started slowing and I prepared to turn around, when I saw . . .” She paused, whether for dramatic effect or in recollection, Jon could not be sure. “I saw a tall figure with blue-white skin, long white hair, holding a weapon made of ice. I saw a warrior fighting him. I saw the frozen dead standing around him, twitching. I saw things which, at first, I thought could not be real. It was only when we were almost back that I realized Viserion had not come with us.”

The silence lasted a few seconds, and Tyrion was the one to break it.

“Your Grace, surely you cannot mean to say that-“

Jon had enough.

“I know you find this impossible to believe, but it is real. The White Walkers are real. The Night’s King is real. He raises the dead and sets them against the living. They are coming. And all this,” he snarled, waving around him, indicating the rich hangings, carpets, devices, all the trappings of wealth, of life itself, “will come to naught if we do not fight him.”

Another silence fell after his last words. Jon was glad of it, because he was finding it hard to catch his breath. The quiet was broken by a very timid throat-clearing, but Jon was too tired to acknowledge it.

“Ah, Maester Wyllas,” Tyrion said. “We need your skills, if you please.”

Jon forced himself to look up into the worried eyes of a youngish man who was dressed like a maester, but seemed far too young to have gained all the links on his chain. Behind him stood a more impressive figure, who said nothing, but just raised an eyebrow. So that was Lord Varys, Jon thought – at least, he thought the man was Lord Varys. The rich robes, shaved head, and calm demeanour seemed to confirm it.

“My lord, um,” the young maester started, and Jon immediately glared at Tyrion, who just lifted his hands and backed away, grinning. “If you could tell me where you are injured besides the cuts on your face . . .”

Jon nodded and winced.

“I think my ribs – I hope they’re not broken, but every breath-“

He had to stop talking, but the young man got the idea. He called two of the Unsullied, to help Jon take off his surcoat and shirt.

“If the Queen permits,” Wyllas suddenly said, with a worried look at Daenerys and Missandei, who exchanged puzzled looks.

Tyrion grinned. “The reason is decency.”

Daenerys shrugged and Missandei still looked perplexed. Jon nodded at the young maester, and, together with the warriors, he helped Jon lift his arms and remove his shirt. The gasps that followed surprised Jon until he remembered. It had only been a few months since his sworn brothers had cut him down. The wounds had been healing very slowly, which had still relieved Jon, who’d started to fear that they never would.

The most shocked was Wyllas. His fingers hovered over the wound Olly had given him. “This would have pierced your heart! How is it possible?”

“So it is true,” Daenerys murmured. “You were raised from the dead.”

Jon glared at them, the pain forgotten. “How is it you know every unimportant detail about me, but you do not know about the danger that faces us all?”

Tyrion raised his eyebrows. “It is unimportant that you were dead and now live?”

Lord Varys said nothing, but his eyes observed everything.

Jon would have shrugged, but Wyllas’s hand on his shoulder dissuaded him. “Seeing as people still want to betray and kill me, yes.”

The maester seemed to decide to concentrate on his work, and murmured something to his assistant, who immediately set off out of the tent.

“I have a salve which will help with the healing, Lord Snow. Now, about these ribs. I am afraid this will hurt a great deal. I can give you some milk of the poppy-“

“No!” Jon realised that had been perhaps too sharp. “My apologies. But no.”

“Perhaps we can converse and distract his Grace from the pain,” a slightly unctuous voice added. Jon shivered, involuntarily. Varys managed to be terrifying without a sword.

There was a sardonic half-smile on Daenerys’s face. “Perhaps,” she said. “Are you my enemy, Jon Snow?”

Silence fell in the tent. Jon, who could see Varys’s expression clearly, noted the quickly suppressed eye-roll. He understood – this wasn’t the type of thing which would have been part of playing the game in King’s Landing. He was also relieved – he no more knew how to play this game than he knew how to dance a jig.

“I’m not sure, your Grace. It depends on where the Dothraki are at this moment.” Jon was aware that Sansa thought he never listened when people talked about statecraft – but he’d bloody well listened when he heard tales of warriors who rode across the land, raping and killing as they went.

Daenerys smiled. “We sailed into Oldtown when the Ironborn were attacking. After we dealt with them, I sent the Dothraki to Pyke, to support Yara Greyjoy’s claim to the Salt Throne. I may be young, Jon Snow, but I’m not a complete fool. But now that I’ve heard we will be facing an army of the dead, I am thinking that perhaps I should have kept them here.”

Jon shook his head. He was trying hard not to think of Oldtown and the Citadel, Sam and Gilly. I’m sorry, Sam, he thought. But it cannot be helped. No more distractions.

Maester Wyllas was probing and pressing, feeling his side, and Jon had almost forgotten what it was like to breathe without pain. At one point, the young man pressed his ear to Jon’s side. He then seemed to notice the people in the tent staring at him, and blushed.

“When there is a crack in the bones, certain sounds can be heard, while breathing.” He cleared his throat. “But I can hear no evidence of that, my- your Grace.” Ah, diplomacy, Jon thought. The young Maester made sure to face the both of them when he said that.

At an encouraging nod from Daenerys, Wyllas continued. “You are bruised, inside and out. Perhaps even a muscle is torn, or stretched. I will need to bind your chest tightly.”

Jon nodded, resigned. He decided to answer the Queen’s first question, properly this time. “I am not your enemy, your Grace, no matter what you think of me, or my family.”

Daenerys leaned back, giving him a challenging look.

“My father killed your grandfather and uncle in the most savage way, I am told. Why should I not fear your family’s revenge on mine?”

Jon sat up straighter, pushing Wyllas aside.

“When everyone in King’s Landing wanted you dead, your Grace, my lord father was the only one who spoke against it. His words caused a rift between him and the king, and was the beginning of events leading to his death – no, his murder!”

Lord Varys was looking at him with a hint of respect. Yes, we’re not all clodhopping fools up north, Jon wanted to snarl, then collected himself. Daenerys looked pensive, not at all surprised. What was her game? What did she want? A slight sound to his right made him look into Wyllas’s worried face. Jon gave a nod, indicating he should continue what he had been doing, although massaging a vile-smelling salve into his side was both disgusting and painful.

“I had been told that Lord Eddard was the most honourable man who ever lived, even if it led to his death.” Daenerys spoke with a certain care.

Jon decided to take the compliment, and nodded, partly mollified.

“Now all I need to know is how it came that Viserion would stop and rescue you – I was not aware that dragons played the game of thrones!”

Jon shook his head, ignoring the slight spinning sensation that ensued. Should he tell them about the feeling of communicating with the great creature? He cleared his throat.

“It sounds like madness . . . but I could feel what he was feeling, at times. There were things I saw, which I had never seen before . . . “

“Things?” Daenerys’s eyes were full of wonder.

Jon looked at her, and lowered his eyes. “You, your Grace. The other dragons. A big black one with red markings, and a green and bronze one. When they were much smaller.”

The Queen smiled. “Viserion also showed me your image, fighting the ice creature. It appears he considers you as another dragon – perhaps a brother.”

Wyllas, who’d begun to wrap Jon’s chest tightly in bandages, started, sending an elbow into Jon’s side. Jon saw stars for a moment, feeling his stomach rise into his mouth. As he stared at the young man, Jon noticed that he’d gone grey. Jon also realised that Lord Varys was looking at both of them with speculative interest. Tyrion narrowed his eyes. But the eunuch spoke first.

“It appears that young Maester Wyllas has something he wishes to share with us.”

Young Maester Wyllas appeared to want nothing of the sort, Jon thought. He looked terrified, as though he desperately wanted to run from the tent. He cleared his throat nervously.

“It is nothing, my lords. Simply some mental exercises we are taught in the Citadel. A form of training. Uh. For the brain. “

If anything, the others in the tent looked more interested, and Jon could hardly blame them. What Maesters were taught, how they were taught; it was a closely guarded secret. It was a mystery to him how Daenerys had even persuaded a Maester to come with her. The young man wet his lips, looking hunted. He swallowed.

“We are encouraged to reinterpret certain historical events – how they might have been changed if one element was lacking.”

Wyllas paused, gave Daenerys a nervous glance, and continued. “What if Aegon the Conqueror had never left Dragonstone? What if there was no Andal Invasion? What if . . . what if Lyanna Stark died in childbed, and the babe lived?”

Jon was still caught up in the thought of the seven kingdoms under the king in the North, with no Targaryens ruling. But Daenerys gasped, and when he looked up, Lord Varys was nodding slowly. Tyrion’s smirk had grown. He tried to recall the last few moments – something about Lyanna Stark, and a baby? But that was ridiculous!

“What of it, Maester? What if Lyanna died in childbed? There was no child – Lord Eddard found his sister dying, and brought her bones back to Winterfell. The only babe he brought back with him was- was . . . “

Jon fell silent. Tyrion’s look turned pitying. No, it could not be. This was beyond belief. He was Lord Eddard’s son. He was! Simply because a dragon chose to save him, was not enough proof. Not when he compared it to his entire life, lived as the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark.

“I am Lord Eddard’s son. I am! All my life . . . “ Jon spluttered to a halt.

“Did he ever tell you who your mother was, Jon?” Tyrion sounded gentler than before.

Jon tried to catch his breath, to marshal his thoughts. What was happening? This was madness! He knew who he was!

“Lord Eddard . . . he said he would tell me about her, the last time we met. He said we would meet again, and he would tell me about my mother.” That day seemed so long ago. Jon could barely remember Lord Eddard’s expression. “I never saw him again . . .”

Jon sat down heavily, hardly even aware that he’d stood up, in protest. His thoughts were whirling in his head, and he couldn’t fix on one thing. All he could do was sift through memories in his head, trying to find one in which Lord Eddard had called him his son. Jon could not find a single one. Not once? Was it even possible? Could he have spent his entire life believing in something that had never been confirmed outright by the man who he’d loved as his father? So, what was he now? What did that make him? Jon groaned, inwardly. His whole life was a lie.

Jon tried to deny it, to himself, but it was growing ever more difficult. Others had called him Lord Eddard’s bastard, Ned Stark’s baseborn son – but never the man himself. He remembered their last conversation again: “You may not have my name, but you have my blood.”

Why had he never asked what that meant? Now it all became clear – why he’d been brought up at Winterfell, when no lord brought his bastard to his own home, to be raised alongside his trueborn sons and daughters. Why he’d been barred from the high table when royalty came to visit. Why he could not go South with the rest of the family.

“I don’t understand,” Jon whispered, horrified at how broken his voice sounded. “Why did he never tell me?”

He looked up when a cup of wine was pushed into his hand. Tyrion was standing in front of him, and for once, the expression on his face was not sardonic.

“Ned Stark knew that the only way to keep you safe was to lie to you, I believe.” Tyrion settled down next to Jon. “As well as everyone else. Turns out the honourable Lord Stark was honourable, after all.”

“But-“ Jon still couldn’t accept it. All his life, he’d lived with Lady Catelyn’s hatred, with the contempt of everyone else.

“Jon, you never heard King Robert talking about Targaryens. You never heard his words when he was presented with the- with Prince Rhaegar’s other children.”

Jon looked around him and realised that he, Lord Varys, Tyrion and Daenerys were the only ones still left in the tent. He studied the Queen’s face – his aunt, if he believed the madness that had been revealed here. There was a tightness in her expression, caused by the mention of Rhaenys and Aegon, massacred by the men in Tywin Lannister’s employ. He knew that those killings were the first time Lord Eddard had walked away from King Robert.

“So, Jon, it appears I have a nephew – one who is older than me!” Daenerys was smiling, suddenly, and he tried to see if her smile was sincere, but he’d never been good at reading faces, especially women. “If we are to believe that, then you are the true heir to the Iron Throne.”

Jon knew his eyes widened, and he was sure his expression changed, if Tyrion’s sniggers meant anything.

“No! Even if I am Lyanna Stark’s son, I’m still a bastard! I do not want the throne, I don’t want any throne – I am not your rival, your Grace.”

Tyrion opened his mouth to speak, and Jon aimed a blistering glare in his direction. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to hear what he was sure Tyrion had already thought of. Namely, that the Kingsguard, Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Commander Hightower, would not be guarding Prince Rhaegar’s mistress and their bastard in Dorne, if their lord was being massacred at the Trident.

Jon stood up, his ribs twinging, but not with the agony he’d felt before. So the Maester was skilled after all. He knew he should still be reeling from what he’d learned. But he did not have the luxury to wallow in his horror – and it was horror. All his life he’d been told he was the son of the most honourable man in the seven kingdoms. To find out that instead he was the result of a union that had torn the lands apart, leading to terrible wars and countless deaths – that was hard. But his own pain was not important.

“It seems you are still most fortunate in your father, Lord Snow.” Tyrion seemed to have finally realized that Jon did not appreciate what he considered empty titles.

What did Tyrion mean, though? Fortunate? A man who’d taken a young girl away from her family, got her with child, and left her to die alone? He’d been told stories of Rhaegar the abductor his entire life – and even if he hadn’t, the statue of Lyanna in the crypt would be an eternal reproach of her fate. His mother, Lyanna. The thought hit him like a rock. He knew who his mother was.

“I have learned, Jon, that my brother Rhaegar was not the evil man he was thought to be by many.” Daenerys’s voice was gentle.

Lord Varys, who had kept silent till now, moved out of the shadows of the tent.

“Your Grace,” he said, indicating Jon. “I knew your father, the Prince. One day, when we have more time, I will tell you of the Rhaegar I knew. He was a good man, a gentle man – unfortunately, a man controlled, for most of his life, by thoughts of a prophecy with which he became obsessed. As for the lady Lyanna – indications were that she did not want the match with Robert Baratheon, which had been planned for her.”

Jon shook his head – he was trying to take all this in, but it was too much. He needed time, he needed rest, and he needed his home. But one thing he had to clarify before he left. If they let him leave.

“I need to make one thing clear, your Grace.”

Daenerys inclined her head, looking every inch the Queen. And she could be – Queen of the world, for all he cared. Except for one part of it.

“The North will never again bow to the Iron Throne. We will not kneel to dragons, again. I am not Torrhen, nor will anyone else be in my stead.”

Tyrion’s lips were twitching with a suppressed smile, and even Daenerys’s eyes crinkled.

Jon sighed. “Yes, I do realise that I am apparently a Targaryen. But I am also a Stark.”

Daenerys nodded, serious again. Tyrion looked worried, but resigned.

“So, the same arrangement as with Yara Greyjoy, and Pyke?”

Daenerys quirked an eyebrow at Tyrion. “Wasn’t it your father who said that you could never hope to conquer the North, Lord Tyrion, not without a loyal Warden to hold it for you?”

Tyrion nodded, reluctantly. Daenerys approached Jon, and held out her arm. He couldn’t help a grin as he clasped it and she smiled at him.

“You will have to marry, of course, Jon.” Tyrion couldn’t help himself, it seemed.

The look of horror on Jon’s face must have been clear, because Daenerys burst into giggles, seeming, once again, so very young.

“Not me, of course!”

The feeling of relief that washed over him was blissful, but Jon was suddenly worried that it was also insulting. “It’s just that, being my aunt, you see . . .”

Tyrion nodded. “Besides, marrying a Targaryen will not help you hold on to the North. Have you thought of how you are going to deal with the Northern lords once they find out whose son you are?”

“Or are you going to keep it a secret?” Daenerys chimed in.

Jon shook his head. “No. No more secrets. Anyway, I’m starting to suspect that Lord Baelish already knows. Certain things he said, to Sansa; about the place of my birth.” Jon paused, rubbing his eyebrow. A motherless bastard, born in the South, he was, according to Lord Baelish. Well, they would see about that. “And as his plan to kill me was unsuccessful, he will try to destroy me in other ways.”

“So, you are convinced that this was Littlefinger’s plan – to have you set upon by White Walkers?”

Jon thought about it. “At first I blamed Lord Royce, but what would it benefit him to have me disappear? No, this stinks of Littlefinger. And I will deal with everything, but I must leave now.”

Daenerys looked wistful. “You will not rest here?”

“I beg pardon, my lady . . . aunt.” Jon was tentative, but he needn’t have worried. She smiled at him. “But I am worried about Winterfell, the soldiers of the Vale, the lords . . . and Sansa.”

Lord Varys raised a knowing eyebrow. “You believe she is in league with Littlefinger?”

“No!” Jon spoke louder than he’d intended, and his ribs gave a warning twinge. Daenerys covered her mouth and Tyrion’s lips were twitching. What was wrong with them? This was no jape. “Of course not! She’s my – she believes herself to be my half-sister. She would never betray me.”

Even as he spoke, he doubted his own words. He would never tell anyone, though. Especially not virtual strangers.

“Speaking of Sansa,” Tyrion said, clearly trying to change the subject, “I have this for her.”

He handed Jon a cylinder, obviously containing a scroll, and continued.

“I have written a declaration which should be enough to dissolve our marriage, such as it was.”

Jon felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, though he wasn’t sure why. How did Sansa’s marriage concern him? “Thank you, my lord. But what about the High Septon – the Faith? Will they accept this?”

Lord Varys and Tyrion exchanged a look.

“Much has changed in King’s Landing since Lady Sansa was last there, your Grace.”

The eunuch was addressing him, Jon realised, and he tried to nod in the way he imagined a king did.

Daenerys chimed in. “Let us worry about the city, Jon. You are needed in the North. It is yours.”

They stared into each other’s eyes, and on impulse, he held out his hand. She clasped it, and rewarded him with a dazzling smile. Sansa would call him a fool, and say he’d been captivated by her fine eyes, and womanly curves, but he believed in her sincerity.

She smiled again, as a thought seemed to come to her. “I would offer you some of my best horses to get you back to Winterfell, but I believe there is a better solution.”

The now familiar screech sounded in the air above the tent, and Jon couldn’t hold back a groan.

“Why, nephew!” Daenerys had a twinkle in her eyes. “Poor Viserion wants nothing more than to take you wherever you want to go!”

“I am very grateful,” Jon assured her. “Yet I believe my bones will never be the same again.”

They all walked out of the tent, and sure enough, the white dragon was waiting outside. As soon as the dragon saw Jon, it reared up and screeched; in joy, not in anger. How Jon knew this, he couldn’t explain, only that a feeling of happiness washed over him at the same time. Daenerys approached Viserion, and he put his great head down for her to stroke. Her eyes were shiny when she turned back to Jon, but her voice remained calm.

“Until we meet again, Jon Snow. I vow that once I have gained the Iron Throne, and have swept away those who usurped our family, I will join you in your war against the Night’s King.”

Jon inclined his head, unable to suppress a wish that she would join him now, rather than later. Yet he remembered what he had learned about Daenerys and Viserys Targaryen. All their lives, being told that the Iron Throne was theirs by right. He expected too much if he thought Daenerys would abandon it now that she was so close. Missandei approached the Queen with a leather bag, and Daenerys accepted it with a smile, turning and offering it to Jon.

“A gift, nephew. Open it once you are at Winterfell. You will understand.”

Jon accepted it, and slung it around his chest. It was easier to get on the dragon’s back the second time, and he settled comfortably, holding onto the spines.

Viserion ran the length of a tourney field, and launched himself into the air, rising with great strokes of his enormous wings. It was still dark, though Jon could see glimmers of light in the east as the dragon climbed higher.

Jon was not going to close his eyes, this time. He was determined to see what he could during this journey. He would also use the time to plan his next moves. He was a king, now; by right, as well as by acclaim. It was time he started acting like one.


___________________________________________________________

Next Chapter: "The Dragon in the North - Chapter 3"