The Dragon in the North - Chapter 3

He took hold of Ice with both hands and said, “In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I do sentence you to die.” He lifted the greatsword high above his head.

Game of Thrones, Chapter 1, Bran I

Chapter 3

Even if he lived as long as Maester Aemon, Jon knew he would never forget his first conscious flight over the kingdoms; taking the raven’s road to Winterfell. Viserion flew high enough that they would not be immediately visible from the ground, but not so high that he couldn’t see the land from the air for the first time. Anyway, Jon thought, whoever would believe their eyes, if they looked up and saw a great white dragon flying overhead, after centuries without them?

Fields and forests, rivers and villages – all passed underneath the dragon with such speed that Jon could barely believe it was happening. There were stops for water, which hadn’t happened before, because the dragon had felt the urgency of getting Jon to the Queen. But now, whenever they passed close to a stream, the dragon sent him an image of sparkling clear waters that said much more than words ever could.

Jon himself had been given some food and water, even though he hadn’t asked for it. All he’d wanted was a simple, homespun cloak, having lost his own in the attack. He could tell the Queen was surprised, but Tyrion and Varys had understood that Jon wanted to approach Winterfell without fanfare. The eunuch’s simple question about Sansa had raised some doubts in Jon’s mind, even though he’d denied it out loud.

What if he was twice a fool, and arrived at Winterfell, only to find his friends dead, and Littlefinger ruling as King, with Sansa at his side? What if she’d been lying to him? She hadn’t told him about the Knights of the Vale – the difference between them saving his life, and arriving too late, was such a stroke of luck, Jon could hardly even believe it had happened, even though it had happened to him. Once again he heard Melisandre calling him ‘the Prince that was Promised’, but he pushed it out of his mind. Sansa had no way of knowing that he’d still be alive once Baelish and the Vale got to Winterfell. Did she even care whether he lived or died?

Jon shook his head, amazed at his own idiocy. His feelings were hurt – that was it. He had done everything for Sansa, he thought. He’d won back her home, almost dying in the process. A nasty voice sounded in his head, reminding him that he’d been richly rewarded for it. Oh really, he thought? A king with no castle, wasn’t that what he was? A sacrificial king, who’d almost certainly die in the war for the dawn.

Jon realised that a part of his irritation was almost certainly caused by a full bladder, and once he’d dealt with that problem, decided he would put everything else behind him. This included any thoughts of his true lineage, which needed to be saved for when he wasn’t riding a creature which could hear his thoughts. Viserion might not understand the human obsession with doubts and questions. Jon looked up, and the dragon was looking back at him, having finished drinking.

“You’re right. Time to go.”

The dragon huffed happily, and soon they were back in the air. It got colder and colder, and Jon grew glad of the heat which seeped through the dragon’s hide and into him. The cloak was made for warmer climes, and did not much help.

After some time, the landscape below them started to look familiar, and Jon bade the dragon slow down. When he looked ahead on the road and saw what seemed like a broken down cart, complete with farmer attempting to repair the wheel, he indicated that Viserion should land gently, some distance away.

Night had fallen during their journey. It was a moonlit night, though occasionally obscured by some clouds. Jon tried to build a picture in his head, of a system of caves he knew of, a few leagues beyond the Wolfswood. He stroked Viserion’s head, and hoped the dragon understood him, and tried to specify a time and place when they would meet again. The dragon nudged him, and Jon scratched his nose, as he’d seen Daenerys do. It huffed happily, then turned and launched itself into the air, circling twice, before flying off into the distance.

Jon trudged through the snow, towards where he thought the cart should be. Sure enough, there it was. He thought he was pretty quiet when he approached, but the cloaked figure crouched next to the wheel turned suddenly, aiming a crossbow at him.

“Take one more step, and you get it between the eyes!”

Jon was surprised that the voice was higher than he’d expected – it took him a few moments to realise why. The unknown carrier was a woman.

He raised his hands quickly, and managed to pull his hood down too. The woman moved closer, but there was no recognition on her face – perhaps because he’d untied his hair, or perhaps she’d never met him. She was around the age his father – his uncle - would have been, had he lived, heavy-set and homely. He spoke carefully, making sure that his voice sounded calm.

“I’m headed for the keep too – my horse threw me and ran away, but we aren’t far.”

“How do I know you aren’t going to kill me and steal my salt-pork?”

Jon wasn’t eager to give away his identity that quickly. Also, he hoped the cloak hid his sword. “You’re the one with the crossbow.”

She reluctantly conceded the point, but seemed equally reluctant to put the crossbow down.

“Are you going to sell that at Winterfell?” he asked, trying to distract her from thoughts of killing him.

She nodded. “I heard that the Starks are back. Never went to the keep after the Boltons took it.” She turned to the side and spat, showing her opinion of all Boltons. He could only agree with her assessment.

“Let me help you with that wheel.”

She sneered. “What would a lordling like you know about carts?”

Jon tried to avoid smirking at the thought of being called a lordling – Lord Varys and Tyrion had carefully hid their opinion of his thick Northern accent, but not well enough. Still, hers was even thicker.

“Might be I can surprise you.”

He went around, and realised that the wheel was only stuck in the slush, not broken, but she didn’t seem to have any planks to put under it. He put his shoulder to the back, and she went to the front, and with a bit of effort, and saying a quick prayer for his bruised ribs, he pushed, and the horse pulled. After a moment or two, with a loud sucking noise, the mud let go of the wheel.

The woman hoisted herself onto the cart and gave him a challenging look.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

He grinned and pulled himself up the other side. “Decided to trust me, did you?”

“Well, once I heard your voice, I thought a proper Northern boy like you wouldn’t try anything. Of course, if you do, I’ll gut ya.” The matter of-fact way she said it convinced him immediately.

“I’m Jenny,” she continued. “Often known as pig-farm Jenny, but I’d prefer just Jenny.”

“Jon,” he said, and she gave him a sidelong look, then nodded.

“My husband used to make this trip, back when Ned Stark was still in Winterfell. But he broke his hip, and now it’s up to me.”

Jon nodded. They must have been desperate to send a woman on her own through the wilderness the North had become, crossbow or no crossbow. He surprised himself with thoughts of the future, after the Night’s King had been defeated, of restoring the North to its former glory. Before, he’d had no hope that a victory was even possible. But now they had dragons! Well, dragon. And many conditions besides. If they managed to deal with Littlefinger. If the lords of the North even accepted a Targaryen as king.

“You don’t say much, Jon.”

He was shaken out of his thoughts, and blinked. He hadn’t felt it was wise to consider his apparent heritage while on Viserion’s back, not sure how many thoughts he actually shared with the dragon. But now he had to talk to this woman, at least until they got to Winterfell, and he saw the situation there.

“Sorry. It’s been a strange couple of days.” Jon shifted in his seat, trying not to wince. It would be some time before his ribs fully healed – Maester Wyllas had been against him getting on dragonback so soon.

She gave him a searching look. “There’s been tales . . . saying that strange things are coming from beyond the Wall. And I don’t mean wildlings, either.”

Jon hesitated, unsure of how much to say. “Going to Winterfell is probably the best thing you can do, right now.”

The hours passed without much chatter – only enough to keep each other awake as the night grew steadily colder. She told him about her children, who’d left the farm as soon as they’d been able, not that she blamed them, or so she said.

“Farming is a hard life,” she said, shrugging.

Jenny didn’t seem to notice that she was sharing much more than he was, or at least, she pretended not to notice. So he was relieved when the towers of Winterfell became visible in the distance.

Once the exhausted horse pulled the cart to the castle gate, Jon jumped down, and banged at it. It took a few moments before sounds above his head indicated that someone was peering down into the gloom.

“Who goes there?”

Jon was at the limit of his strength and endurance, now. He’d intended to pretend to be a lost traveller, and sneak in with Jenny, but he was tired. He looked up, hopefully into the eyes of whoever was guarding the walls of the keep, and holding a torch.

“Jon Snow.”

The torch disappeared, and Jon could hear the sound of running. He turned to see Jenny staring at him, owl-eyed. “You’re the Bastard of Winterfell?”

“Aye.” He didn’t say more, though he wanted to ask her if she’d heard that he was king now, for all that was worth. He’d learned that all being king meant was that you were betrayed by a better class of people.

There was more running above his head, and a mad scrabbling at the gate in front of him. Just as a familiar lion-maned head craned over the battlements, the gates burst open and a massive white wolf threw itself at his head and bowled him over.

Jon lay on his back, grinning, as Ghost thoroughly washed his face. “I see you’ve missed me at least, boy.”

Tormund came running through the gates, pulled him up, and crushed him in a bear-hug. “Jon Snow! You are the luckiest man I ever met!”

Jon groaned, and Tormund pulled back, worried. “It’s nothing,” he assured the wildling. “Just some bruised ribs.”

The leaders of the mountain clans, those who’d survived the battle, at least, followed close behind. Jon could hear the whisper going around, or what they thought was a whisper: ‘The Jon is returned!’ He remembered suddenly: they used to call Lord Eddard ‘the Ned’. He had to blink rapidly to stop the tears, and thanked the gods for the sight of Ser Davos running towards them. He remembered he’d asked the Onion Knight to be Castellan of Winterfell, and realized what he needed the man to do.

“Ser Davos, this is Jenny,” he said, indicating the farmer, “I believe she has some very welcome provisions to sell.”

Davos nodded, and called some of the men to help unload the cart. He himself took Jenny to meet the cook, who was more of an expert on fair prices for food. Jenny looked like a woman who enjoyed a good haggle. She left, but not before looking at Jon with narrowed eyes, followed by a nod.

Jon waited until he gauged Davos was out of earshot, before he turned to Tormund.

“Those men of the Vale who came with me . . . did they return?”

Tormund’s eyes narrowed. “Not all of them. The Master-at arms and a few foot soldiers.”

A sudden noise at the far end of the courtyard drew Jon’s attention – Sansa and the other Northern lords were spilling out, looks of joy on their faces. Sansa’s face was masked, though. She’d never again shown that pure unfiltered joy as she had at Castle Black.

Jon murmured to Tormund, before he approached the Northern lords. “Have them arrested, and put in irons. Quietly, now. Get some of the lesser lords to assist you – Wull, and Liddle, maybe.”

Tormund raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “And that Royce kneeler?”

This time it was Jon’s turn to show surprise. “He’s still here?”

“Aye. Lord Baelish insisted that he had to stay – to make sure the Vale’s interests were safeguarded. Whatever that means.”

Jon sighed. He was going to have to show his hand. Was it too early?

“Let me deal with Royce,” he said, almost under his breath, and then strode forward to greet the people who were oh so happy to see him alive, he thought, wondering when he’d become so cynical.

Lord Manderley was the first to get to him, fast in spite of his girth. He made as if to clasp his hands, then dropped to one knee.

“Your Grace. I knew you could not be dead.”

Jon lifted him, and shook his head at the others as they started to kneel, too. They would come to regret any respect they’d given him soon enough. No need to give them more to chastise him with. Everyone was there, except Lady Mormont. The dragonflight had taken an entire day into late evening and the cart-ride to Winterfell had taken the rest of the night, and they probably hadn’t woken her, he thought. The sun was rising again.

Sansa approached, her face impenetrable. He inclined his head and she curtseyed. He almost winced. That was her greeting to him? Treating him like a stranger, like King Robert. Oh, stop being a fool, he told himself.

Tormund came back from the task Jon had given him, and gave him a small nod. He wanted to rest, to start explaining, to tell everyone what had happened, but a wave of exhaustion and hunger stopped him in his tracks. When he raised his head, he realised that Sansa was staring over his shoulder – no, she was staring at his shoulder, at the cloak she knew very well he hadn’t had when he left Winterfell. Perhaps he should have gotten rid of it on the road.

“Jon – your Grace – when is the last time you ate something?” Sansa sounded cool and collected, though there was a hint of worry in her tone.

He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

She nodded, and addressed the rest of the Lords. “My lords, let us break our fast together.”

An hour later, they had all eaten to completion. Jon was surrounded by a group of the Free Folk, all happy to see that he lived. He knew why – he was perhaps the only one of the gentry who wanted them around.

Jon managed to observe the other lords. Royce wasn’t with them. Had he gone to look for his men and not found them? Just as the thought came to him, Royce burst into the great hall, startling the guards into wakefulness. Jon shook his head when one of them met his eye, and they relaxed, but kept a watchful eye on Lord Royce, who didn’t notice.

“Your Grace, I must protest.” The man was as loud as ever, Jon thought, and he didn’t consider it necessary to kneel. Not that Jon wanted to be knelt to. But he did realise that any lack of respect shown to him made it easier for him to be disobeyed. Royce continued, ignoring Jon’s lack of response.

“The Master-at-arms and some men of the Vale have been put in irons! On what charge, your Grace? By what right?”

There were gasps in the great hall at the Vale lord’s last words, and both Ser Davos and Tormund made to get out of their seats, but Jon waved them off.

“I will give you time, Ser, to consider and rethink your last words. As for the arrest of your men: the reason, my Lord Royce, is that I was betrayed and left to fight against the White Walker alone.”

“I cannot believe this, your Grace.” Royce’s face lost colour as he seemed to hear what he’d just said. That’s twice he’s insulted me, Jon thought, in disbelief. He almost could hear Sansa’s voice in his head – hold on to your temper, Jon. “I mean, I don’t want to say that you are lying, just that-“

Jon decided to make it easier for him. “I think that after some time spent in chains, the Master-at-arms will tell us why he found it necessary to tell his men that I was dead, and ride away.”

Royce bowed his head, and finally gave in to some of his other Knights, who had been trying to get his attention ever since he’d first chid Jon. There was a murmuring in the great hall, as everyone seemed to give their opinion on what had occurred. But no-one tried to contradict him, Jon realised, or tried to challenge his decisions. It occurred to him – the Knights of the Vale had been the last to arrive at the battlefield. They’d had no significant losses, and, even though they’d saved the day, were not much liked or respected by the Northerners.

“Your Grace, perhaps you need to rest for a while.”

Jon stared at Sansa in disbelief. She’d always called him Jon, before. What was this sudden formality?

She managed to slide her eyes sideways, at the Northern lords, and he understood. But was the North really that formal, or was she just aping what she’d seen in King’s Landing? No matter, she was right. He was exhausted. His ribs were starting to pain him, again, and he needed to lie down.

Sansa followed him out of the door and they went to his room in silence. Just before he went in, she put a hand on his arm. When he looked at her face, he was aghast to see tears in her eyes. As his own widened in understanding, he had a few moments’ warning before she flung her arms round his shoulders and clutched him desperately.

“I thought you were dead, Jon! You can’t do this to me! We just found each other, I can’t lose you, too!”

“Hush, hush.” He soothed her, stroking her hair. “I am well.”

She sniffled, pulling back, fixing him with a scornful look. “Well? You look like death, Jon. We have to kill Littlefinger, do you hear?” She was incandescent with rage, and a faint thought in his head mused that she’d never been more beautiful to his eyes. Then he pulled himself together. This was his sister he was lusting over! Well, no, the voice added. Not his sister.

“We will kill him, I swear it,” he assured her. He turned to go into his room, and then turned back. “Uh, Sansa?” She looked at him, expectantly, and he hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Could you ask someone to help me get my shirt off? With my ribs, I find it hard-“

She waved to cut him off, and nodded, quickly turning away. It was strange, though, he thought. Now she was the one who was blushing – he could only wonder why.

When Jon woke, many hours later, he felt strange at first – he wondered when it had become so warm at Castle Black. Then, like a huge fist made of snow and ice, everything came crashing down on him. The last of all was the revelation of who he was – not a true Stark but one of the last of the Targaryens.

After using the chamber pot, he managed to stagger to the door, and ask the guard what time it was. After hearing that it was almost morning, he was amazed – he’d slept a whole day and a night. He felt as normal, with only a slight ache to show for his injuries. There was still an hour before daybreak, so he padded back to the wardrobe to find some clean clothes to wear, and almost stumbled over the bag Daenerys had given him.

Well, he was at Winterfell now, so he might as well look inside. He took out Tyrion’s letter first, wondering when he’d have the opportunity to show it to Sansa, and then found what Daenerys had left for him.

There were two cloaks in the bag – both black, with a red, three-headed dragon stitched into them. They were Targaryen cloaks. He’d noticed that the device was everywhere in the Queen’s camp, and no doubt she’d had cloaks made too. This device hadn’t been seen in the seven Kingdoms for over twenty years, he mused, fingering the careful stitching. He understood why she would give him one – she probably felt he needed the reminder of his father and his line, rough Northerner that he was.

But why two, he thought? What was she trying to tell him? A subdued knock on the door made him stuff them back in the bag, and push it under his bed. He’d think about it later. Right now he needed to get dressed, and see to the problems from the Vale.

An hour later, he was standing in the courtyard. The Northern lords were all amassed around, and Sansa was watching from a balcony, together with Lady Mormont, and the Maid of Tarth. The Master-at-arms and the Vale foot soldiers were brought out. None of them would meet his eyes, except the master. And Jon knew – this one was guilty.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself, ser?”

Jon felt a strange sensation, like he’d been here before – and he had. How many more men was he going to have to execute, before they finally accepted what needed to be done?

The Master-at-arms glared at him. “You’re nothing but a jumped-up bastard. Not even a real Northerner. You let the Wildlings through the Wall, bastard. You’re not fit to be king.”

So, he wasn’t going to implicate Lord Baelish, even though Jon was sure this was all his plan. Something of the man’s words stirred a memory in his head. Ramsey’s letter. That’s what it reminded him of. Maybe Littlefinger’s plans reached further back than just leading him into a trap – maybe they involved spurring him to get Winterfell back, and then having him killed, so he could swoop in for Sansa. No matter.

“Ser Davos, fetch me a block.”

Davos nodded, and ran off to get one. No-one else spoke. One of the other soldiers was quietly sobbing, but the Master-at-arms said nothing, just looked at Jon, hatred burning out of his eyes.

“The blood of the First Men flows in the Starks,” Jon continued, locking eyes with Sansa, who gave him a slow nod. “We hold to the belief that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword.”

He drew his sword with a flourish, and Ser Davos placed the block in front of the Master-at-arms, while two of Jon’s men pushed him to his knees, and then stepped aside.

“By the word of Jon of the House Stark, King in the North, I do sentence you to die.”

Jon brought Longclaw down and the man’s head rolled into the snow.

He could see Sansa, Brienne, and Lady Mormont from the corner of his eye, and noticed that neither averted their eyes. The other soldiers from the Vale dropped to their knees, pleading for mercy. In particular, the one who had been crying caught Jon’s attention.

“Please, your Grace, mercy! It was Lord Baelish who convinced – him! I swear it was! We could no more disobey him than we could our liege Lord! I beg you, mercy, your Grace.”

Jon locked eyes with Lord Royce, whose face was a picture of horror and despair. And he came to a decision, handing his sword off to Tormund, to have it cleaned. The soldiers almost collapsed in relief, though Jon wasn’t sure if they would be as relieved once he pronounced sentence. They couldn’t stay here.

“You will go to the Wall. You will take the black. Believe me, this is mercy. And it is your last chance.” Jon turned away, not wanting to see any more. He’d probably pronounced a death sentence anyway, if the White Walkers had really breached it. Lord Royce grabbed his arm, frantic with relief.

“Thank you! Thank you! So merciful, so wise,” he babbled, and Jon found himself wanting to comfort the man, but restrained himself, just replying with a short nod.

The next few weeks were spent planning, and letting his ribs recover. Jon wasn’t sure whether he was just delaying telling the other Lords his news, or whether he was using a strategy. Still, there was enough to be done with reclaiming the North, reuniting it from the disastrous state it had been left in after the Boltons’ rule.

The Dreadfort, the Karhold and the Last Hearth needed to be settled with Jon and Sansa’s allies. Representatives needed to be sent to Greywater Watch. And strange rumours were coming out of the Riverlands, with the Twins, in particular, being the centre of some bizarre talk. Of course, once the time was right, Jon knew he would be flying there, on Viserion, to deal with Walder Frey and try and get the Reeds on their side. First he needed to tell them the whole story, and he found himself strangely reluctant.

One afternoon the talks had ended early, and Jon decided he needed to do something he’d been putting off, so he went with Ghost to the crypts underneath Winterfell. The tombs of the most recent Stark dead were closer to the entrance, and he didn’t have to walk for long before he reached Rickon’s resting place. The stone looked new and raw, and Jon had to brush away a tear as he thought of the active and happy child that he remembered, locked away forever in this dark and gloomy place.

Jon moved further in, and stood in front of Lord Eddard’s statue for a long time. He wanted to scream at him, beg him for answers. Why couldn’t he have told him the truth? Why had Ned let him exile himself to a life in what was essentially a prison, when he’d committed no crime?

Jon shook his head, and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he turned to the only statue of a woman, close by. Lyanna Stark. His mother. He looked into the stone face and tried to see some of his features there, but couldn’t. He’d heard say that Arya resembled Lyanna most, but Arya had been no more than a child when he’d last seen her. He didn’t even know what she looked like, now.

He passed a gloved hand over the carved hair, and wished he had a painting instead, but he could guess a few things. Everyone knew what Rhaegar had looked like – what all Targaryens looked like. Fair hair, purple eyes, tall. So he must resemble his mother – dark hair, dark eyes. He sighed. He would find nothing here. He didn’t know what he’d expected – some hidden object which would tell him something, anything. But that was nonsense.

Ned Stark had made himself the guardian of a secret that could be the death of his entire family and the end of his line. It would have been madness to leave any hint in the crypts for anyone to find.

Jon wanted to pray, but ever since he’d been brought back from the dead, had found it too difficult to believe in anything beyond what he saw with his own eyes. Still, he was about to at least try, when voices from the entrance stopped him. In the distance, he could see a flickering torch, and soon the voices became clearer. Ghost wasn’t worried, though, so neither was Jon.

“My lady, I wish you wouldn’t try to leave the keep without me.”

“Brienne, this is my home! There are no more Boltons left to harm me!”

Sansa must have had the same idea as him, Jon thought. He was glad Brienne thought to accompany her. He was so relieved when Brienne of Tarth finally returned from the Riverlands – no-one was getting through her to harm Sansa. He wasn’t even sure he could beat her in strength – maybe in speed, though.

“This is your home, my lady – but right now it’s full of soldiers. I don’t trust them,” Brienne continued, darkly.

Sansa chuckled. “Do you trust anyone?”

Brienne made a sound which indicated that no, she didn’t. Jon couldn’t blame her. After what had happened to Sansa, after what had happened to Brienne herself (soldiers were terrible gossips, Jon mused, and the tales of the Maid of Tarth and the Kingslayer had started circulating as soon as she and her squire had ridden through the gates), after what he’d witnessed in Craster’s Keep, he wasn’t inclined to trust any man, either. And he was one.

They came closer, and Brienne glimpsed him, immediately putting a hand on her sword. Then she recognised him, and bowed.

“Your Grace.”

He nodded, and Ghost ran to Sansa, panting happily. She patted his head and smiled, at Jon too.

“I didn’t know you were down here, Jon. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Jon waved this away. “It’s no trouble, Sansa. I just wanted to see Rickon’s tomb. And I’ve never seen Lord Eddard’s statue.” He was glad he’d always spoken formally about the man he’d thought was his father – it made it easier to avoid lying outright, now.

Sansa nodded. “Of course, you haven’t been here in years.” She looked at the statue of Lord Eddard and sighed. “It doesn’t look like father at all. Makes you wonder how close any of these statues are to the real people who inspired them. Take Aunt Lyanna, for example,” she said, and Jon had to bite his lip to avoid a gasp. It was as if she read his mind, but she couldn’t, could she? No, she couldn’t. She hadn’t even noticed that he’d frozen in horror, though he was pretty sure that Ghost gave him a curious look.

“I mean, father always said that Arya reminded him of her. But Arya looks nothing like this.”

Jon nodded, once again amazed that their thoughts were going in the same direction. But he was sure Sansa wanted to be alone in the crypt, so he said his goodbyes, and left, Ghost padding after him. He had his own plans for the rest of the afternoon.

It had been clear to Jon for a while, that he needed to introduce Ghost to Viserion, and he was sure he’d been putting this off, too. But it had to be done. He didn’t want Ghost to attack the dragon, and get himself burned to a crisp. If only he knew how much Ghost understood, and how much was just his own warging, if he’d ever done such a thing, and it wasn’t just his imagination.

When he went riding that afternoon, he took Tormund with him – both at Ser Davos’s insistence that he could not ride out without protection, and to share all his new knowledge with the man. He knew that of all the people at Winterfell, Tormund and his people were the only ones who didn’t care whose family he belonged to. For them, one kneeler was very much like another. In fact, they might like his new family better – it wasn’t a Targaryen who’d trapped them behind a seven hundred foot wall for thousands of years.

After they’d ridden to the edge of the Wolfswood, Tormund’s sidelong glances started to annoy Jon.

“What?”

“Well, you’ve been strange since you came back, King Crow.” Tormund ignored Jon’s eye-roll, even though he couldn’t suppress a grin. “I’ve been learning about your games of thrones, and this would be the part where the king takes the inconvenient visitor out to have him killed.”

Jon sighed. “Who have you been talking to, Tormund? Of course I’m not going to have you killed. You’re the only one I can trust right now.”

Tormund preened, even though he seemed surprised.

Jon went on. “There’s something I must tell you, because I know it won’t turn you against me.”

He pulled on the reins at the edge of the wood, and Tormund followed suit, dismounting alongside. Ghost, who’d run ahead, doubled back, and raced up to Jon, happily. The direwolf really needed more exercise, Jon thought, sadly. He shouldn’t be kept cooped up at Winterfell for so long.

“Tormund, what do you and your people know about the Targaryen line, and how it came to an end?”

Tormund’s eyebrows rose. That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. “My people know little, and care even less. I know something. Dragonfolk, they were, though the dragons died out long ago. And the Dragon kings themselves were overthrown . . . some years ago, now?”

Jon nodded. “One and twenty.” He walked up and down, trying to find a way to explain. “Tormund, how do you think I got away, after the Vale knights left me there?”

Tormund looked even more puzzled. “Your horse . . .”

Jon shook his head. “My horse was cut to pieces out from under me. There was no-one. Except . . . “

Jon rubbed at his eyebrow. Talk was pointless. He’d show them everything, and let them come to their own conclusions. He crouched down and looked deep into Ghost’s eyes, begging him to understand. “Ghost, you must be calm when he comes. You must not fight him.”

Jon looked up, and saw that Tormund was just beginning to open his mouth to speak, when the screech sounded all around him. Perhaps because he’d been warned, perhaps because Jon was holding onto his scruff with a convulsive grip, Ghost didn’t react, just gave the circling dragon an incurious look, and sat down with his paws extended, like a statue.

Viserion was ecstatic. Jon could tell, because the feelings of bliss were washing all over him, and he had to stop himself from grinning foolishly. Sansa always used to tell him he looked like a simpleton when he did that.

Tormund stared at the dragon, mouth gaping. “That’s a bloody huge dragon!”

A few hours later, riding back through the Wolfswood, Tormund still looked stunned. He caught Jon’s sidelong glances.

“That was a bloody huge dragon, Jon Snow.”

Jon nodded. Tormund was right. Viserion was a bloody huge dragon.

Tormund beamed, and shook his head. “Your Northern lords are going to shit themselves when they see this, Jon.”

“As long as they don’t kill me for not being a Stark, I don’t care what they do,” Jon sighed.

Tormund snorted, and shook his head. “As long as that dragon’s with you, no-one’s getting anywhere near, Jon. A bloody huge dragon.”

Jon couldn’t help chuckling, and Tormund burst out laughing. They raced each other to the keep, Ghost keeping pace with them, and Jon felt some of the heaviness leave him, for a while.

To his great surprise, it didn’t take Jon that long to persuade the Northern lords, and Sansa, to come riding with him, the next afternoon. He realised that the real obstacle had been his own fear of being rejected. Particularly by Sansa, he thought. Even though Sansa had told him that Bran was still alive, somewhere, and Arya had been sighted by Brienne, he still felt that Sansa was the only family he had left. That must be why it was so important for him that Sansa accepted him, even though he wasn’t really her half-brother.

They rode along, all enjoying the crisp weather. It was a beautiful sunny day, though the fields and the trees were all covered in snow. Once again, they rode for an hour out of Winterfell, until he could be sure that they were not visible from the Keep. The lords and ladies were one thing, and could be relied upon not to panic. He wasn’t so sure about common soldiers and servants.

Ghost ran alongside them, and ahead of them, until he seemed to choose a likely open spot, and sat down, though not before giving Jon a knowing look. Jon slowed his horse down, and stopped, dismounting. When the others caught up, they gave each other puzzled looks, but dismounted also.

Tormund took charge of the horses, leading them to a nearby coppice, where they could be tied up – Jon didn’t want the horses to panic. Ser Davos looked almost hurt at that, and Jon felt sorry for him, but didn’t regret his decision to include Tormund and not the Onion Knight. Sansa, likewise, was also puzzled, and Brienne was already starting to finger her lion pommel – he wanted to tell them they’d spent too long in King’s Landing, but thought it better to hold his peace.

“My lords, and ladies: I must admit I have not been completely honest with you. The ride was a ruse to get away from the keep, and the eyes and ears within.”

They exchanged looks, but only Lady Mormont spoke her mind. “Do you suspect spies at Winterfell, your Grace?”

“Aye,” he answered. “I’ve learned that not expecting the worst from Lord Baelish is something only a fool does.“ He looked at Sansa, and was relieved to see a little half-smile on her face.

“Besides,” he continued, “I finally have something he knows nothing about, and I have no intention of giving up this advantage before it can be used.”

It was time. He could already feel the warmth growing inside him, the joy washing over him. Also, Ghost was looking as contemptuous as a direwolf could – seeming to say that he had to tolerate the dragon, but he didn’t have to like him.

“My lords, my ladies – you must keep calm now. No swords, no spears,” he said, thankful that he’d dissuaded Lord Royce from bringing some knights along.

The screech was as loud as ever, but at first the lords did not realise that this was what Jon was preparing them for. It was only when Tormund looked towards the sky, and Brienne looked to see what he was looking at, that the others gazed up, and saw a circling dragon.

Viserion seemed to sense the importance of the occasion, or else he was preening. He wheeled and turned, effortlessly for such a huge creature. He flapped his great wings, sending gusts of wind to tousle Sansa’s hair and cause her cloak to billow behind her, and Jon gave the dragon a suspicious look.

Finally, Viserion landed with a great thump next to Jon, who patted his great head. The silence was only broken by the bellows-like breathing of the great creature.

“That’s a dragon!” Ser Davos spoke first, his voice shaking.

Jon nodded.

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa said, tears in her eyes, “he’s so beautiful.” Jon felt a wave of warmth wash over him, and this time he couldn’t blame Viserion. She accepted him!

But he knew seeing the dragon wasn’t enough. He knew he had to explain further.

“When I was left for dead, near the Wall, facing a White Walker and his wights, this dragon saved my life. He took me to his mother, Queen Daenerys Stormborn, thought to be the last Targaryen.”

The Northern lords looked stumped. Lord Manderley was the first to recover, though Sansa looked like she had worked it out already.

“Thought to be, your Grace?”

Jon sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, especially now.” Now Lady Mormont seemed to understand, and her eyes widened.

“It has been made known to me, that I am not the son of Lord Eddard Stark, but of Lyanna Stark.”

“And Rhaegar Targaryen,” Brienne murmured, with awe in her voice. Jon raised an eyebrow. He wouldn’t have expected Lady Brienne to have a fondness for the tales of the last Dragon Prince, but perhaps the stories were told differently in the Stormlands.

“Jon, how do you know that this Daenerys isn’t just trying to use you for her own ends? How do you know she isn’t trying to trick you?"

Jon had been expecting this question, though not from Sansa. “She could have had me killed as soon as I arrived in her camp, Sansa, far away from here, and no-one would have known.”

Gasps and a blast of heat from his side caused him to turn to Viserion, who’d just expelled a gust of fire into the air. The dragon’s eyes were like golden pools, and they told Jon that Viserion would never have let that happen. My life for yours, he thought he heard a voice say, and he patted the dragon on the nose. I know, brother, I know, he thought, hoping that the dragon would understand.

Silence fell in the clearing. The Northern lords exchanged looks, but said nothing. Jon wasn’t sure what to do next. He fingered the strap of the bag he’d brought with him, but wasn’t sure that it would help. What was he supposed to say: look, I’ve got some cloaks?

Jon staggered. Something had nudged him in the back, and when he looked behind him, he realised that an enormous dragon’s head still managed to look hopeful. The dragon wanted to fly, he thought. Jon decided to give in. Besides, they needed to talk outside his presence, and outside Viserion’s presence. Forming lucid thoughts wasn’t easy, the first time you met a dragon. He knew that from his own experience.

“I think you need time to talk amongst yourselves,” Jon said, as he vaulted on the dragon’s back.

Viserion took off, joyfully, and was soon airborne. Jon relished the feeling of flying like he’d never even suspected he would. The dragon screeched happily, and wheeled and turned, somehow sensing that Jon was no longer in pain. Viserion took him to a set of caves which looked like they’d been frozen shut, and hovered, seemingly waiting, for what, Jon did not know. Then he remembered something Daenerys had mentioned, or was it a memory Viserion had shown him? No matter. He wanted to try it too. He cleared his throat and spoke, hoping he was saying it right.

”Dracarys.” No sooner did the word leave his lips, than an enormous gust of dragonfire burst onto the cave mouth. The ice and snow melted, and the stones glowed red.

When they arrived back at the clearing where he’d left the others, Jon dismounted with some trepidation. As usual, Lady Mormont spoke her mind.

“I’ve already said this, but I’ll repeat myself. You are a Stark to me, Jon Snow, no matter who your father was.” Lyanna Mormont looked around at the others, a familiar fierce look on her small face. “And let no-one tell me that mothers are not important, my lords. That person should be prepared to face my sword.”

Jon inclined his head, and looked at the others. They were getting ready to kneel, and Jon put his hands out.

“My Lords . . . I have treated with Queen Daenerys, that the North will belong to itself, that we will never kneel to dragons again. Do not make me a liar, my lords.”

None of the Northern Lords seemed surprised, though Lord Royce still looked doubtful. That was a problem he’d be dealing with soon, Jon thought. But not today.

Lord Manderley spoke next. “You will have to marry, your Grace. Once this becomes known, you will need to marry a Northerner.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, and looked at Lady Mormont, who blushed and shook her head. It was rare that she did anything to remind people how young she was.

Sansa took a step forward. “They mean me, Jon. We are cousins. With the history of our families, it would be ideal. A uniting of North and South, Stark and Targaryen.”

She tossed her head, giving him a familiar, defiant look, just as Jon was wondering if he’d got knocked on the head while dismounting, and was now suffering a fever dream.

Sansa’s eyes flashed, and she looked more beautiful than ever. “You must marry me.”



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Next Chapter: "The Dragon in the North - Chapter 4"