11.Reunion

?, Elsewhere

Fissures covered the rune-covered stone. A little more, only a little more, it would shatter, leaving a final shackle behind. The raven’s death had loosened her fetters further, and there was no longer a powerful green one hiding in the roots and trying to strengthen the shackles and block her sons. She could almost taste the freedom and the revenge.

Yet once more, the air rippled, change felt even through Brandon’s Wall.

Someone… someone was wielding fire and blood, and she could feel it even here. It was similar to the Lords of Fire, yet different.

Many a millenia had passed, yet she had not felt the likes of such sorcery before.

The jade flame echoed from further south, angry, broken, and crying for vengeance with the anguished wail of a sea of souls.

But it mattered little, for they were all weak and fleeting before her.

25th Day of the 5th Moon, 303 AC

The Blackfish

The red drake lying on the ground threw him a bored glance with its narrow, scaly snout but deemed him unimportant and lazily looked away.

The damned beast was better than a watchdog, only it could fly and spew fire. Brynden never thought he would see what he considered a myth in the flesh, but one could hardly argue with their own eyes.

“You need to stop worrying, grandniece,” Brynden said, sighing. He had joined the army of clansmen and savages a fortnight prior and had advised, guarded, and helped Sansa to the best of his ability while helping with the logistics and scouting.

At first, she had been wary of him; he still remembered her guarded eyes and the expressionless face, even though Brienne of Tarth had confirmed he was truly Ser Brynden Tully. Another sign that Sansa’s time in King’s Landing had been filled with too hardship. As the days passed, his grandniece mellowed out once she saw he was indeed here to back her.

“But Jon has yet to return, and we’ll be at Winterfell in a few days,” Sansa uttered mournfully. Deep, dark bags rested under her eyes, her face had grown gaunt and tired, and her fingers skittishly pulled on her thick, auburn locks. “And there is so much to be done!”

Seven above, Catelyn’s daughter was a wreck that would break apart at the seams at any moment. But it wasn’t surprising, for Sansa had gone through hell but was barely old enough to be a woman. If there was any truth to the rumours, her thick, heavy gown hid a body of scars. Too many scars for a maiden of six and ten. Brynden suspected she would fall apart here and now if not for the fleeting hope that her half-brother would return.

Not everyone could jump into a burning pyre only to be carried back alive and well. Before the chieftains and the lords, Sansa put on a brave front, but hiding the exhaustion did not make it go away.

“What was it the wildlings said?” the Blackfish murmured “The dragon would know, and be angered if your brother met with an ill end.”

“But—”

He laid a hand upon her shoulder. “You’ve done enough for now. Sleep, girl. Imagine if he returns and finds you collapsed because you were too stubborn to rest.”

Sansa gave no answer at first. Most of her sleep had been replaced with fretting about one thing or another, or working on the damned cloak. But today, his words finally seemed to find some purchase. At last, she gave him a curt nod, turned away and made for the cot with its heap of pelts and furs.

Her devotion to her brother might have raised brows in another time. But Jon Snow was the last of her four brothers, and even Brynden Tully couldn’t fault her for clinging to the notion of family, no matter how inappropriate it seemed.

Sighing, Blackfish slipped out of the tent, nodding begrudgingly at the tall woman who stood sentry outside. Brienne of Tarth gave no reply, peering at him from beneath her visor, always vigilant. Even now, she was in full suit of plate; some knights would have long started grumbling in her stead.

Sansa’s tent was the largest in the encampment, a grand ‘pavillion’ of furs that had once belonged to the King Beyond the Wall. Twice the height of any other, it crowned the highest hill in the encampment. Around it were the wildlings, spearwives mostly, guarding Sansa at night. Among them stood Val, the wildling princess, the proudest of them all. Her sister had been ‘queen beyond the Wall’ for a while, but Brynden suspected the title only stuck because she had the beauty to match it. Full breasts, sharp grey eyes and long, honeyed hair that reached her waist—she could easily rival a younger Cersei Lannister in both looks and pride. Surpass her, even.

The camp was a chaotic mess, a tangle of tents haphazardly strewn across the clearing. Amidst the mismatched tents, wildlings quarrelled with mountain clansmen over firewood and game.

Maege’s youngest girl was here, leading three score of men. At two and ten, she had no business wielding a spear, let alone leading men to battle, yet here she was. The bastard of Hornwood, barely more than a boy, had joined them one evening, leading two hundred men from his father’s lands. Lord Mazin of the Rills, the greatest of House Ryswell’s vassals, had ridden here, answering Sansa’s summons with a hundred lancers and twice as many heavy foot.

All tallying up to around five thousand and five hundred swords and spears.

It was a small miracle that all those savage folk had not turned their spears against each other. The mountain folk seemed to have a quarrel with the Hornwood men, the little bear glared bloody murder at Lord Mazin, and they all treated the wildlings like a dangerous beast that could bite at any time. Yet, they never came to blows beyond a brawl or two.

It was all Sansa’s work. The red drake looming over her shoulder helped, for not even the proudest man would bare his temper in front of a dragon, of course, but it wouldn’t have worked if she were not Eddard Stark’s daughter. The Northmen listened to her, and so did the wildlings; she solved all the disputes and settled every quarrel before they could grow worse.

Sansa did not cling stubbornly to her pride or flaunt her station; she listened to advice. This was why this motley host had gotten so far. That and whispers of unnatural things.

All the talk of firewalkers and sorcery did not sit well with Brynden. He trusted steel and discipline more than magic. He was a knight, a soldier, a godly man. Magic, to his mind, belonged to the mad sorcerers and shadow-binders. But if some ancient power had stirred again to save his grandniece, he would grit his teeth and thank the gods for it. Brynden couldn’t pretend it was just a mere rumour.

As much as he wished it were otherwise, sorcery was not an old wives’ tale. It was here, right before his eyes, covered with crimson scales and golden spikes, flying through the sky and breathing fire. He had seen that rattling chest too, and had heard the tales of old, dead things stirring beyond the Wall.

The Onion Knight said it, the red priestess spoke of it, and the wildlings all believed it to be true.

And amidst all this confusion, this unlikely mess, was one man. Jon Snow’s name was spoken in hushed tones, with plain reverence as if he were a half a god. Too many swore they had seen his corpse burn into the flames, and too many more claimed they had seen his rise from it, unburnt. They all said Sansa had leapt into that same pyre, too, much to his horror.

Sansa never spoke of it, but when Brynden pressed for an answer, she did not deny.

How low had the mighty Kings of Winter fallen, for the last of them to desperately throw herself into a burning pyre? It would have been a pitiful end to one of the great lineages from the Age of Heroes. The world was cruel, the Blackfish knew. But the gods, it seemed, were not yet done with House Stark.

Brynden Tully had never much liked the Bastard of Winterfell. It was not a question of character—he had never met Jon Snow. Eddard Stark had shamed House Tully by raising the boy alongside his trueborn children, and Cat had wept for it more than once. But those old grudges mattered little now. The boy had been loyal, where many others would have faltered, more than enough for Brynden to push away any dislike.

The Blackfish was not a man of learning, but even he knew that leaving a dragon to guard and obey his sister as a trained dog was unprecedented. Even in the wildest tales of the Targaryens and the Forty, they could never exert such control over their dragons.

It was not just Bloodfyre. Jon Snow had two more dragons to his name… if he had not perished under the Flayed Man’s knife or some other danger. One dragon was terrifying, let alone three with a man who could command them. Brynden prayed for his return, for his niece’s sake if nothing else.

Alas, Winterfell grew closer by the day—now less than forty miles to the south, Bolton was mustering his men, and supplies were dwindling. There was no retreat now, nor could they afford to wait for Jon Snow’s return. Even with forage, the host could be fed for another week, two if they rationed, and after that, they would starve. The earlier snows had not allowed for another harvest, and Stannis’s campaign had cleared away the surroundings.

Just as Brynden made his way to his tent, a roar tore through the skies, halting his step midstride. Whipping his head to the clouds, he saw them.

Bloody fucking dragons.

Two beasts circled high in the sky above; one glimmered like a dark, jagged sapphire under the northern sun, while the other looked like an elegant amethyst streaked with bronze. Then, another rumbling roar far closer echoed, and a crimson figure shot to the sky, chasing after its siblings.

Before Brynden could blink, the camp erupted with cheers and hollers, and a crowd began to gather to the west, facing the outskirts of the vast wolfswood.

Curious, Blackfish made his way forward down the hill, and then he saw him.

Over six feet tall, clad in an eerie-looking black plate and a sleek visored barbute helmed tucked under his armpit. A white direwolf head snarled at him from the breastplate, eerily similar to the white beast that pawed behind the man.

The metal somehow didn’t gleam under the sunlight like steel ought to do. A closer look told him it wasn’t black, but the darkest shade of bronze the Blackfish had ever seen.

The man himself had a face far too regal to belong to a bastard—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, crowned by a curtain of dark curls. But it was the eyes that unsettled Brynden the most: a deep, cold purple that never wavered. Everything from his gaze down to how he walked and the hand resting on the sword-hilt of his belt promised violence.

Brynden Tully had seen his fair share of killers. He had stood beside men who laughed as they lopped off limbs and chopped off heads. He knew knights, cruel warriors and lords who revelled in murder and butchery, hardened outlaws who took cruel joy in bloodshed and death, yet none carried the presence Jon Snow did.

His gait was graceful yet deadly despite the heavy armour, his every step sending a shiver up Brynden’s spine. Even now, Jon Snow was not defenceless—the old knight could find a single opening. There was no bluster, no posturing; each motion flowed seamlessly, as if the bastard was ready to fight in the next heartbeat.

The Blackfish prided himself on his martial skill, but all of Brynden’s battle instincts screamed for him to flee, for there was no chance of winning against such a foe.

Then, his eyes settled on the silent white beast with red eyes that could easily be mistaken for a cave bear. Grey Wind could tear limbs and crush through ringmail with his bite, but this direwolf was twice as big and far more dangerous.

No wonder the crowd parted to make way. Even the boldest warriors from the hill clans and the wildlings stepped back without thinking, not necessarily out of fear. As dangerous as Jon Snow and his beast were, that danger was like an unbearable temptation that each warrior dreamed of following. From Sunspear to the Wall and beyond, the strong were revered, and a powerful commander was a force unto himself.

His doubts were dispelled. At this moment, he believed that this man had entered a funeral pyre dead, only to walk out alive and unburned. This was no oathbreaker or a craven, nor a desperate fool.

He was not the only one watching. Lord Mazin stood nearby, with arms crossed and face unreadable. The bastard of Hornwood leaned forward as if straining to make sense of what his eyes saw. Even young Lady Mormont no longer looked fearless but hesitant. The mountain chieftains muttered amongst themselves in hushed tones. The red priestess looked on with knowing eyes, while the Baratheon girl was starstruck.

Then, a familiar red-haired figure slipped through the crowd and dashed straight into Jon Snow. She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck with desperation.

Brynden blinked, and in that heartbeat, the feeling of danger disappeared. Jon Snow’s arms closed around his sister, plated in dark steel though they were, and he bowed his head, murmuring words that seemed to soothe her.

Sansa reluctantly let go of her half-brother but clung to his armoured elbow as if he would disappear.

Jon Snow

“Gods, Jon,” Sansa whispered, her voice thick with emotion, “I thought I’d lost you again.”

“I’m not so easily slain,” he replied with a cough, subtly tilting his head to the surrounding crowd, and his sister reluctantly let go of him. “Not anymore.”

A close look at Sansa told him a sorrowful story—she almost looked like she was wasting away. Her frame had grown noticeably thinner, and there were large bags under her misty blue eyes. The sight made his heart clench.

She blinked at him, dazed, as if unsure if he was just a dream. Her pale hand reached out to touch his breastplate, fingers brushing across the emblazoned white wolf head. The dark bronze looked eerie under the sunlight, and she gazed at it but could not see any reflection in the metal, even though it was polished and smooth.

“This armour… I have not seen the likes of it before,” Sansa said, fascinated.

“It would be hard to,” Jon replied, a joyless smile tugging at his lips. “For there is no other like it.”

The dragonlords of the Freehold had bound magic to steel through blood. Jon had done something far darker—he had used souls. Hundreds of Bolton outriders alone had been set to damnation to find a proper way to work forge bronze and magic together. A hundred more had been spent on this armour alone. And that dark magic had left its mark on the metal, turning it as dark as sin. But on the battlefield, Jon Snow feared nothing now.

Only dragonsteel swords and axes had survived the Doom; there was not a single record of armour, not even a gauntlet or a shield. That made his armour unmatched—each piece was as light as leather, perfectly fitted, and would not break or bend or rust. The hauberk underneath was a similar make, giving the joints a second layer of protection.

Sansa’s gaze drifted lower, to his leather belt. “The sword… it looks different.”

“Aye,” Jon said, his smile deepening. She had always been sharp-eyed, though mercifully she asked no further. He could not have answered honestly, for he had delved into everything foul and twisted dark wizards were said to do and then some.

This sword was his crowning work, a union of bronze and magic no lesser than Valyrian steel swords in any way. It bore Longclaw’s likeness only in hilt and grip. But the blade was longer, wider, heavier, enchanted for weight instead of lightness. Jon now had the strength to put a giant to shame, and he meant to use it to the fullest.

With his strength, a heavy strike could cleave through wood, steel, bone, and flesh with nary an effort, as many Bolton scouts and outriders had found in their final moment.

“Ghost has grown again,” Sansa said, gaze set on the direwolf looming beside her, now taller than she stood. “How much bigger will he get?”

“I don’t know,” Jon admitted. “But his mother was as large as a horse when we found her.”

At the sound of her voice, Ghost padded forward, tail swishing low behind him. Sansa gave a delighted laugh and ran her fingers through his snowy fur. “Gods, he’s soft as velvet.”

The beast closed his crimson eyes in contentment, looking no different than a playful pup the size of a bear. Yet Jon remembered well what Ghost had done just days ago—shattering bones, tearing limbs, killing armoured men as if they were no different from hens. Rituals had changed Ghost as well; swords now bounced off his fur, and even spears barely left a mark, turning him far more dangerous than other direwolves.

“So,” Jon said at last, “what happened on the march?”

He had slipped into Bloodfyre’s mind once or twice when the drake drew near, more to check over Sansa than anything else. But he’d had no time for close observation; each second had been too precious to waste.

“Not here,” Sansa muttered, casting a glance around the onlookers. She gave Ghost one last pat, then turned and beckoned him toward the great tent at the hill’s crest.

As soon as they were in the privacy of her tent, Sansa began recounting the journey.

Ser Alliser had risen from death and joined the march, shoved in a large chest wrapped in chains. His sister seemed terrified, but Jon found a grim amusement at the vexing knight’s fate. The biggest surprise was the appearance of the Blackfish, who had been hiding in the Barrowlands and Melisandre, who had completed his task. As the red priestess had promised, Shireen Baratheon had been found and brought to the host.

The mountain clans had answered the call to arms, as had Lady Lyanna of Bear Island, Larence Snow, and Lord Jonos Mazin.

“Mazin?” Jon asked, brow furrowed. “Is he not sworn to House Ryswell?”

“He is. Or was. One of his sons was flayed by Ramsay,” Sansa said bitterly. “Ryswell did nothing. So the Mazins broke faith and came to us to find his own justice.”

Jon gave a curt nod. It made sense now.

“And you?” Sansa’s wary eyes fixed on him. “What happened to you? Did you fail?”

He looked away. “You were right. Rickon was already dead when I reached Winterfell.”

“Oh.” There was no surprise on Sansa’s face; she had expected it. Her hand reached out to squeeze his. “But… you were gone for over two moons.”

“I was. I saw what they did to him.” His voice was tight. “I—” The words caught in his throat. “I killed every Bolton man I found in the wolfswood. Every last one. None of them died well.” Nor did they die quickly or easily.

That much honesty Jon could give.

Sansa did not recoil. Instead, she hissed, “Good. Those who follow Bolton deserve no mercy.”

He blinked. That was not what he had expected. But perhaps it should have been, for grief and fury oft went hand in hand, and his sister had suffered more than most.

“Mercy is a privilege only afforded to the victors.” Jon gave her a wan smile. “Such matters can be further discussed when we win.”

He felt like a hypocrite for saying such things after everything he had done, but it would not do for his sister to go down that dark path. The burden of fighting and vengeance would be his to bear alone.

“Fine,” she grudgingly agreed, and then a long, tired yawn escaped her throat.

Sansa looked dead on her feet. This would not do.

“Gods, Sansa.” Without ceremony, he scooped her up in his arms.

“Jon!” she squeaked, cheeks blooming red. “I can walk, you know—”

“When did you last sleep properly? Or eat more than a crust of bread?”

Sansa grew abashed, tugging nervously on her wavy auburn locks. “Err…”

“That’s what I thought.” He carried her to the cot and laid her among the fur covers. “Sleep now.”

To his amusement, his sister yawned again, rubbing her eyes warily. “But—”

“Worry not, I will take care of things.”

Before he could turn around, Sansa was already snoozing, looking far more peaceful than when awake. Jon lingered a moment, then pulled the furs higher, tucking his sister in. Ghost sprawled near the cot with no intent to leave, crimson eyes half-lidded in satisfaction.

It seemed the direwolf had missed her, too.

Jon stood waist-deep in a nearby stream, washing himself with the cold water. Then it was the razor that sheared off the vexing stubble—he hadn’t had time to care about appearances in the last two months. Each minute wasted was one minute less he could hunt Bolton men.

His scarred torso was on full display before the clan chieftains, Lord Mazin and the Blackfish himself, who had come here. None dared approach too closely. They watched from a distance, as one might observe an exotic beast. Two months of fighting had left more marks on his body, most white and faded, while others still looked fresh. The armour served him well enough, but it had only been completed towards the end, and before it, each skirmish carried the risk of injury since his goal had been to subdue, not kill.

This was no accident. Jon had chosen this moment for his bath, knowing they all lingered nearby. He knew why they were here. They meant to take the measure of his mettle, to see why a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch had abandoned his post and deserted his own order.

So Jon showed them his chest, and he showed them his scarred back. The deep, silvery marks over his ribs and his heart were proof enough, but he did not give it for free. All of them were grim-faced and scowling, bearing the pressure of his unfocused killing intent.

It must have made for a queer sight to have a bunch of hoary old warriors armed to the teeth peering at a half-naked man with caution. Winter lay nearby, curled on a boulder like a hillock of scales and jutting spikes, the drake’s spiked tail twitching in sleep. His presence did little to ease the Northmen’s nerves.

Jon finally reined in his magic and emotions, and they all immediately breathed easier.

“Lord Snow!” Tormund Giantsbane’s voice boomed across the glade, cheerfully oblivious or uncaring of the tension. Soren Shieldbreaker was close behind him, and both were grinning widely. “I see you’ve been busy collectin’ battle-trophies, eh?”

Tormund gave a bawdy laugh, eyeing the web of scars across Jon’s torso with open envy.

“The last moons have been… eventful.” Jon gave a snort of amusement. “Did you meet any trouble?”

For a heartbeat, Tormund glanced at the mountain chieftains who looked back at him with stony faces, then gave them a curt nod.

“Aye. Few more scouts from the Flayed Bastard tried to sneak through the hills,” Tormund said, cracking his knuckles. “Surik saw ’em from the clouds. We made quick work o’ them, har!”

Jon didn’t doubt it. A skinchanger in the sky was a scout no one would see, and the wildlings knew how to strike hard and fast when warned. Tormund, for all his jesting, was a cunning commander, quick to learn from his mistakes.

“That old man’s not half bad with a blade either,” the wildling added, jerking a thumb toward Brynden. “They call him the Blackfish, but I’ve yet to see him carrying trouts, har!”

The tension broke.

Brynden Tully snorted, the rest of the mountain chieftains outright guffawed, and even Jon allowed himself a brief laugh. It gladdened him that the wildling chieftains had managed to at least cooperate with the Northmen, and there was a measure of begrudging respect between them. It wouldn’t have come as a big surprise—the savages unwilling to listen to reason had not been allowed past the Wall.

Sansa had done a good job of keeping the peace, and Tormund had done what he did best: boast a lot, break the tension, and find a way to get along with everyone after beating each other bloody in sparring, of course.

“We failed to find any pink men in the forest, though,” Soren said, lowering himself onto a flat stone. “Not even a single one of them.”

“That’s because I’ve been killing them,” Jon said plainly.

No matter how many he killed, more and more were being sent in, if in bigger groups. He killed those, too. Jon did not know why Ramsay had so generously sent hundreds of his scouts and outriders to be killed, nor did he care. The Bolton Bastard was not cold and calculating like his father, but felt more like a beast lashing out in the dark. It certainly made matters simpler.

Pushing down his amusement, Jon finally turned to the mountain chieftains. “How may I be of service?”

An hour passed in talk. They spoke of food and steel and numbers, prodded about his time in Winterfell and the Wall, but no further. When they left, not one had spoken of desertion or broken oaths, and Jon knew that issue would not be pursued again. A part of him was relieved. It was an implicit display of trust that House Stark’s name still meant something in the North.

After all, each of the powerful hill clans had stirred, mustering all of their men to back him and Sansa. Throughout, Jon had not sensed a shred of deception—their loyalty was genuine.

Afterwards, he wandered through the camp, letting his feet guide him. Tents were sprawled across the hills in each direction with no order or reason. It would be easy to ambush this encampment. But an ambush would never come, for the foe could not know they were vulnerable—Jon had made sure none of the Bolton scouts could ever pass through the wolfswood. He passed faces old and new, a few offering nods, others staring too long.

And then he saw her, waiting for him between the tents like a crimson spectre.

“My prince,” came the low, husky voice. Melisandre was once again reverently undressing him with her unnerving red eyes. Gods, he did not want to deal with her devotion, zealotry, or presence. “I’ve fulfilled my task. Shireen Baratheon is here, hale and hearty.”

“I’m no prince,” Jon reminded coolly. “The name is Snow, and you’d do well to remember it. So where is the princess?”

“Shireen Baratheon avoids me,” the red woman admitted, a shadow of a scowl passing through her face. “She stays with the Onion Knight, who scowls at me as if I were death itself.” She stepped closer, leaning in and giving him a better view of her full chest. Today, her red gown was cut lower, and the white flesh threatened to spill from the crimson bodice.

“Few are fond of those who wanted to see them killed,” he said, snorting. “You can halt these blatant attempts at seduction. It’s getting irksome.”

“I serve at your pleasure, my… lord.” She bowed deeply, her heart-shaped face melting into a sultry smile. “Whenever you desire.”

For a good moment, Jon was tempted. Bedding a woman as beautiful as Melisandre was by no means a burden. His eager and young body certainly thought so. But Jon was not someone led astray by his baser desire. He knew dark magic, too, and many a devious act could be fueled by the act of coupling. Acts that would harm those foolish enough to be lost in the pleasure.

“Whatever I desire, eh?” Jon cleared his mind and swallowed the biting remark. After all, Melisandre had proved herself. “For now, I desire solitude. Your services will be called upon when the need arises.”

Which, hopefully, would be never.

Recognising the dismissal for what it was, the red priestess bowed low, giving him a view of her teats one last time before walking away with a sway of her hips. Jon vowed to keep his distance, then.

Stannis had definitely faltered after years with this woman. And if you give in once, it’s easier to do so a second time, and then a third. Unlike Stannis, Jon did not need Melisandre of Asshai, no matter how much he admired her crimson hair.

Alas, for good or for bad, Melisandre had proven herself, and Jon was reluctant to banish her. He had no qualms about killing people, but a loyal servant was never killed without a just cause. The red priestess was a cunning woman. She knew the hearts of men and moved carefully, always pushing but never crossing any boundaries, leaving Jon bereft of excuses to do away with her.

He could always concoct some reason or another, but such skulduggery was beneath him. And Melisandre knew that and used it to her advantage. There were no mentions of R’hllor, Faith, or burnings—doubtlessly, she already knew what Jon would tolerate and switched tactics to seduction.

The worst part was that it just might have worked if he were truly a nineteen-year-old man.

Jon pushed the thoughts away and moved toward the tent Tormund had promised him. He had others to speak to, logistics and tactics to iron out, but such things were not urgent. It would be at least two days until they reached Winterfell, and it had been too long since he had had a proper rest.

Shireen Baratheon

In a single moment, everything had changed; the gloom was dispelled from the camp. Even the dragons, soaring in the skies above, had become more than just some words spoken around the campfires at night. There were three of them, as they had claimed, and the two newly arrived were bigger and fiercer than Bloodfyre.

Shireen Baratheon already knew the truth. Ser Davos had spoken of it often enough, but hearing was not the same as seeing. It had been half a year since she last saw Jon Snow at Castle Black, and the man had changed.

The warmth he carried was gone, replaced by something harder, colder. He moved like a sword, elegant, direct, and deadly. Everyone was drawn to him like moths to a flame; the respect he commanded alone was more than anything her father could ever draw with his presence alone. A mountain chieftain or a wildling, a soldier from the Hornwood or Bear Island—they all beheld him with equal measure of caution and reverence that should have never been afforded to a natural-born son.

But Shireen had found that titles of nobility were no better than words in the wind without the power to back them. And was there a greater power than commanding three dragons? Even without them, Jon Snow still felt dangerous, even from afar.

Any doubts in her mind were gone. As long as Jon Snow was here, victory was within reach—even though the dragons were small, and the enemy outnumbered them nearly two to one.

But nothing had changed for Shireen. Ser Davos alone kept her company, always faithful, but the rest remained distant. Sansa Stark remained distant in her cold, polite way. The wildlings scowled when Shireen stepped out, openly calling her “cursed girl” or “kissed by death”.

Shireen was used to the revulsion by now, but it still stung.

Still, she was grateful for Jon Snow’s kindness. Regardless of the reason, he had saved her, even if all it had taken was a single order to the red priestess. She wanted to repay it, but had nothing to offer. Any swords to her name had died with her father. Shireen still had a way of helping, though it wasn’t much.

Massaging her wrists to relieve the stiffness, she continued working on the padded jacket, sewing more wool and linen into the inner layer. The stitching was crooked, the stuffing uneven, but it would stop a blade at least once or twice, enough to keep a man alive for longer in battle. Shireen had finished three other garments like this. Experienced tailors could make better gambesons than a novice like her and far faster, but there were no experienced tailors or armourers here, only Shireen.

Four more padded jackets wouldn’t turn the tide of battle, but it was better than not having them.

A gust of cold air crept in as the tent flap parted. It was not just Ser Davos today. Jon Snow entered just behind the Onion Knight, dressed in a plain linen tunic. Up close, she could make out the differences better.

Gone was the black of the Night’s Watch and the solemn look in his eyes. The Former Lord Commander was taller, broader in the shoulders, and muscled like the Warrior himself. There was something else to him, a new intensity that words could not describe. He looked more regal than her father or royal uncle ever did.

“Princess Shireen,” Davos said, clearing his throat. “This is Jon Snow.”

Jon bowed courteously, still unbothered by her greyscale. It was the same respectful dip of the head he had given her once, long ago, when she had still been the daughter of a king and he a Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.

Now, she was merely an abandoned orphan, and Jon Snow had risen far. No longer did he command a few hundred outcasts and petty thieves and poachers, but five thousand men and three dragons.

The Onion Knight muttered some excuse and hastily took his leave, leaving them alone in the humble tent.

Shireen swallowed hard. Her fingers had stopped moving.

Yet she wasn’t afraid. Jon Snow still had the same gentle eyes and kind gaze as Ser Davos. There was no trace of pity or disgust on his face. Shireen’s gaze slid over the clean-shaven, sharp face adorned by amethyst eyes. The colour suited him better than steely grey. She looked away quickly, her cheeks burning.

It took her nearly a full minute to remember her courtesies. She hastily stood and dipped into a shaky curtsy. “I-I am grateful for your protection, Lord Snow.”

He glanced at the cot, at the half-sewn gambeson, and his eyes softened further.

“Call me Jon, Princess Shireen. I’ve no lands or title. Anyone would’ve done the same in my place.”

There was not a trace of mockery in his voice; the words were humble and plain. She stared at him, searching his face for the lie but found none. Jon Snow had spoken each word with genuine conviction.

She bit her lip. “Then I am no Princess,” she whispered. “Any titles I held died with my father.” In truth, they had died a bit earlier, when Stannis had decided to feed his daughter to the flames.

Jon gave her a wry smile. “May I call you Shireen, then?”

She nodded, heart racing.

“So, Lady Shireen,” he said, settling on a stool nearby, “I take it you’ve seen Bloodfyre.”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s… beautiful. His scales sparkle like rubies in the sunlight.”

“Indeed,” Jon agreed. “Tell me—do you know who your great-grandmother was?”

That caught her off guard. But he was not asking for the great-grandmother of the Florent or the Estermont lines. “Rhaelle Targaryen,” she said slowly. “The daughter of King Aegon the Unlikely.”

He nodded. “And her mother was Betha Blackwood. Her sister was wed to Lord Willam Stark, my ancestor. That makes us kin.”

“Why?” she asked, voice cracking. “Why would you even care for a kinship so distant that it might not be there?”

Her own kin had liked to pretend she did not exist, especially her Uncle Renly and the Florent cousins. Shireen had cried over it before until she could shed no more tears. After all, she was scarred, ugly, and had nothing but enemies left.

Jon stood, and the small tent suddenly felt smaller. Shireen barely reached his chest, and even though he was not as tall as her father, he looked bigger.

“Because I chose to,” he declared, voice cold and full of steel. It was not a boast, merely ironclad certainty of a fearless man.

As her mind was still frozen with disbelief, Jon stepped closer. “May I?”

She blinked, confused. Then she realised he was looking at her cheek, straight at the grey stony flakes that had defined her life. Nobody ever touched them, not even her. Even Maester Cressen had only prodded them with a heated silver needle. They all feared they would catch the greyscale, though the maesters had claimed it would spread no further.

But then, she met Jon Snow’s gaze. Those deep purple eyes held no revulsion or fear, merely a spark of curiosity.

Shireen nodded mutely.

He brushed his fingers over the rough patch of skin, and the strangest thing happened. A tingle, a warm and soothing current, spread across the stone-cold skin that had always been numb. Then, his hand cupped her grey cheek gently. Nobody had held even her good cheek like this before—not her mother, and certainly not her father.

She was blushing. Gods, she was blushing.

And then it hit her: she was alone in her tent with Jon Snow, an unwed maiden alone with her man. If anyone found out, her virtue would forever be in question, even though Jon Snow was an honourable man. Shireen couldn’t find it in herself to care, though.

Her heart fluttered, and the good part of her face was flushed red like an apple.

His hand withdrew at last.

“Thank you for indulging me,” Jon murmured, looking deep in thought as he rubbed his chin. “Should you need anything, you only need to ask.”

With that, he bowed again and slipped from the tent, leaving her alone.

Her knees had gone weak, forcing her to sit down on her cot. Her face was still warm. She pinched herself hard and winced.

This was not a dream. Jon Snow was everything she had ever dreamed of in a husband. Handsome as a sin, courteous to a fault, and honestly valiant.

But dreams were for children. Life was not kind, Shireen knew all too well. Still… still, for the first time in her life, Shireen Baratheon wanted something more.

With trembling fingers, she picked up the cloth armour and returned to her stitching. The battle was coming, and someone, somewhere, might live for the padding she sewed in.