2. Convergence of Fates

28th Day of the 2nd Moon, Year 303 After Aegon’s Conquest

Castle Black

The air was so heavy and charged with magic that it pulsed, crackling with energy. A grand ritual of fire and blood, bound by magic and fate, swirled from the blazing pyre.

Aemon, son of Maekar, left the world with a smile as if he knew a joke nobody else did. An old and wise man who declined kingship for duty. Even when his sight failed him, his wits remained sharp, and Aemon kept tending to the Night’s Watch to the best of his ability. Knights, noble sons, farmers, and former brigands all respected him, for he lived a life of hardship and silent sacrifice. There was power in kings’ blood and even greater power in self-sacrifice and duty.

Life of the ancestor, willingly given.

The Starks manned the Wall since it was built and ruled this land for nearly as long. The Wall and the North have stood strong as long as the wolves have been here. The same primaeval magic that coursed through the ice flows beneath the North and flows within the veins of the ancient Kings of Winter. The Starks of Winterfell were the embodiment of the ice and the cold, just like the lands they ruled over.

For eight thousand years, men had sworn a lifetime of servitude and sacrifice for the Wall. They lived on the Wall, died, and bled for it. The ancient icy structure sustained itself on those vows and that blood.

Lord Commander Jon Snow died to a most vile betrayal. So young, barely at the beginning of his manhood, he lived and died in the service of others, not for his glory. Yet a child of a Great Prophecy was not so easily ended.

Vows willingly given, life forcibly taken.

Spurred by the threads of fate, the magic thrummed through the Wall and flowed through the lands of the North. Something old, archaic, and bloody awoke within the Wall itself. An angry ancient voice rumbled through the enormous ice structure, yet none could hear it.

Winter is coming!

Where is the sword in the darkness?

Where is the fire that burns against the cold?

Where is the light that brings the dawn?

Where is the horn that wakes the sleepers?

Where is the shield that guards the realm of men?

Where!?

The dragonlords of the Valyrian Freehold had done both great and terrible deeds. House Targaryen had been part of that grandeur, the last ember of those who had delved into the forbidden depths of the arcane. Fire in the flesh, some called the dragons, but the men who had mastered those beasts were no lesser.

Maester Aemon’s life of duty and sacrifice, the power of blood from one who willingly declined kingship, was still potent even in death, enough to hatch the dragon eggs. But as fates had aligned with the final, desperate gamble of Aemon, son of Maekar, things that even the sagely old man could not have foreseen happened.

One more body joined the pyre, a union of ice and fire. The body of Jon Snow, whose deeds were great and his life short, was the unknown son of the Wolf Maid and the Last Dragon, a union of the Lords of Fire and the Kings of Winter. It was merely a sliver, barely an echo of what had once been, but ancient magic ran through the blood in his veins. Even a sliver was all it took. The three eggs shook, and the flames hungrily devoured the maester’s body.

Not even the sorcerer princes of Valyria or the sage emperors of Yi Ti could say what would happen next. Even less so when Sansa Stark leapt onto the funeral pyre, intent to follow her cousin in death, and all the magic exploded. The vortex expanded and started sucking in the ancient ice magic weaved into the Wall, which eagerly flowed into the son of Winterfell, further amplifying and unbalancing everything. The seething fury of the flames would have turned Sansa Stark to ash, yet the ancient, icy magic of the Wall wrapped around her like a protective cocoon. Ice would give way to fire… but a meagre funeral pyre was scarcely a flicker compared to the enormous titan that was the Wall.

Everything began unravelling as even the threads of fate were pulled into the roaring maelstrom, and, for a short moment, destiny itself began to twist and churn until it managed to latch onto something… mighty, and an old, powerful death-touched soul was sucked from the Abyss straight into the ritual.

A white falling star cleaved through the heavens, splitting the cloudy sky like a pale sword.

Across the world, the obsidian candles burned furiously, and whoever could look into them now could feel the disturbance. Yet Brandon’s Wall rebuffed any further attempts to peek. In the far corner of the known world, the shadowbinders in Asshai by the Shadow could feel the surging ripples of magic, and the shockwave even disturbed the unholy silence of the city of Stygai.

In Skagos, the island’s quarrelsome overlords were gathered around an ancient crone, all grim-faced and grave. When the falling star tore across the sky, the isle was filled with shouts of reverence.

In Mereen, Viserion and Rhaegal grew restless and started spewing fire in the air, scaring away everyone nearby. Their bigger brother, Drogon, did the same in the middle of the Dothraki Sea.

In the ruins of Valyria, a twisted colossus awoke from its slumber and let out a terrifying roar, shaking the world.

On the island of Toads, amidst the ancient ruins of an unknown civilisation, stood a giant toad statue made of a greasy black stone that looked incredibly malignant. Suddenly, a vile tar-like liquid started oozing from the toad’s mouth.

Back in Castle Black, Brienne had fallen on her knees, face filled with despair and regret. Had there ever been a worse sworn sword than her?!

This was her second charge who died under her watch.

The brothers of the Night’s Watch and the Free Folk could only step back from the increasingly stronger fire and watch with awe. Melisandre of Asshai gazed reverently into the raging flames, convinced that it was a sign from R’hllor himself.

The air thickened with snow, yet the sanguine flames were undaunted and only grew in strength and size. Soon, they twisted, like angry tendrils of blood raging against the sky, and crashed together to morph into a roaring dragon. A strong gale howled, and the snow in the air also whirled into the shape of a direwolf. Under dozens of disbelieving eyes, the flaming dragon separated itself from the pyre, and snow and fire twisted and danced in the air.

Many a gasp filled the air, and Melisandre kneeled into the cold mush in fervent prayer as the two figures chased each other in a circle, turning into a whirlwind of ice and fire.

Yet, like all things, this, too, ended. When the funeral flames slowly died, a heavy gale blew strongly one last time, and the dwindling direwolf and dragon abruptly dived into the pyre.

Screeches tore through the solemn silence, and a seemingly misshapen figure emerged from the thick smoke.

Jon Snow was back, gently carrying Sansa Stark in his arms. His eyes, however, were a deep, dark Valyrian purple instead of the steely grey of House Stark. But they were not alone; a drakeling with violet scales and bronze wings, as large as a kitten, was perched on Jon’s right shoulder, heralding the return of the dragons in Westeros after a century and a half. A second, larger one with scales the colour of dark sapphire and striking black horns, crest, and spikes, was nesting in his unburnt hair and was screeching challengingly at the world.

Both he and his sister were naked yet untouched by the flames. Her torso and limbs were almost completely covered in scars and angry red wounds. A third crimson-red hatchling stood protectively atop Sansa’s chest, covering her bare breasts with his leathery golden wings.

His thoughts were completely jumbled.

Who was he?

Where was he?

What in bloody hell was happening?

And why did episodes of random events keep flashing in front of him?

Slowly but steadily, things began to fall into place. He instinctively kept trying to force everything into a logical semblance to remember. After an unknown amount of time, his mind slowly complied.

A name finally appeared in his mind: Harry Potter. As soon as he remembered the name, his memories started arranging themselves at lightning speed. The good, the bad, and the ugly; there was plenty of all three in his life. Right, he had jumped into the Veil.

Harry tried to get a feel of his limbs, but he couldn’t feel his body or magic for some reason, as if he were just a lesser shade, which did not bode well at all. Yet his soul had not moved on; Harry could recognise both limbo and the afterlife, and this strange place was neither.

Suddenly, the pleasant feeling of heat surrounded him. More images and voices tunnelled into his mind unbidden—this time not his own.

A long face with grey eyes, well-kept dark brown hair and beard and a kind, if stern, smile.

Winter is coming.

A young girl, almost a mirror image of the man.

Stick them with the pointy end.

A young man with laughing blue eyes and reddish-brown hair.

Next time I see you, you’ll be in black.

A shaggy mop of curly red hair with a warm smile.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

More images began to appear rapidly and assemble into another set of memories—Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. His last memory was the cold sting of betrayal as the knives of his brothers plunged into his chest.

An old, sagely voice echoed in his head like a bell.

Kill the boy, Jon Snow, and let the man be born!

Jon Snow/Harry Potter

One moment, there was nothing but his mind. But the next moment, his senses returned to him with full force, causing his mind to buckle under the onslaught of nineteen years’ worth of memories. It took him a few moments to tune out the pain and the myriad of trivial things as he turned his focus inward. His body was weak, and his chest stung sharply from the cold, traitorous daggers. There was also a certain weight pressing down on him. Around him, fire, ice, and ritualistic magic churned furiously.

He was in the middle of a very wild and out-of-control ritual.

The air around him was twisting and rippling with primaeval power, making his senses tingle with alarm. Even the elusive threads of fate could be felt jumbled everywhere, making the whole thing even more volatile than it already was.

Fate?

He despised everything related to divination and destiny. After a heartbeat, he cleared his mind despite all the cluttered memories running amok and focused on examining his body, mind, and soul.

Harry Potter had somehow entered Jon Snow’s body, and their souls began to clash—one body could not house two souls, not like this, not for long. He contemplated his options for a short moment. Harry could obliterate the other soul; it was young and weak, but it felt wrong. For all his flaws, Jon Snow was an admirable man.

After some hesitation, Harry shook himself and twisted.

Molten pain ran through every fibre of his being, and after what felt like an endless bout of soul-rending agony, the boundaries between the two souls blurred; Harry Potter and Jon Snow had become one.

A sigh of relief escaped his lips as his body no longer felt as if dipped in flesh-melting acid.

His body was also supposed to be dead, but he could feel the magic of the ritual, somehow sealing and healing his mortal wounds and repairing his shredded heart. There was also this sense of distinct oddness to his new body, a difference that he could only describe as inhuman… but it felt benign.

Harry—no, he was using Jon Snow’s body and had his memories, so he might as well start using the name. Jon could also feel a connection. No, three faint connections inside the ritual circle that slowly linked with his mind and soul. One of them was much stronger than the rest. He carefully reached out, and his senses were overwhelmed as the world shifted and splintered. Three different sets of eyes, noses, and the full package of senses proved too much for his tender mind.

Jon quickly cut the connection and slowly reached out towards the strongest link. In a moment, everything shifted again, and he looked at himself through the flames. Surprisingly, a red-haired body was draped across his still form, and two dragon hatchlings slowly crawled towards him.

One was a familiar connection, but the other two baffled him.

The ritual was complete; his body was revived and restored, three dragons had hatched, and an unconventional connection had been established with them. Suddenly, the magic in the air turned from a smooth, pleasant spring into a jarring whirlwind. The air was still so heavy and saturated that it thrummed, a volatile mix of ice and fire churning angrily. It was about to reach a breaking point and explode, obliterating everything nearby, including himself.

Jon gritted his teeth; he was not dying again, not to a ritual gone wrong.

After hastily shuffling through his mind for what felt like far too long, Jon finally found something suitable.

Though, it was supposedly very perilous, with a high chance of failure that meant either crippling injury at best. He would never attempt such an archaic elemental body-refining method without proper preparations, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

His resolve was steeled as the air thickened dangerously with power, and Jon quickly began to focus his mind and spread his senses. This body’s magic was like a muscle that had never been used—so weak it could barely move, and even that much was an uphill battle. But it was there, and that was enough.

Concentrating to his utmost, he began pulling parts of the raging torrents of energy into himself using the method described in the body reforging technique. The expected bout of insane pain that was supposed to accompany refining one’s body did not arrive, not at first. Instead, his senses were overwhelmed by a pleasant sensation of warmth and coolness simultaneously.

The raging power rushed into his flesh as if trying to drown him. Yet as soon as burning hot and freezing cold alternated, his mind was assaulted by agony as everything in his body broke until the magic mended it together, stronger than before. It happened again and again, and even his mind came close to shattering like a vase under the effort to keep his concentration under the assault of pain.

A small corner of his mind registered how his blood drank in the raging magic as greedily as a thirsty man in the desert.

Time lost its meaning as everything was drowned in a struggle of agony.

Albeit barely, Jon managed to survive the perilous ordeal. As soon as it ended, the pain gave way to the sweet feeling of pleasure and power. Even his connection to the dragons was more intense, more vivid.

Yet, for all his efforts, the air was still pulsing with magic, albeit less than before and somewhat calmer. After a short moment of hesitation, he gritted his teeth and pulled it in again.

He let the volatile magic run through his flesh for a few heartbeats before starting again. The pain was less this time, but so was the effect. Again and again, this torturous exercise continued relentlessly, painfully familiarising his body with magic and further strengthening himself in a cycle of destruction and healing.

Jon lost track of time, but eventually, the surrounding power had calmed and began to recede, signalling the end of the peril. No longer fed by magic, the flames slowly began to fizzle out.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Jon Snow regained feeling and control of his body. Whether he liked it or not, he was now Jon Snow in this world. Under the agonising ordeal, Harry’s soul had seamlessly intertwined with Jon Snow’s soul, and they had already merged fully, unable to be separated. Yet there was no regret. He was not Tom Riddle, an evil parasite to leech onto others or steal their bodies.

For good or bad, he had family here, and he had duties that he could fulfil in place of the bastard of Winterfell. The moment he accepted that in his head, any resistance and discomfort melted away. Jon Snow might have been subsumed in the process, but he existed, deep down in his soul. He would forever be a part of him now.

A curtain of soft, flickering flames and smoke greeted him as he opened his eyes, along with pretty red hair strewn across his chest. Jon gently lifted the limp body on top of him and immediately recognised her.

Sansa Stark, his half-sister.

A kin he thought lost had somehow found her way to him and even jumped into what he was now sure was most definitely his funeral pyre. Everything quickly began to make sense…

The ritual he was undergoing was wildly out of control, and his half-sister was likely the reason. Sansa seemed affected by his crazy handling of the leftover wild ritualistic magic, as she was in the centre and physically in contact with him.

He gently reached out with a tendril of magic to check if anything was wrong and would have exploded in fury if not for his ironclad self-control. Angry shrieks suddenly surrounded him, making him aware that all the dragons were bonded to him, overwhelmed by his emotions. Jon slowly cleared his mind, let his feelings flow around him like a river around a rock, and managed to calm himself and snap his mental shields in place. The drakelings around him also settled down.

His gaze inspected his sister again; thankfully, the magic-fueled flame had left no soot. Sansa Stark was always soft-spoken and sweet, even if she had started to avoid him after she grew up due to his bastardry. Her body was almost completely covered in numerous wounds, scars, and old bruises, some of which were poorly healed or not at all. She had clear traces of being violated repeatedly, and her recent wounds were bleeding or infected. Yet, despite the clear signs of malnourishment, Sansa had an unusually strong vitality, and her blood was brimming with magic.

Was this the result of what happened during the ritual? Quite possibly, and it would probably help his sister on the road to recovery. He focused, trying to corral his feeble power and cast a few simple healing spells wandlessly.

Yet, to his disbelief, the magic crumbled before the spell construct was fully formed, like a castle sand against a raging storm, as if the very air itself willed it gone.

The subsequent attempts met the same fate, forcing a tired sigh out of his mouth.

It took him a few seconds, but Jon clumsily stood up while keeping his sister in his arms. His body and limbs felt awkward and wrong despite the surging feeling of strength. Once standing straight, he finally realised that they were both stark naked. And that the very blessed form of his half-sister was entirely too attractive to him. Her scars and wounds did not take from her beauty, as far as he was concerned. When those thoughts wormed their way into his mind, he ruthlessly suppressed them and quashed his body’s intense reaction. It seemed Jon Snow liked redheads.

He halfheartedly attempted to conjure some clothing but also failed.

Because why would things ever be simple?

Now that he was on his feet, the two drakelings with red and purple scales flocked to him and started climbing him as if he were a perch. His skin was tough enough that their talons couldn’t accidentally pierce it, so he didn’t mind their shenanigans.

The biggest hatchling, the one Jon had the strongest connection to, looked savage. He was covered by more spikes than the others, including his tail, which vaguely reminded him of a certain dragon that Harry had faced during the Triwizard tournament.

The hatchling looked ferocious, with beautiful scales akin to dark sapphires, a crest and spikes wickedly black, and eyes like two deep, dark blue ponds. While the other dragons climbed up his body, the savage drakeling stood still and watched him carefully. Finally, he spread his wings and, with a few flaps, perched on top of his head.

Jon sighed amusedly at what he recognised as his bonded familiar.

His stomach grumbled with hunger, reminding him it was time to move.

The small spike of shame from his bare form was promptly ignored. His sister, however, was another matter, and he had no desire to show her naked body to the scum of the Night’s Watch. Jon nudged one of his hatchlings via the link to gently cover her privates. The red-scaled drakeling gingerly hopped onto Sansa and covered her chest with its wings. After a short pause, Jon mentally signalled the dragons to prepare to breathe fire because they might be surrounded by traitors when they stepped out of the funeral pyre.

Ready to face the world, he stepped out through a curtain of smoke surrounding them with his sister in his arms.

Yet it was not drawn swords that greeted him but awestruck silence. Quite a few rubbed their eyes in disbelief, and Jon could see a handful pinch their sides with a wince as if trying to shake off a dream. The inner courtyard was filled with black brothers, the occasional Baratheon man-at-arms, and free folk. The friendly faces of Satin, Tormund, Val, Dolorous Edd, and Ser Davos were all here. His squared shoulders eased when he saw no treacherous fools who dared turn their knives against their commander.

His gaze met Ghost’s red eyes, and instantly, he felt another connection as strong as the one with the biggest hatchling snap into his mind.

At the edge of his vision, he saw the red priestess staring at him with open desire.

“His pecker got bigger!” The loud, jovial voice that sounded very impressed cut through the quiet tension like a knife through butter. This could only be Tormund. A few people, including Jon himself, snickered at his shout.

Edd cautiously approached. “Jon, is that still you in there?”

“Of course, it’s me.” Jon exhaled sharply, reminding himself they were not referring to Harry Potter, but… inferi. No, not inferi but wights. “How did my sister end up in my funeral pyre?”

“When we lit the pyre, she started crying before suddenly rushing into the flames. Then the fire went all mad.” The dour watchman shook his head in wonder.

“Can someone spare me two fucking cloaks?”

“Your eyes are purple now. And, uhm, there are dragons perched on you.” Edd stated lamely as he unfastened his cloak and handed it to him. “And I might be wrong, but you’re a tad taller too.”

Jon shrugged while mentally nudging the hatchling covering Sansa’s bare chest to return to him. It quickly climbed onto his arm and swiftly settled on his left shoulder. Then, he threw the cloak over his sister’s naked body.

A tall, armoured figure rushed towards him, followed by a young man. To his surprise, it was a woman beneath the armour, even if she was built more like a man. Her actions had all the free folk and black brothers reaching for their swords, spears, and axes.

The woman instantly stopped, raised her arms, and asked, “Is Lady Sansa alright?”

She sounded sincere, and he could detect no malice in her.

“And who might you be?” Jon straightened up.

“I am Brienne of Tarth, Lady Sansa’s sworn shield.” She motioned toward the young man by her side, “And this is my squire, Podrick Payne.”

His sturdy mindscape preserved his memories of his previous life, but in this life, he could only recall what Jon Snow remembered, and the death had fragmented some of those memories. There was always a price to pay.

Jon Snow was a bastard. Even though he had almost the same upbringing and education as his trueborn siblings, he never paid too close attention to most of the lessons with Maester Luwin, aside from the few things that caught his interest. Maybe he would know if asked about those Houses in Winterfell. But after five years, most of the lesser southern Houses had slipped from his memory. Jon had not forgotten the Isle of Tarth, but nothing came to mind about House Payne—it had to be one of the thousands of lesser noble houses of the South.

But House Stark had no friends in the south.

He dispassionately inspected the armoured maiden and her squire. “Aye, my sister is alive, but she needs a healer.”

Brienne of Tarth had not done a good job as a sworn shield, judging by his sister’s wounds and Sansa’s presence in the funeral pyre. Jon didn’t like the gilded lion-head pommel on her sword, either.

He turned to Edd. “Bring her to my quarters in the King’s Tower. Ghost and some of the hatchlings will watch over Sansa.”

He carefully handed his sister to him and watched as Tollet gingerly carried her and headed back inside, followed by Brienne and Podrick. Ghost happily approached him with a wagging tail, and Jon softly scratched the base of his ear while the hatchlings hopped from his arm onto the direwolf’s neck and back. The two whelps were surprisingly receptive to his mind and commands and could sense his intentions.

However, the one on top of his head seemed to be the most willful of them all and refused to move, even flapping his wings in protest. Jon shrugged and patted Ghost one last time before sending him away. Covered in squawking hatchlings, the direwolf happily trotted after his sister, ignoring the stares of everyone else in the courtyard. Everything of any value to him would be there, and one direwolf, two young dragons.

But a warrior woman and her squire, both of questionable quality and loyalty, weren’t nearly enough defence in his head.

“Tormund, could you get four trusty spearwives to guard my sister?” It would be a cold day in hell when he’d trust the well-being of his abused sister to unknown Southerners or brothers of the Night’s Watch. The cold sting of betrayal still lingered on his chest, even though the flesh had knitted back. Giantsbane nodded wordlessly and marched off. The free folk were honest and straightforward once their word was given, and whoever Tormund found to guard his sister would do so.

“Balian, get some men and kindly ask this Brienne of Tarth and her squire to move to the guest chambers for visitors. Post a guard, making sure the two of them stay there. For a sworn shield, she did a piss poor job.”

Balian was one of the recruits from Jon’s batch. As a ranger, he tried to stay out of trouble. The black brother also bobbed his head in agreement and left with a group of men to complete the task.

Once the men were out of sight, Jon asked Satin, “Where is Maester Aemon?”

“He passed away peacefully in his sleep the night you were betrayed,” the young man answered, voice laced with grief. Everybody liked the old maester, and Jon was no exception. His passing was sorrowful but not unexpected, considering the sage scholar was over a century old. “He was on the funeral pyre with you, and those dragons hatched from stones that he had asked to be put on the pyre with his corpse… I think. They are the same colour, but not as dull.”

And there is the answer to who played a big role in the ritual. Even though this was probably not done deliberately, Maester Aemon had always helped Jon Snow, and the sagely old man was better than Dumbledore despite being far more powerless.

Even in death, he was able to aid him.

Sadly, Jon couldn’t do anything to heal his sister, so he’d have to get the next best thing.

“Val, could you find a trusted woods witch to check on my sister?” Jon asked softly.

The blonde spearwife was fierce and prideful, even more so than the other free folk. Jon Snow had been naturally attracted to her wild beauty and had many thoughts about bedding her before, but neither was he a raper, nor was she agreeable. The promise to geld him should Jon appear in her bed had put an end to such thoughts.

“Aye, Lord Crow, I’ll find a woods witch for your sister.” The wildling beauty nodded rather eagerly, silver eyes eyeing him with surprising interest.

As Val left, Satin had unfastened his cloak and handed it to him. He looked at him questioningly, but Satin, face flushed, glared and tilted his head at Jon’s… still-naked body.

Jon coughed softly and quickly wrapped himself in the offered cloak. His chest still felt phantom soreness from the sting of betrayal, as if the knives were still there, stabbing into his flesh. Suddenly, he felt unprotected without a weapon after sending Ghost away. His feeble magic also did not comfort him.

“Fetch me Longclaw,” Jon ordered as he started moving, trying to get used to his still-awkward body. After the ritual, the limbs were the wrong length, and his weight and centre of gravity differed from what even Jon was used to. “I’ll be in my quarters.”

He had to get something more than a cloak, even though the cold air didn’t bother him. All Jon could feel was a pleasant coolness.

In five minutes, he finally arrived at the Lord Commander’s chambers and quickly changed into the most comfortable pair of small clothes he could find. A terrible realisation finally set in. Jon had to make do with this uncomfortable medieval underwear, and they were still using chamber pots instead of plumbing.

A frustrated sigh tore from his lips as he donned leather breeches and a woollen tunic.

A knock on the door announced Satin’s arrival. “Here’s your sword, Lord Commander.”

Jon carefully accepted Longclaw, and his tension finally bled out.

“Thank you, Satin. Bring me food from the kitchens. The more, the better.” The young man nodded dutifully and was about to turn around when Jon grabbed his shoulder. “Also, don’t call me Lord Commander. I died on my post, and my watch has ended.”

The former catamite nodded wordlessly and slipped away with a conflicted expression, which Jon decided to ignore, just like he had done before. Looking back, he had made an uninformed decision to join the Night’s Watch based on stubborn pride more than anything else.

If you looked past the restrictions, it was not a particularly terrible choice; this was probably the only place in the Seven Kingdoms where a bastard could rise high so young, even if due to his Stark lineage. It mattered no longer, for Jon was technically free of this obligation. Now, those vows could shackle him no longer.

Only, there was a giant heap of problems to deal with instead.

?
Daenerys Targaryen, Vaes Dothrak

The Mother of Dragons ran out of the burning tent, coughing and covered in soot, horrified cries of pain churning behind her. Quickly, she tore away the burning edges of her plain painted garments and tossed them aside.

Daenerys had convinced one of the serving eunuchs to have the insides of the tent soaked with oil, particularly the edges and the entrance, to make any escape harder. It was so easy to turn a badly treated slave against his master. Besides, all the khals that entered had to be washed with holy oil, almost the same as the ordinary substance, besides the fresh scent of jasmine.

Dry grass and oil had proven to be a fiery match, spreading faster than the pious horselords were ready to react to.

By the time they realised what was happening, it was too late. Daenerys was not unburnt; the angry flames had licked at her skin, blistering it red, but a dragon could tolerate heat far more than mere men. Still, the searing smoke had been just as unpleasant, and the painful, itchy sensation down her half-charred leggings did not bode well. Peeling off the burned garments from her thighs would be agonising, she knew.

A few screaming figures ran out of the tent, but the hungry flames had fully engulfed them. That vile, honourless traitor Jhaqo and his other fellow khals would soon be little more than charred meat and ashes in the wind.

There was only one well nearby, and the meagre jugfuls of water did nothing to extinguish the raging fire. Eunuchus, slaves, kos and bloodriders were panicking around, causing a commotion and trying to put out the few flaming khals who were flailing wildly, but to no avail.

It took Daenerys a few minutes to stop coughing, but her lips twisted into a satisfied smile; the anguished cries of her former tormentors were music to her ears. They had taken their cruel pleasure in punishing her, and the aches across her back were still fresh. Lashed like some errant servant for not joining the Dosh Khaleen after Drogo had perished.

A dragon was not a slave.

Daenerys Targaryen was tired, dirty, and in pain, but oddly joyful. A devious idea quickly formed in her mind as she looked around the clamouring crowd. None would draw arms in Vaes Dothrak; she had learned this well enough when her brother had received his crown of molten gold.

If only Drogon were here, they would all bow down before her!

Yet just as she was hesitating, the remaining kos and bloodriders rushed out, fleeing from the city’s premises, but not before throwing her a few loath-filled glares.

“Where are they going?” She asked the eunuch who had helped her, her voice dry and raspy.

“To claim a piece of their future khalasars, of course,” the old, bald man responded with an unpleasant, high-pitched voice. Ah, she had forgotten how cutthroat the Dothraki truly were. “You’re very lucky, Khaleesi.”

“How so?” Daenerys straightened up.

“You killed fathers, uncles, cousins, and sons this day.” His whisper was sardonic, but a wide, joyous smile rested on his weathered, round face. She looked around, but thankfully, nobody seemed to have heard. “They know not of the hand you played in the tragedy, but they will hold little love for a former Khaleesi when their kith and kin died, and she lived. If you were not in Vaes Dothrak, you’d probably be whipped to death or passed around as a camp whore. Did you not style yourself Khaleesi of the whole Great Grass Sea? Your glorious titles reached us even here in Vaes Dothrak. Would that you be a wife to all the horselords here?”

The Mother of Dragons had often heard sharper and viler jeers, but this seemed to infuriate her for some reason. Still, she was here, alone and helpless, away from her dragons and those sworn to her. Was the man trying to extort her or mock her?!

“And you helped me kill the khals,” she rasped out. “If the kos and bloodriders find out, what’s to stop me from pulling and giving you out as an accomplice?”

“It seems we’re at an impasse.” The bald eunuch bobbed his head, but his beady eyes looked like two black soulless beads. “I know of two young khals willing to escort you back to Mereen.”

“And what would they demand in return?”

The eunuch looked at her with a mocking smile. “Why, some exotic beauties to sate their lusts, of course.”

Daenerys gnashed her teeth angrily. Every time she defeated her foes and tormentors, others took their place.

“Khaleesi!” A familiar voice made her whip her head. Relief flooded her as she saw Aggo and Rakharo run towards her; it took all her strength not to collapse on the ground.

Her loyal bloodriders had finally found her!

?, 303AC
The Fleeing Doe, Somewhere in the North

“His Grace bid me bring you to the pyre.”

Shireen Baratheon didn’t want to believe, not at first.

Her father might have been harsh and strict, but he was fair and just.

But then the burnings started. First, it was statues of the Seven, then the disbelievers who dared object, and even the Heart Tree of the Old Gods in Storm’s End was not spared. After the wildling king, the burnings stopped… for a time.

Despite her mother’s objections, her father never allowed her to attend the Red God’s ceremonies. Shireen knew she was ugly and scarred, and even her parents never truly wanted her. Selyse Baratheon often spoke of a son, Shireen’s little brother, who never truly came. Her father said little before her, but the princess could see he also longed for a son. A girl for a royal heir was not enough, she knew. Even a Realm’s Delight like Rhaenyra Targaryen could not sit on the Iron Throne with the backing of dragons, and sons gave far more stability than daughters ever did.

Yet Shireen was an ugly duckling, not the Realm’s Delight. With no dragons under her command or dragonlords to seek her hand in marriage, none in the realm would back her. Nobody cared about a little, unsightly girl scarred by greyscale.

But there was nothing Shireen could do but accept the reality for what it was. It was cruel, but so was the world, and her tears of sorrow had long since dried.

His Grace bid me bring you to the pyre.

The ominous words and the terror on Devan’s face had her fleeing into the northern wilderness. Why would her father summon her to the bonfire for the first time… unless she was the one meant to burn?

As much as Shireen wanted to deny that her father would resort to something as vile as kinslaying… he would do it. Stannis would do it if his duty demanded, especially after the witch and her red god sank their claws into him. She tried to deny it in her mind, but her legs ran as quickly as they could.

Even as Dragonstone’s heiress, all Shireen could do was study, read, and observe, and she had gotten good at it. And while nobody told her a thing, she saw her father’s men were… disheartened. Some had fled into the snow, others like Patchface were found ice-cold in the morning, and the odds for battle were not in their favour. The wildlings and the Karstarks, who had joined, were not affected much by the cold, but they were all too solemn.

It would not be the first time Stannis Baratheon was outnumbered in battle, but it looked bad. Bad enough for him to agree to another sacrifice to coax the Red God’s favour. And R’hllor always demanded a steep price.

There is power in the king’s blood.

Melisandre’s ominous words were like a death knell in her mind. There were no statues of the Seven in the wilderness, no Septons or Heart Trees to burn, only a single king’s daughter. Shireen knew her duty and knew it too well, but… she wanted to live!

So, she slipped away.

Had her father lost the battle? Was anyone even looking for her?

…Did it even matter? No, the mere thought of falling into the clutches of the Flayed Man or the Red God steeled her resolve.

Yet determination could only get you so far. The cold expanse of the North would have swallowed her alive if Devan had not chased after her.

“Why… why did you follow me?” She eked out weakly, her breath forming small, misty puffs in the night.

It was the third sunset since she ran into the Wolfswood, and they had stopped to spend the night by a small meadow. With a grimace, Shireen shuffled under her heavy woollen cloak and leaned closer to the ruddy fire. They could only afford to light one at night when the smoke would not give their location to pursuers. Her legs were sore and weary, and her back and arms hurt from trying to dig out roots she recognised as edible from Arwyn’s Flora Compendium.

“My father would have my hide if something happened to you, Princess,” he muttered, his face red from the cold. Even his faith in the Red God seemed less important than his father’s words or obeying Stannis Baratheon’s royal orders. His head would roll if he were caught after such treason, but Shireen was grateful for the kindness.

Devan then shuffled uneasily and turned the two skewered fish he managed to catch from the nearby stream. A small salmon and a grayling, according to him. Davos had taught his seven sons many a trick about fishing and seafaring, and Devan was a deft hand at the former.

While she managed to forage a few edible roots, nuts, and berries, Shireen doubted they would be half as filling as the meat of a roasted fish. And her fingers had gotten cracked and bruised quickly. She had no idea how to light a fire or catch anything that could run away, and she would have probably failed to wake from the cold one night on her own. Without Devan and his two knives, dagger, striker, and flint, things would be far more dire than they were now.

“Where are we going, Princess?” Devan squeaked out, breaking the silence. Was she even a princess anymore after escaping from her royal father? Shireen shook her head sadly; she had never felt like one, let alone now, when fleeing like a scared doe.

“North,” Shireen decided. Manderly was still sworn to Flayed Man, and making her way to White Harbour would require her to turn back to bypass either her father’s forces or the Boltons. There was no army to bar her way northward, and Ser Davos was at the Wall, too. The Onion Knight would surely help her.

It helped that her father did not fully trust the Lord Commander; Stannis had chosen to take his wife and daughter with him during the campaign instead of letting them stay in the offered Nightfort. Even Jon Snow’s advice to approach the forty Mountain Clans in person was dismissed, especially after the Karstarks had come to join with two thousand swords, swearing fealty.

The Watch took no part, but while the young Lord Commander would not allow her to take refuge at the Wall, he would not hand her over either. Shireen knew Jon Snow held no love for Flayed Men or the Red God, and she still remembered the genuine, kind, and courteous smile he had given her. It was only a little kindness, but more real than any Shireen had received before…