13.Tall Triumphs

259 AC, The Red Keep

The Young Princess 

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Whitedream’s face was twisted into a heavy frown. “There are easier ways, my young apprentice.”

“Leaving the Red Keep is not an option,” she said. “Not for me, and not now.”

The quiet stretched as Rhaella studied her mentor’s still face. It gave away nothing, as Whitedream had the uncanny skill just to sit still without moving a muscle for hours, but his eyes betrayed him. They had turned a dusk green, and they felt deep like an endless abyss.

He gave a curt nod at last. “Very well. I will go deep into slumber to prepare the roots.”

“But master—”

“I meant to rest regardless,” he said simply. “My body is still weak and needs a deep trance to nourish itself. It has been centuries since light sleep has worked for me, and your idea only brought what was coming forward. You must continue your practice each day until I wake.”

“Yes, master.” She curtsied, but Whitedream’s form had already started to melt away into the dreamscape.

“And remember,” his faint voice carried in the wind, “do not wander in the dream alone. Thousand Eyes and his feeble master have perished, but other, fel things lurk everywhere. Twisted things roam amongst the stars, old, forgotten forces slumber in the ancient seats of power beneath the earth and even deep into the nethers of the seven seas, waiting to snatch the mind or soul of some gullible fool.”

Before she could even reply, his presence melted away. Rhaella just let out a long sigh. She knew Whitedream was older despite his youthful face, but to hear that he had lived for centuries… was sobering. No mortal man ever lived for centuries. Perhaps… her master was not even a man.

But as barbed as Whitedream’s tongue could be, he had always tutored her without complaint, if strictly. His warning still lingered in her mind. The starry sky was a danger, and so was the sea and the land. 

She had seen no danger there… for now. Rhaella considered herself braver than most maidens, but she dared not test the horrors lurking in the dream. Her master had mentioned them before, but always as a warning. ‘Be wary. Be vigilant. Trust not the ancient ones or things you cannot see.’

He would never give a further explanation, no matter how she asked. ‘Your mind is not ready to know these things.’

Rhaella sat amidst the verdant grass, crossed her legs together, and let her thoughts drain away until nothing remained. It was easy here to do so, in this clearing that had no wind, no beasts, not even a fly buzzing. It was a small escape from King’s Landing, impossibly serene. Whitedream had chosen it for the lack of such distractions. He had taught her how to find it in her dreams, too, though that had taken the good part of a moon’s turn.

When her whole being was empty, she felt it then. Emotions and desires were pooling at the very bottom of her consciousness like a bubbling spring, things that were not her own. Beneath them was the thread connecting her to her beast. If left as it was, they would overflow with time, slowly swaying her wits until they dominated her every action. The more you walked or flew in the skin of another, the faster their mind would bleed over into yours. 

Some skinchanger took in more than one beast to balance such urges, but Whitedream disdained the very idea. Weaklings and fools, he called them. “A master skinwalker’s mind is impervious. They have mastered themselves so the outside influences never take root.”

Rhaella was far from a master skinchanger. She couldn’t even cast out this foreign pool of feelings and emotions, let alone shield her mind from them entirely. That is why she violently ripped away the thread and allowed everything to drain the way it had come, until her mind was purged of all things. That alone had taken her the longest to learn after sensing. Then, ignoring the sense of loss, she eased herself and allowed her mind to mend the tear. It was a daily ritual, one that Whitedream insisted she never missed.

Then, in the emptiness, she felt it. At the very corner of her mind, something impossibly faint and distant, calling for her. Not a true connection, but something else. Rhaella knew what it was; she had felt it before. She had ignored it before, too. But today, that distant whisper was sad, oozing sorrow. Her master was not here, and… surely a peek would not hurt?

There was no direction, no location that she could sense, merely a sense, somewhere far away. But sensing it was enough. Her mind followed the tether, letting herself drift. It felt like the world around her stretched as the colours began to bleed over. A chilling wave washed over her, and then, everything twisted back in place. 

Old, ancient trees fanned around her in every direction. Crows were scattered in the sky above, but they dared not approach. The frigid air bit into her face, but it lacked that dire chill that could freeze your marrow. Her eyes immediately found her target. The grey-blue drake was sprawled lifelessly into the snow, wings ajar, and she would think the beast dead if not for the faint rising and falling of his chest.

A faint wisp of steam curled from his shoulder. Rhaella edged closer and frowned. An arrowshaft was stuck deep inside, and dark blood oozed out, sizzling softly into the snow below. 

Eyes wide, she stared at the fallen drake, uncertain what to do. Uncertain if she ought to do anything at all—or even if she could. Kneeling down, she reached out to touch the leathery wing, but her fingers passed through the flesh.

Something crunched through the snow, and Rhaella whipped her head towards the sound. It was a young shadowcat, no bigger than a hunting hound, prowling through the snow. Its black fur striped with white was almost majestic, but the sight of it alone irked her. Tail fluffier than it had any right to be twitched across the snow with each paw forward as slitted yellow eyes were fixed on the drake’s fallen body.

“Go away, you stupid beast,” Rhaella said. 

The shadowcat ignored her, inching closer and closer still. ‘The beast can’t see or hear me,’ she realised. She tried to reach out with her mind here, but hot pain lanced through her head.

Groaning, she clutched her temples as realisation sank in with the pain. She had reached out too far.

Just as the beast reached the drake’s tail, its paw paused mid-air as it whipped its striped head, eyes studying the surrounding treeline. A low growl rumbled through the trees. A black wolf of similar size leapt into the clearing, fangs bared in a snarl, and it rushed at the cat. One eye was deep blue, while the other was milky white—blind, but it only made it seem more dangerous.

The striped beast hissed, turning to face the intruder, but the wolf only sped through the snow. With a reluctant yowl, the shadowcat scurried away, disappearing through the snow. The wolf kept chasing. 

Before long, the distant sounds of snapping and growling erupted before they were silenced in an instant.

Rhaella cursed as the wolf returned, blood dripping from its snout, but its shaggy black tail swayed with surprising… eagerness?

The beast stretched lazily and sat by the drake’s head like an obedient guard dog sitting by its owner.

“Who are you?” she mouthed at the black drake. The cloak of weirwood leaves was still tied to his tail. Now that she looked closer, the beast had grown, and its muscles bulged underneath the scales. “Are you a beast… or are you a man?”

The beast prone in the snow gave her no answer, but the wolf’s ear twitched as it warily looked around. Clever beast. Dangerous too, if it could sense magic and the Dream. But perhaps this was no beast, but a symbol, the essence or the totem of something. Lines between the real and the ethereal were paper-thin in the dream.

The cold slowly crept too, and no matter how much Rhaella rubbed her hands together, her digits felt stiff and frozen. 

The drake’s tail twitched, and the wolf immediately bolted away as if scared. The dragon slowly roused from the snow, and a sad, keening noise tore from its chest. A sound that would haunt her for years to come. Rhaella’s shaky hand reached for the snout, but it hovered an inch from the dark scales around his nostrils. To her dismay, her fingers ghosted over the scales, catching nothing. 

Her lips thinned as she glared at her shaky limb. To be so close to a dragon and unable to touch it… it tasted bitter. Perhaps it was the cold. Her whole body was beginning to shake. Her garments were made for the warm summer of the Red Keep… not wherever this was. 

Swallowing the pang of disappointment, Rhaella let her mind snap back.

Her evening lessons with the dagger continued. Unlike Whitedream, Melony was not a harsh teacher, eager to chatter about anything and everything, even when the princess had tried to focus. Now the weirwood handle felt comfortable in her hand—not that she ever had to use it. Still, she had commissioned a strap to her hose and a cleverly hidden gap-fold in the skirts of her gowns where the dagger could remain out of sight but within reach everywhere. Now, it never left her body unless she took a soak.

Her sleep was dominated by the other lessons, while her days were spent on embroidery, attending the royal court, and avoiding all suitors eager to see a princess of the blood in their bed.

Aside from that, not much had changed for Rhaella in the last few moons. Her brother still refused to look her way, let alone talk.

“He’s still sulking,” Genna told her with a small smile on an afternoon walk through the godswood. “He’ll come around, eventually.”

“He’s being kind to you, right?”

“As kind as a husband can be,” her good-sister said, though the look in her eyes was not as bright as it had been at their wedding.

No murderer had been found—the culprit was still lying low. The Red Keep had almost forgotten the mishap, with the deaths slowly chalked up to an unfortunate mystery. Yet the realm had roused itself awake. The Band of Nine had wasted no time, though, and had already sacked Tyrosh and installed a tyrant to rule the city. Word had come of the building of a great fleet. Three of the Nine were pirates, and one was a merchant prince, boasting an impressive number of ships, added with all the merchant fleets seized from Tyrosh. Clearly, even that was not enough for their ambition. 

That alone drove the royal court into alarm, and even the king wore a grim face everywhere, even in the privacy of the family dinner. The royal fleet was a motley collection of old repurposed trading cogs, a few galleys, and the occasional warship twice her age, more than half belonging to the Narrow Sea Houses instead of the crown. 

Now, shipyards and sawmills at the edge of the kingswood were working day and night. Mariners were recruited from King’s Landing and all across the Crownlands. Permits to crenellate and fortify further were handed out to every lordly and knightly house with a seat facing the Narrow Sea from Sunspear to the Blackwater Bay. 

It was similar to what had happened in her dreams, but not quite. Rhaella couldn’t put her finger on the difference, but she had already been swollen with child and had scarcely paid any attention to court or a faraway band of warlords.

The weather had finally turned cooler. The heat had been replaced by a gloomy sky and days of rainfall and wind. It was no true autumn; the days were still long with no shortening in sight, but the colder, wetter turn at the beginning and end of each year. Days of rain had washed away much of the stench from King’s Landing, but Rhaella well knew it would all return soon after it halted. Today’s drizzle had sent much of the court into the comfort of the towers and halls and ballrooms, and the Red Keep had grown silent.

Rhaella, though, sent away Branda Stark and braved the godswood the moment the drizzle grew light—much to Ser Gerold’s displeasure. The unwavering white cloak remained silent, but his pale blue eyes were filled with irritation when he looked her way. The scent of wet stone and moss and forest hung heavy here. All earthen pathways inside were lined with a loose collection of flagstones to avoid the mud—all done by her request, though it had taken a whole moon of convincing and begging from her father, and two weeks more to see it done.

Vhagar swooped down from his perch the moment she stepped into the grove, landing on her shoulder. Her razor-sharp talons were gentle, not sinking into her pink gown, but the weight was cumbersome—the eagle had grown more than twice in size since the Starks had gifted it, and it would grow larger still. She felt it then, as the thread linking their minds together came back into place.

Vhagar had brought a bloody gift again, too.

“Your pet bird is a menace,” Joanna said with a groan, face twisted as she beheld the mutilated dove dropped before them. 

The eagle chirped, puffing up her feathery chest as if she had understood Joanna’s words. Perhaps it had, Rhaella had seen men more foolish than her bird.

“At least I managed to teach her not to attack the ravens.” Rhaella let out a long sigh. 

Melony’s lips curved as she regarded the bird. “Not before she snuck into the ravenry and killed a quarter of them.”

The three maidens were all wrapped in hooded travel cloaks of flax and linen, oiled and waxed to ward off the rain. 

“Raising and taming an eagle was a task taller than I thought.” 

Even with skinchanging. 

Slipping into the mind of another was not some magical remedy that would enthral the mind of a beast forever or change their very nature. A skinchanger could do it, but at great personal cost and many years. It was easier to forge a true connection, a partnership based on understanding, and proper habits and behaviours had to be trained. At least Edmund, the royal falconer, was a master of all things winged and feathery, helping her greatly along the way, even though he was still amazed by how gentle and obedient the eagle was. 

Thankfully, Vhagar was still young and quick to take lessons and training without giving her too much grief. For good or ill, her ladies adored the ‘feathery menace’, as Branda loved to call it. Joanna still kept a respectful distance, while Melony studied the eagle with intensity that oft frightened the otherwise bold bird, while the Stark maiden loved to run her fingers through Vhagar’s plumage. The she-bird loathed the touch of others, and Branda often found herself with clawed hands for the attempt.

Vhagar soon grew bored and, with a beat of her wings, launched into the air, doubtlessly ready to chase down another dove that dared to intrude on her territory. The canopy above them was still heavy, and the rhythmic dripping from the leaves filled the air. 

As they trudged deeper into the grove, Joanna’s gaze drifted across the trees, looking at nothing in particular.

Rhaella nudged her shoulder. “Something on your mind?” 

“I… Tywin approached me three days past during court recess, asking about how I fare.” 

“Tywin should pay more attention to his lady wife instead of his cousin,” the princess scoffed. 

Melony let out an amused titter. “Hard to pay attention to a wife he had sent away less than a week after his wedding.”

“He did say he would return to Casterly Rock and assume the duties of heir and husband soon,” the princess said, but the words sounded feeble even in her own ears. 

More than two moons had passed, and the young Lannister made no move to return. The two old septas that were to accompany his wife at all times, including sleep, were damning—that was a common move lords did to guard against adultery to a spouse they did not trust. Or to ensure a wife they held little love for did not cuckold them, even though most ladies had little word and even less choice in their own marriage. 

“If you become your cousin’s mistress,” Rhaella added, “no proper lord will ever take you to wife.”

“I think he’s just concerned for me,” Joanna said, averting her eyes.

“Concerned getting you into his bed, more like,” Rhaella sneered. “I can recognise this tactic well enough. I’ve seen something similar more than I would ever wish with my own brother. A dashing smile, a gentle word of concern, and a show of chivalry to make a maid’s heart beat faster and even forget herself and her future. Then, once my brother has taken his pleasure and is tired of the old thrill, he will move on to the next pretty face that caught his fancy.”

Joanna’s small mouth twisted. “Tywin is not like that. And Aerys… is married now.”

“That has scarcely stopped any husbands.” Melony cocked her head. “The prince still undresses me with his eyes when he thinks I’m not looking. He undresses you, too. Maegor, Ser Addam Rosby, Ser Stevron Frey and his younger brothers, and many others do it, though far more subtly.” 

The Lannister maid shrank into herself.

“You should still stay away from Tywin, no matter how much you like him.” Rhaella placed a hand on her shoulder. “The life of a mistress is a cruel one—even royal mistresses scarcely have a happy ending, especially after Blackfyre rose.”

Swallowing, Joanna finally nodded with a sniff. The princess hoped her warnings had found purchase this time.

Rhaella’s thoughts drifted towards the Freys. A distasteful lot, looking much like weasels with their weak, beardless chins. They acted like weasels, too. Even after he had returned to his vaunted bridge, Walder’s brood had remained behind, latching onto the court like some blood-sucking leech, currying favour and seeking honours and offices. The king welcomed it, albeit reluctantly, for he needed all the support he could muster. Even Emmon Frey, Genna’s former betrothed, had slithered into the city, though he spent his days and nights in the Street of Silk instead of the Red Keep or the small manse Lord Frey had purchased near the Iron Gate.

Before long, they arrived at the godswood’s heart, where a great old oak stood instead of a weirwood. Rhaella had the surrounding shrubbery trimmed away during the last few days.

After glancing around, Melony’s blue eyes narrowed. “We’ve never been so deep into the godswood. Do you intend to pray to some old oaken tree?”

“You’ll see,” Rhaella said simply.

Soon enough, Branda came rushing, her flowing gown of grey and green brushing against the wet flagstones. The Stark maiden was slender but with powerful, shapely hips that Rhaella envied. The long face, grey eyes, and chestnut hair were not the hallmarks of a great beauty, but when she smiled, her whole face lit up, and it made her prettier than most. 

“I brought it, princess,” Branda said breathlessly. 

There it was. A slender weirwood cutting, clasped in her hands, as pale as bone and crowned by five-pronged leaves of deep crimson.

“Well done,” Rhaella beamed. Getting a weirwood sapling to King’s Landing was far from easy, especially when she had to do it without her kin’s help or knowledge. But Rodrik Stark knew a fellow sellsword who knew a knight whose brother was a powerful man in Dyre Den with easy access to its godswood.

Gerold cleared his throat loudly behind her. “This is unwise, princess. The High Septon and the Faith will be wroth. Does the king know of this?”

“Queen Betha knows,” Rhaella said lightly. “And so would the king soon. I do not answer to the High Septon nor the Faith, ser, but to my sire and grandsire.”

The white cloak said no more, but the eyes peeking through his visor looked wearier.

“I heard it takes a special trick to grow these,” Melony said, eyes not leaving the weirwood cutting. “Water and soil are rarely enough for them.”

Branda just shrugged and slowly trudged through the wet grass until she reached the middle of the largest clearing and stabbed the weirwood, cutting right through.

“It will take,” Rhaella said firmly. I will make it so.

The drizzle returned, forcing them out of the godswood. It was time for the afternoon court anyway. Letting her feet carry her forward, Rhaella slipped into Vhagar’s mind. The eagle already had another dove skewered on her talons and was swift to dive into the godswood. She tasted iron as her beak tore apart the feathers, flesh, and bones further, scattering them across the pale weirwood branches and amidst its roots. 

The cutting shivered as crimson faded from its pale bark. The leaves grew half a shade darker, and the whole plant shuddered.

She withdrew her mind, but a phantom echo of the kill remained. She kept licking her teeth to get the taste of blood off, but it would not go away.

In the outer courtyard, they chanced upon Princess Loreza Martell, huddled under a leather parasol which did very little to prevent the hems of her orange gown from being soaked. 

Her dark eyes lit up when she saw her.

“Rhae!”

“Lora,” Rhaella said with a polite nod. 

The silence stretched between them as the young princess struggled to find any desire to speak, not when the taste of hot blood was still fresh on her tongue. With each next moment, Loreza’s face dimmed. 

“I will be leaving in three moon’s turns,” she said at last. “Perhaps you and your ladies can join me in Sunspear for half a year should you wish.”

“My parents will not allow it,” Raella said quickly.

Loreza let out a long sigh. “But your mother already agreed to it. She believes the change of scenery away from the Red Keep would do you some good.”

They dared?!

Rhaella stifled her scowl. She bit back her refusal, fearing her words would come sharper than courtesy demanded. 

“I will think on it,” she said instead. “The Narrow Sea is swarming with pirates right now.”

“Fret not.” The Dornish princess gave her a reassuring smile. “I will return down the Mander and take a barge down from Longtable and then a proper galley from Dunstonbury to Sunspear, avoiding the Narrow Sea entirely.”

They were trying to pen her in again, she realised. Rhaella stiffly turned towards the Great Hall, giving Loreza no reply. It was a rude and discourteous thing, but she did not feel like keeping any courtesies right now.

“I heard the Water Gardens are amazing,” Joanna gushed as she followed along. “It’s romantic, too. A beautiful paradise of verdant greenery and waterworks that overlooks a sunny beach on the Summer Sea.”

“Romantic?” Melony laughed, though there was an edge to it. “It was a fine gift for a Targaryen princess, though it cleverly remained in the hands of House Martell. And since the time of the previous Prince of Dorne, even the children of lowborn and smallfolk are allowed inside the gardens, and the lords of Dorne scarcely send their children there anymore. I’m afraid that if we venture into Sunspear, it will be far harder to leave.”

Joanna let out a despondent sigh. Her kind green eyes found hers, and she gave her a worried glance. “Princess, are you well?”

“I’m fine,” Rhaella lied as her nails dug into her palm. The pain quickly sobered her up. 

It should have been easier to suppress her anger after so many lessons with Whitedream. But Vhagar could already feel her displeasure and was circling above, ready to swoop down and strike. 

Her mother’s plan was simple but clever enough. Shaera now hoped to wed her off to Prince Doran Martell, the young heir of Dorne who was near her age. They had yet to ask her her mind on the matter. Again.

It sounded like a good match for a princess of the blood, but Rhaella knew of Doran Martell. 

In the dreams of her future-past, she had caught a glimpse of his face during her wedding and later on Aerys’ first and only royal progress and Rhaegar’s wedding. The heir of Dorne was frog-faced and short, without an ounce of the famed Dornish charm. But the lack of handsomeness and chivalry was not why Rhaella found such a match repulsive, even if it certainly helped. Doran Martell was no warrior, no commander, and he was slow to move on any commitments he had made.

She still remembered when Lord Stark had been strangled and the whole realm burned into the flames of Robert’s Rebellion. Doran Martell had not moved his finger to muster a single spear, even though his nephew would have one day been king, and had to be threatened to call his own banners and honour his alliance. Treason or opportunism, it was an insolence and a betrayal.

Marrying a Martell was no different from marrying a traitor, and the House of the Dragon needed all the allies it could muster, not some fair-weathered lickspittle who would melt away at the first sign of trouble.

But before she could enter the Throne Room, a band of Freys waylaid Steffon and Tywin, barring the entrance. 

Angry screams echoed through the courtyard.

“You killed him!” Stevron Frey roared as he stabbed a finger at Tywin’s chest. “You killed poor Emmon!”

Neither her cousin nor the heir of Casterly Rock was frightened. If anything, Steffon looked ready to draw a sword and fight with them there and then. Courtiers were flocking to the spectacle to watch. 

Tywin’s face was carved out of granite, but his eyes darkened dangerously. “Why would I have killed some poor sot I have never laid my eyes upon, good brother?”

The sheer disdain in those words was palpable. Stevron’s face reddened.

One of the younger Frey boys spat on the ground, glaring at Tywin. “You had him and Lady Emerald strangled down in the manse in the city—”

“What’s happening here?” Uncle Duncan came with three knights and a dozen men-at-arms, breaking the two sides apart.

“Prince Duncan.” Stevron Frey bowed. “You must give us justice!”

Steffon snorted. “You ought to search for that justice in the Streets of Silk, just like your brother.”

“Why you—”

“Enough.” Duncan’s growl had all of them halt. “Tell me everything, and I shall be the judge of it. Now.” 

That finally cooled the rising tempers, and the Freys were quick to speak. 

It was a bizarre tale of how they found their brother dead in their own manse and how, somehow, Tywin was at fault. Before long, they were both dragged inside the Throne Room, and the whole court was listening to what was actually a sordid affair.

“Your Grace,” Stevron Frey was the first to speak, bowing deeply at the king with a puffed-up chest. “Please grant us justice. My brother has been cruelly slain by those who wished him ill!”

“And you would accuse Tywin of House Lannister of this vile deed?”

“Emmon had no enemies, Your Grace. He has never done anything wrong…”

Emmon clearly had done plenty of things wrong and was more despicable than most. Rhaella learned more than she wished that day. Lady Emerald was a golden-haired whore with green eyes. Clearly, Emmon Frey had still pined after Genna Lannister. The court looked on with glee, and Rhaella would wager they would gossip about this for months to come. Years, probably.

“I had no hand or knowledge of any of this farce,” Tywin said coolly, lips curling in disdain, and he spoke no further. He had not spared his good brothers even a glance, as if he could not bear to lay his eyes upon them. 

Even her grandsire looked exasperated at the whole mess. “The Iron Throne shall investigate this with all of its seriousness,” the king said, face solemn. “The culprit will be brought to justice, whoever he is, I promise you this.”

“Do you think Tywin did it?” Joanna whispered as she fretfully glanced at the Freys as they reluctantly bowed and scuttled out of the Throne Room.

“No,” Rhaella said simply. This was not how Tywin Lannister did things. He was younger now, true, but the Lion of Casterly Rock only attacked when he could go for the kill, and he spared none, not even the women or children. The Reynes and Tarbecks would have suffered that particular fate. Tywin would not hesitate to turn his fangs on the royal family in the end, even. 

But it spelt trouble. Nothing would come out of this accusation—even Lord Frey was not bold enough to try to kill the Lannister heir in a trial by combat. Or frame him. Not when his sister would be the future queen, and his Frey bride had yet to swell with a child. Rhaella knew her grandfather enough to know he would not allow it, either, unless proof hard to dispel arose. But the slight would stick, and the chasm between Tywin and his good-kin only grew with no signs of mending. The Iron Throne needed unity in the Red Keep the most right now. 

Had the murderer finally made a misstep? 

259 AC, Beyond the Wall

The Lost Bastard

He had half-expected not to wake up, but he did, buried deep beneath a quilt of snow with his shoulder jolting with pain. He had spent… days, perhaps even a week, unconscious in the snow, judging by the decay of the Singers at the cave’s entrance. 

The pain of having a raven’s beak pluck out the dragonglass shards stuck in his flesh was not nearly as painful as burning his mentor’s body. But Jon gritted his teeth and saw it through, though it took him three days to carry his mentor out of the deep darkness and gather enough firewood. Brynden deserved better than being left to rot in some cave, and the funeral pyre was said to burn away all grievances one had in life.

Brynden was truly dead, without a second life in his bonded beasts as most skinchangers did. The cave’s sorcery ensured that.

‘You will be alone in the end,’ the sweet voice whispered, sobering him up quickly.

“I…” Jon swallowed his chant. Perhaps the voice was right. He was alone, and bastards… rarely met a good end. But he loathed the whispers too much to pay them any heed.

He had hewn a new bead out of the weirwood, carving First Men runes to replace what was broken, joining the string upon his neck.

‘Your struggle is futile,’ the voice mocked the next day. 

Jon tossed the bead into the fire and carved a new one, this time spending five agonising hours to make sure each stroke of the runes was carved right and then soaking it in his own blood. The whisper didn’t return.

Never had Jon felt more lost than now. He returned to their camp, half-expecting to see the old man waiting for him by a crackling campfire. But all he found was a veil of snow and a glade that now felt hollow. Even the hot springs inside the small cave brought him no joy. This no longer felt like home. It felt like a stone had lodged itself in his chest.

The next three moons saw Jon wander aimlessly across the forest, doing what felt familiar. Perhaps more time had passed, but he had stopped counting the days. Though he always returned to that clearing, expecting to see Brynden return. Hunting beasts for their hide and minds. Tanning leather. Carving and fletching new arrowshafts. Practising the bow until his arms grew numb and his back turned sore. Each day, he made sure he kept his hands, mind, and body busy and tired.

It was familiar. It helped him not think of Brynden’s death… but he thought of it regardless. Avoiding it would do him no good. Death… was something each man had to face sooner or later. Dying in battle—even a twisted, dark one in the cave—was a death worthier than most. 

But it still felt hollow.

There was nothing in the world but the hunt, the bow, and his skinning knife. The scent of blood and pine smoke was his only companion in the loneliness. Jon followed Brynden’s advice and dared not bond with any beast. Not for long. Leather and fur piled up in his cave. Before long, Jon shed the last of his black rags, putting on garments of crude leather and a shadowskin cloak that he had taken as a trophy. 

He looked no different from any other wildling, save for his ringmail and the swordbelt on his waist. But perhaps he looked like a wildling raider in that too, for they never hesitated to plunder the dead, often killed by their hands.

A restlessness soon rose in his chest. The better he grew with the bow and with the hunt—both mind and arrow—the more it grew. 

One day, Jon decided to leave. 

He had no direction, no goal, and climbed the nearby cliff to take in the haunted forest. Trees stretched in every direction, sometimes faltering where some stream or river passed. And then, his gaze settled on the white mountains to the west. The Frostfangs. It was a cruel, inhospitable wilderness of stone and ice, with jutting peaks higher than anything the Northern Mountains could boast. Some even stretched all the way to the firmament, piercing through the clouds.

What would the highest peak look like?

Would it hide the secrets of the firmament?

Perhaps even the gods dwelt there. Maybe he would find answers.

Once the thought lodged itself into his mind, it wouldn’t go away.

Soon, his curiosity hardened into resolve.

Packing everything he owned in a crude wrap and tying it to his back, Jon marched westward. He passed through ravines and cliffs, marched through hills and conquered chasms and rivers until he crossed the Milkwater and stepped into the mountain foothills and their winding valleys. He avoided all wildlings, though one group of huntsmen crossed his path around the Giant’s Stair.

It was a scouting party of three men—Thenns, judging by the blue runes painted across their faces and the bronze-scale shirts and spearheads. 

They warily eyed the dragonbone warbow in Jon’s fist. An arrow was already resting on his string, ready to be let loose if they made any move to attack.

“What you want?” the burly man at the front asked in broken common tongue. 

“I want to see how high the Frostfangs go,” Jon said languidly, tilting his head towards the slope.

They looked at him as if he were some dangerous madman and fled.

Shrugging, Jon went up the hills. Trees grew sparse and soon even shrubbery retreated. The climb was a challenge, but he carried more than three stones of dried meat and roots on his back in addition to all of his other effects, slowing him down even further.

But the snow and the ice never gave him much grief, no matter how steep the slope was. He could always burrow himself in the snow to rest, and it would feel comfortable. Perhaps there was a great boon to his curse. What would have been a nightmare to get a fire and shelter each evening, a bitter struggle against the relentless might of nature, doubtlessly seeing him more exhausted each dawn, turned into something lighter and far more pleasant. Instead, he woke up well rested and full of strength each day with more hours to spare for the climb—or the sleep.

He understood the Thenns better now. This was not mere ranging or a hunt in the wolfswood. Here, a simple misstep would see him to his death. But still, he proceeded with caution. He did not fear death, aye, but he feared failure.

On the third day since he started the climb, he passed through a meadow of frostfires, their bright crimson petals dying the whole clearing red. It was so raw and beautiful, like a bloodstain in the snowy slopes, that even Jon stopped for a long moment to admire it.

Higher, even more wonders unravelled before his eyes. Icy waterfalls plunging off stone cliffs, great lakes of crystal-clear water reflecting the icy peaks and the sky above, ravines so deep and black they might have dropped all the way to hell. 

Sometimes, the climb grew too steep. Too steep for even his feet to conquer. His spear shaft was trimmed down, and he used the bronze head like a small handle and used it like a crude ice pick. The first day, he fell five times. The snow below welcomed him eagerly regardless of the height of the fall, and each failure only bruised his ego, not his body.

The next day, he walked around, but he found no way up. It was all steep walls of ice and rock faces with scarcely any handholds. 

Jon started the climb again, but by the third fall, the leaf-shaped bronze spear-tip was twisted and bent. He hammered it back into a rough shape with a crude rock, but the tip was dulled, and it was scarcely of any use.

Dark Sister was of no help in this. The ever-sharp Valyrian steel could sink in the ice well enough—too well, in fact, so when he put his weight on the handle, the sword slid down, slicing through the ice and slipping out. 

He had to rely on the strength of his hands and fingers, then. It was a small mercy that ice did not chafe on his skin, but his hands would grow tired sooner or later and tumble down the cliff, falling into the snow. 

Sometimes, he would hit a jutting cliff or a protruding stone on the way down, and the bruises on his body would pile up. 

The next day, Jon abandoned his great bag tied to his back, hiding it in a small cave by the cliffside. A satchel full of dried meat hung on his waist along with Dark Sister, and that was all the weight he decided to carry. 

The climb grew easier now. He fell less and less, and his fingers and hands were growing stronger by the day. Ten pounds of meat would not see him far, but he bent a snowy eagle to his will, bringing him his prepared poaches of jerky each day. Jon started to plan his climbs with greater care and more attention, choosing places where he had ample time to rest and recover.

Soon, the clouds stretched below him, but the summit still towered above him.

Each day saw him go higher and higher. Sometimes, he reached a peak, only to see another one, taller, looming ahead. Some peaks had to be conquered by hand, others—by foot. The wind here howled and screamed and keened like a rabid beast, but it had no bite. His garments started frosting over, but the gale still felt like a kiss upon his skin, no matter how fierce it grew. One day, he reached the sharp, jutting peak, and there was no other looming above.

The first time, he had made the mistake of roaring in jubilation. Then, his roar bounced off the snowy cliffs and slopes again and again, and then the whole mountain groaned as the snow pooled and tumbled into an angry, unstoppable torrent, crushing everything on its path. It twisted and rushed further and further down, until it disappeared below the clouds. Since then, Jon kept his mouth sealed shut.

His lungs burned with exertion, his whole body ached like one giant bruise, but… he had never felt more alive. 

No man had ever set foot here before, Jon knew. The fury of nature was unforgiving here, and only someone like… him could ever conquer this place. Even he would have faltered without his eagle—even the beast struggled to overcome the fierce wind up here. His pouch of food had grown thinner for it, too.

There were no gods here, no answers to be had, just the blue sky looming above him. Yet… he did not feel empty for it. The sun drifted west, its pale rays bringing him meagre warmth. Jon drew his cloak tighter—his skin no longer tanned, and the sun burned like fire instead.

To the west, an endless expanse of white stretched before him. Across the east was the snow-bound haunted forest. He could even see the great line of grey sprawled in the south, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. The Wall. 

A hoarse chuckle tore from his throat. It soon grew until it became a full-blown laughter as Jon heaved over, chest shaking. 

It was beautiful, grand enough to make him feel small, insignificant, and humble, and somehow… that was enough. It made him feel more alive for the first time in moons. Perhaps it was the vast expanse of sky above him, perhaps it was something else, but his mind felt clearer than it had been in years. 

He knew what to do then, too.

He had to stop avoiding men—wildlings or not. They would shun him for his cursed looks, Jon knew, but he could not avoid the Seven Kingdoms forever. The haunted forest felt hollow, and the wildlings… there were no true friends or allies amongst them, just bands of savages. Killing, murder, raiding, and rapine, they did it all with impunity. They did it to each other, and they did it across the Wall.

They were free, aye, and in their pursuit of freedom, they shunned the way of the civilised world. And Jon was no savage.

Then, his eyes drifted to the sword hanging on his belt.

Dark Sister was not his to keep. This was not the dragonbone bow Brynden had gifted him or the personal effects of the old man who had no kin left. The famed sword was taken without asking, and he had no right to keep it, now that its rightful owner was dead. In truth, it never belonged to Brynden Rivers, but to House Targaryen.

He could change the hilt and the pommel, and change its name too, and claim the sword as his. None would know where the dragonsteel blade came from. But Jon would know. Eddard Stark did not raise a thief, bastard or not, and repaying all the grace Bloodraven had given him with such a vile thing did not sit well with him.

Dark Sister had to be returned to the House of the Dragon. That thought brought him purpose. Other things could come later.

Now… he only had to retrieve his supplies before his food ran out. Jon glanced down the steep, twisting slope falling for over five hundred feet, ending on a snowy hill.

He turned to the far edge of the cliff. Wind howled in his ears, and his cloak fluttered behind him like a striped banner. After ensuring his sword and satchel were fastened properly, Jon dashed forward, leaping beyond the ledge, arms spread wide as he laughed and laughed. 

Author’s Endnote: I did get inspired by Purple Days with the Jon scene. Though the motivations are starkly different, there is something… therapeutic to a good climb/hike. And for Jon and his cheat, this one is easier than it should have been. This was another time-skip chapter. The next one will be time-skip, too. 

The chapter was longer than I planned, both Jon and Rhaella’s PoV. More time-skips in the next chapter, and yeah, Jon is finally yeeting away from the Beyond the Wall.