21.Of Fire and Dreams

130 AC

The Riverlands

If you asked Cregan Stark, he would say that the Riverlands were pleasantly warm, and even the sleet felt soft, especially the further south they went. They were approaching the Little Trident—the lesser three-pronged river that started from the western slopes of the Mountain of the Moon and merged into the Green Fork.

Lord Stark looked at what seemed to be the smallest dragon he had ever seen, blocking the path of his host. This didn’t mean much, considering this was the second dragon he had seen, but Cregan knew the beasts would easily grow to the size of a hill. This one had to be young, a growing drake with pearly wings and horns, with pale green scales, and was barely thrice the size of a snow bear.

The most eye-catching thing was the cloaked figure on the saddle, dyed white by a layer of frost and snow. It stiffly lowered itself on the ground.

His hand was already reaching for Ice’s hilt, even though the greatsword was useless against a dragon at a distance, even a juvenile one. He was not the only one nervous—many had heard of Roddy’s recount of the Battle of the Lakeshore and the terror of dragonfire, and were quite cautious of dragons.

“Lower your bows,” Cregan ordered, seeing many of his marksmen were ready to turn the figure and the dragon into a hedgehog. “If this were a foe, they would not land like this.”

The figure approached, and Cregan could finally make out the details. Thin shoulders, shapely hips and a swell at the chest—it was a woman.

Her face was frozen red, her pale eyebrows and hair were covered with a layer of frost, and the chattering of teeth was heard from behind the ice-bound shawl.

“Lady Baela,” he greeted cautiously. “What brings you so far away from home?”

“H-How did y-you know I-I’m Baela?”

“No other Valyrian maiden your age has mastered a dragon.”

For a long moment, the half-frozen cloaked maiden looked indecisive.

“I’ve c-come here as a-an envoy,” she said at last, not bothering to correct the man.

Cregan blinked.

An envoy? Her father was dead. So were her brothers and her royal stepmother.

The war was supposed to be over, and Cregan was only here to get the measure of the new king and to find a place to settle his men. Still, listening to Baela wouldn’t hurt.

“Very well.” Cregan turned to Daryn Cerwyn, his closest friend and the lord of Cerwyn. “Order the men to halt. We’ll camp here for the day.”

An hour later, the dragon-riding envoy was inside a warm tent, slurping on a bowl of hot chicken soup under Cregan’s steely gaze. While no longer shivering, Baela huddled by the brazier, and he suspected she would jump right in if she wasn’t afraid of being burned. He really didn’t know what to make of Baela Targaryen. She was nothing like what he imagined a dignified dragonrider to be, let alone a princess in all but name.

But then, it wasn’t the first disappointment he had encountered in the South, nor would it be the last, he suspected.

“You look just like him, you know,” she said, wiping her mouth with the hem of her sleeve and taking a mug of strong ale. “As if you’ve come from the same mould.”

It was just the two of them here in the tent.

“Like who?”

She snorted. “Jon Stark. Same long face. Same grey eyes that remind me of the joyless sky when it snows. You look about the same age and are nearly the same height, too. He’s a bit leaner than you, though, and far more scarred.”

Where Cregan was burly, Jon was thin but no less muscled.

“Maybe it’s he who looks like me,” the Stark lord countered coolly. “Now that you have thawed from the road, I must ask. What message do you bring me?”

Truth be told, Baela Targaryen was the last member of the House of the Dragon he expected to see here. Daeron, Aemond, or maybe even Denys the Betrayer, but not Prince Daemon’s daughter.

“A word from your kinsman,” Baela said, fishing out a letter from the insides of her travel cloak. “Here.”

Cregan looked at the thin parchment roll but made no move to accept it.

“Since when does Jon Stark command Daemon’s daughter?” he asked lightly.

“You’ll know when you read the message,” she sniffed imperiously, but the effect was ruined by her runny nose.

Sighing, the Stark lord palmed the message and tore the seal open.

“…Claiming Vermithor and Silverwing… killing Aegon… luring the Sea Snake and personally beheading the Clubfoot… marrying your sister… declaring himself king… planning to take King’s Landing by surprise,” Cregan muttered along as he read. When his eyes flicked to Baela again, they were filled with a measure of respect. “I did not know you were a kingslayer.”

“It’s mere luck,” Baela said lightly, feeling uncomfortable by the sudden intensity of Stark’s gaze. “Some might claim I am a kinslayer too, for Aegon was my cousin.”

Cregan snorted, looking more amused than angered. “Nonsense, he attacked you first. At most, it counts as half a kinslaying.” Then, his face grew deathly chill. “Are the words inked down here true?”

“Yes,” she said with a tight smile that did not reach her eyes. “My good brother is many things, but a liar is not one of them.”

Good brother. There was a sourness there, some sort of story, but Cregan did not really care to press into the affairs of the royal family.

“I did not expect a Stark could claim a dragon,” he said instead, his eyes darting back to the letter. “I thought only the Velaryons and Targaryens could do such a feat.”

“He’s Uncle Viserys’s son,” Baela said with a shrug. “Older than Aegon by at least half a year, I believe.”

Cregan frowned.

“Says who?”

“Everyone knows it, Lord Stark.” She looked at him as if he were a lackwit. “Even my father, Rhaenyra, and my grandmother saw it far before he claimed any dragon. And Uncle Viserys gave him the Stark name because it was… safer, or so my father claimed.”

Cregan opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t find any words and closed it with a click. He would call it all horseshit, but Baela was the second person who had seen Jon Stark and claimed he looked alike, almost like brothers.

Had the Old King truly sired a bastard on some distant Stark cousin?

Did it even matter? If the whole realm believed him to be a Stark…

“And my distant kinsman desires me and the North to join him in this… rebellion,” Cregan noted. “Offering less generous terms than Prince Jacaerys.”

“The return of Alysanne’s Gift to Winterfell to redistribute as it sees fit, a position on the Small Council, a fostering of children, and a potential match should those in question find it suitable,” Baela counted lazily. “It should be more than the Kinslayer and his lot have ever offered you. If they have even made an offer.”

“You’re not wrong,” Cregan allowed, but his face remained expressionless. “So my kinsman, who has two dragons and two lords to his name, wants me to join him against the combined might of the Reach, Stormlands, and Westerlands, led by Vhagar and Seasmoke?”

“Yes. Do you think he would have been so generous if he weren’t in need?” she retorted.

His lips twitched with amusement. Daemon’s daughter was too precocious and far more direct than he expected a lady to be, but Cregan did not mislike it. The silence hung between them as each measured the other, but neither dared blink.

“Very well,” Cregan said at last, closing his eyes. It wasn’t like he had any choice—a man bearing the Stark name was aiming for the throne, and all of House Stark would be implicated if he lost. No, he had a choice here—he could capture Baela and report to Prince Aemond. Or was it King Aemond now? But how could Cregan follow a kinslayer and a butcher besides?

Was that even a choice?

“The North stands with Jon Stark.”

Baela Targaryen nodded as if it were the most obvious choice in the world.

Then, he had to break the news to the lords who had accompanied him here, including Lady Blackwood, old Roddy, and Lady Frey, who had joined him at the Neck. Three more minor Riverlords had joined him on the way, whether out of fear of the dragons, or eager for blood or revenge. They all sought safety in numbers.

“So, we’re fighting the damned Greens again,” Roddy said, showing a mouth full of teeth. Even at his old age, they were still whole and sharp. “Cole’s head is mine.”

“Whoever gets to him first wins,” Cregan said with a scoff.

“So be it,” the Dustin Lord chortled.

“Princess Baela’s dragon is too small to fight Seasmoke,” Alysanne Blackwood said, voice thick. Half of her face was burned during the Battle of the Lakeshore when Vhagar had swooped from above, dispersing their ambush with a river of dragonfire.

Sabitha Frey sighed. “She can still threaten him, I believe. It’s better than having no dragon and relying on sheer luck and stubbornness.”

The Riverlanders here looked… relieved. Truthfully, Cregan understood why. They lost the most in this war: their family, friends, subordinates, liege, and even castles. All of them were reluctant to bend the knee to Aegon the Gutless and his kinslaying brother after suffering at their hands, at least not directly, not alone.

They had planned to join Cregan for safety, and now… they were eager to back Jon Stark’s claim.

Viserys’s son, but not from a Hightower—that seemed to have considerable sway amongst many of them. Even the Northmen with Cregan looked eager. Half Stark, half Targaryen, and if the rumours were true, the dragonslayer had been raised in the North, practically one of their own.

But why couldn’t Cregan find any trace of his existence? He had searched amongst the Mountain Clans where his distant cousins dwelt, down the Rills and the Barrowlands, and even White Harbour and the Grey Hills. None had heard of any Jon Snow, but there had been a few families that claimed direct descent from House Stark from before the Conquest, if quite distant.

“What do we do now?” Benfred Umber asked, his deep voice rumbling through the command tent. “If the scouts are to be trusted… should we march down the kingsroad, we’ll meet the Hightower host in less than ten days.”

“My scouts are the best in the land,” Alysanne Blackwood said, affronted. “They are more trustworthy than lumbering brutes like you.”

The new Lady Blackwood was an eerie sight for many. A long mane of curls, and half a face bright and alive, while the other half looked half-melted, scarred and marked by old burns.

Some of the Riverlords looked queasy at the sight, but not one of the Northmen blinked. There was a fierceness in her after the death of her father and brothers, and Cregan would mistake her for a Northerner if he did not know better.

“This is the chance to strike, I say,” Elrick Karstark murmured from the side, nursing a tankard of dark ale. “While Vhagar is still far away, busy with the Iron Islands.”

“March,” Cregan said boldly. “Winter is here. This is our ground. March swift and march hard through the paltry snow to give these Reachmen a good taste of Northern steel.”

To his surprise, Baela accompanied the host, simply explaining. “His Grace’s orders.”

Her dragon was too small to contest even Seasmoke, according to the scouts, let alone Vhagar. Merely a drake, not yet fully grown to adulthood. Even the wings and the scales had yet to harden enough to repel arrows, let alone scorpion bolts, according to her confession. Perhaps in half a decade, Moondancer would have grown to a size suitable for battle.

Truthfully, Daemon’s eldest daughter was nothing like how Cregan knew noble ladies to be. She was bawdy, loved to drink and sing, and was almost… shameless in her conduct—she acted like a man would. However, she kept a distance from almost everyone, even Cregan.

…Had the new Queen’s sister been sent here because she was too much trouble to deal with?

Cregan tried not to think of it.

On the seventh day, the sleet had turned into a full-blown blizzard, and Cregan took Baela aside.

“We’re two days away from the Reachmen,” he said. “They should be camped on the northern bank of the Trident. Can you scout the enemy from above?”

“The sleet and the snow are too much,” she said. “I can outfly Seasmoke, but if he gives chase… you’ll definitely be spotted.”

“What if you draw him away from the field instead?” Cregan asked. “Not for too long… in fact, I have a plan.”

Criston Cole had not sent out too many scouts.

They knew the Northmen were coming, but morale dwindled with the loss of King’s Landing and Dragonstone—rumours had spread through the army that King Aegon and Prince Daeron had died. The Lord Commander of the kingsguard was not worried, though. High morale or not, a dragon ensured an easy victory should a battle take place.

“We should go back and reclaim the city from that grasping bastard and the treacherous Sea Snake,” Lord Ormund Hightower insisted. “Each heartbeat he sits his bastard arse on the Iron Throne, he gains legitimacy while we lose it.”

It was said that in the Reach, the wind blew in the direction Hightower pointed, so few were surprised when Ambrose, Peake, Fossoway, and Graceford were quick to agree, supporting Lord Ormund loudly.

“We’re losing too many men to the cold,” Unwin Peake added. “Just this morning, we found more than two dozen frozen to death in their tents. A few more are missing, probably deserted. Marching and fighting in the snow is like drawing blood from a dying man. There’s no point to it.”

But the Betrayer was overeager to become the Lord of Riverrun in truth, not only in name.

“We must deal with the Northmen and bring the Riverlords to heel first,” Silver Denys countered, a fierce frown on his face. His usual mild manner and smiling face were gone, replaced by grimness. “The Northmen will lay down their arms at the sight of Seasmoke.”

Silver Denys was still gloomy ever since word came of the bastard usurper. Nobody knew why, but the man kept muttering something about his dear Jeyne and ‘missed marriage’.

“If His Grace is dead, Aemond is king now,” Ser Victor Risley said coolly. “We must await his orders before moving.”

Criston Cole struggled to decide on a direction. He felt like he had entered a dark cave, not knowing where the rest of his allies or foes were. Continue marching northward to subdue the Northmen?

Try to reach out to Aemond?

Scout the situation in King’s Landing?

Perhaps try to muster a second force from the Stormlands to pincer the city from the south?

It was a tricky conundrum—even if the dragonslayer had no kingdoms behind him, he still held King’s Landing and had two dragons and the Velaryon Fleet backing him. It was not something that could be ignored or easily dealt with.

His task here had been to whittle down the proud Reachmen and see if Silver Denys showed signs of betrayal during the campaign. But those goals had been quickly discarded with the rise of a new threat.

Regardless, Cole knew one thing. If the enemy had dragons, they had to stick to Silver Denys, for only dragons could match dragons in the sky.

Eventually, he decided to continue marching northward, for it would only be a sennight of detour, and the situation could turn disastrous if the Stark bastard gathered the North to his side. Riders were dispatched to Harrenhal to send further messages to King Aemond in Banefort and Lord Baratheon in Storm’s End.

A few days later, the Reachmen’s army came to a grinding halt as the snow kept falling and falling from above, and marching forward became a struggle. Realising they would not be going anywhere soon, they set up camp for the night, much to the men’s relief, even if the Betrayer seemed reluctant to stop now. When asked if he wanted to scout ahead, he finally dropped his protests and retired to his pavilion.

It happened in an instant, just as most men were already settled in their tents. A slim, green drake swooped from above, spewing fire at the pastures and paddocks where the horses were stabled, meticulously moving from one place to another. Some horses were burned, but most fled in panic, breaking through the makeshift fences and running amok through the snow-bound camp.

The encampment fell into chaos. Men ran out through the snow, some confused, but most outright frightened. Attempts were made to calm down the rampaging horses, but the steeds were too startled, trampling through men and tents in their way alike.

Seasmoke reared and roared in warning, spewing torrents of blue flame at the sky, yet the smaller drake dared not approach.

It was not long before Silver Denys was by his dragon, managing to mount up and give chase. Two dragons streaked through the sky above the camp; Seasmoke was fast, but Moondancer was faster. They wheeled and circled, one in pursuit, the other in escape, completely unbothered by the chaos below. Soon, Baela drifted off to the hilly area in the northeast, and Seasmoke was quick to pursue.

A battle horn echoed across the encampment, a deep sound that carried through the snow with a rumble. Another battle horn roared from the west, and then from the east.

The Northmen attacked the Reachmen, who were still struggling to take control of the panicked horses.

First was the wave of heavy Northern Lancers and Riverlander knights, crashing into the encampment in two wedges—one from the east, the other from the west—killing many in their wake and dispersing Criston Cole’s attempt to form a battle formation.

Then, the Northern foot advanced from the north, pushing the rest out of the way. It wasn’t long before parts of the already chaotic Reachmen began to break, choosing to flee instead of fight. Ser Pate of Longleaf with seven hundred riders gave pursuit, chasing down those routed—everyone who didn’t look rich or important was mercilessly killed.

Ser Criston Cole, Ormund Hightower, and Unwin Peake managed to gather up and hastily formed a defensive circle with the commanders and lords in the middle, guarded by over four thousand swords and spears, hoping to hold out until Seasmoke returned.

It was not enough. The Northmen split apart and avoided them, focusing on killing the rest of the routed enemy and slowly surrounding the remaining Reachmen in a ring of steel.

They knew they were defeated, and even breaking through was a pipe dream without horses.

The snow was soaked with blood and littered with corpses when the sounds of battle died out, yet Seasmoke was nowhere in sight. The remaining Reachmen were encircled, holding a tight defensive position, much like a rat pressed to a corner.

The Northmen were not in a hurry to attack, for even cornered rats could bite.

“If I strike my banners, do you promise us our lives?” Criston cried out.

“Not only a traitor, but a craven too,” Roderik Dustin spat in the snow, fresh blood steaming from the axe in his fist. “The only thing I promise you today is death, kingmaker. ATTACK!”

They fought until sunset and then some more in the cold. Hours passed while the Reachmen fought like cornered rats, as more and more soldiers fell. The snow greedily drank in the blood of thousands of men, as if eager for death. Even Ser Criston Cole eventually fell when Roderick Dustin and his Barrowknights hacked through the ring of Reachmen and challenged the lords inside, accepting no quarter even when Unwin Peake turned against his fellow Reachmen.

Meanwhile, after two hours of chase in the sky, Moondancer, flying low and swerving towards a nearby cliff, almost crashed into it as it passed below the ridge.

Seasmoke naturally followed as Silver Denys cursed, but the top of the ridge was filled with Blackwood marksmen, all wielding weirwood longbows. Hundreds of arrows flew at Silver Denys from above, turning him into a human pincushion and killing him within heartbeats.

Most of the arrows glanced off the dragonscales, but many still stuck to the gaps between scales, yet hardly reached the hide. Even more poked holes through Seasmoke’s wings, which only enraged the dragon further. With an angry roar, it turned around, spewing a rush of blue flames into the ridge, roasting many of the marksmen on the spot.

Baela hastily wheeled around, trying to distract the furious dragon, but to no avail. Seeing men die in scores under her gaze, she gritted her teeth and urged Moondancer forward, looming closer and closer around the enemy while trying to set Seasmoke’s wings aflame, but not quite daring to get too close.

Seasmoke ignored her, chasing down the fleeing men with dogged persistence. The dozens of dead quickly grew into a hundred.

Finally, one of his wings caught fire, and Baela grew giddy at her success, only for Seasmoke to twist his long neck and snap at Moondancer’s wing.

The dragon bit just the tip, and it tore off with the momentum, but it was enough. With a chunk of its left wing missing, Moondancer was now slower than Seasmoke, flying shakily in the air. It was tired, too, having flown faster and circled many times around the larger dragon. “Fly!” Baela cried out. “Faster!”

Moondancer tried to flee, but the enraged dragon caught up, snatching the tail of the smaller drake with his maw. The smaller dragon twisted, trying to bite at Seasmoke’s neck, only to get yanked and shaken like a dog would shake a rat.

But its burning wing broke then, and Silver Denys’s dragon fell, tumbling through the cliffside. The bitten tail tore, and Seasmoke desperately snapped its jaw at Moondancer’s wing in an attempt to hold on.

RIP!

The already wounded wing tore out from the base as Seasmoke tumbled towards the ground.

Moondancer was no better. With half his tail gone, a wing torn off and the other bent awkwardly, he plummeted down, shrieking with pain.

Neither dragon died from the fall in the snow, but both were too heavily wounded to fly up again.

“Do you want to try your hand and slay it?” Alysanne asked Cregan Stark, who was watching the roaring Seasmoke from below. The dragon twisted and trashed, spewing flame in every direction. “You can be a dragonslayer just like your kinsman.”

“Slayer of a crippled dragon?” Cregan spat. “Peh. Get the rest o’ the marksmen here and put the beast out of its misery.”

Ten of the archers who approached Seasmoke were caught in the surge of blue fire, until eventually Robb Rivers killed it with three arrows to the eye from a hundred and fifty paces—even then, the dragon did not die quickly, but keened in pain and grew sluggish, shielding his head with its good wing until it stopped moving half an hour later.

“I wonder if I should try and bathe in its blood,” Alysanne mused darkly. “Perhaps we can get the heart out and cook it up—a feast for all of us here.”

“It’s no good,” Artos Liddle said with a snort. “You don’t even know the old rites.”

“And you do?” she retorted.

“Aye. Any chance to get anything out o’ the beast is when you’re the one to kill it alone. Every child knows this much. We should be content with the dragonbone—there’ll be plenty to go around for all of us.”

Alysanne scowled but spoke no more of bloodbaths and feasts of hearts.

Cregan, however, didn’t bother with them and was already rushing to the other fallen dragon, over three hundred yards through the snowy hill. He found Baela beside Moondancer’s broken form. She was clutching her side with a pained face, her cheeks were covered by frozen tears, as she leaned on her drake’s head.

“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” she wept, her words a jumbled mixture of Common and High Valyrian. “You’ll get better once you rest. I’ll bring you a roasted pig. My father’s murderer is fat enough to be a good treat, right? Please hang on, Moondancer! Please!”

She stepped around the drake, trying to reach his torn wing, but winced instantly, her left foot folding like straw.

Cregan dashed, picking her up from the snow. Broken wrist, cracked ribs, and twisted ankle, or worse, he estimated—the fall could have broken a lot more, but he had seen the dragon flap its remaining wing furiously, twisting and turning to soften it.

“Keeping it alive any further is cruelty,” Cregan said with a heavy sigh. Baela felt so light in his arms as she leaned onto him. Still a child, young and foolish and green as summer grass. But winter was already here, and it was not kind to the children of summer. “You’ll only prolong the agony.”

He unsheathed Ice, offering her the hilt.

She blinked at him, red-eyed and angry. “You want me to kill my own dragon!?”

Her shriek made her quickly wince, as if speaking itself hurt her. Moondancer let out a weak, pained chuff, trying to stir but failing.

“It’ll be a mercy,” he advised. “Wings cannot be regrown, and neither can tails. Even if he somehow survives the heavy wounds, Moondancer will never fly again.”

“I raised Moondancer since he was a wee hatchling,” she whispered, her voice jagged with pain, like a shard of broken glass. “He could fit in my palms and I… I…”

“You were brave in the sky,” Cregan said, voice softening but cool like the surrounding snow. “You did far more than avenge your father today. I saw how you risked so much to save those archers and take down Seasmoke. Do it, Baela Targaryen. Your companion deserves this last courtesy.”

She watched the hilt of Ice for a long time, as snow kept falling and falling in ribbons. Moondancer stirred, letting out pained whimpers, and with each next whimper, Baela’s eyes grew harder.

Her fingers clasped around Ice’s hilt, but her face immediately twisted with pain as she tried to lift it. A pair of gloved hands clasped over her palms, helping her lift the blade.

Baela wept and wept as she pushed Ice into Moondancer’s eye—the drake did not move to resist or growl.

Then, she collapsed into Cregan’s arms, as exhaustion and pain took her.

Jon Stark

The air was filled with salt and smoke.

Rows of men dressed in black and silver and red marched in lockstep in the thick snow. He could see a sea of banners behind them. The grey direwolf of House Stark and the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, snapping at the wind with each gust. Behind them were the crowned stag of Baratheon, the blue falcon of Arryn, the golden lion of Lannister, the golden rose of Tyrell, and one more. The last banner shifted with each step. At first, it was the crimson sun of Martell pierced with the golden spear, then, in the next heartbeat, it turned into the black gate of Yronwood. Another step, and it became the falling star of Dayne and then the blue-hooded hawk of Fowler.

The army stretched as far as his eyes could see, pushing against a tide of darkness and frost.

The frozen ground cracked open, and dead things started crawling out of the gaps. Dozens of dragons circled in the sky, swooping down and setting them ablaze with a gust of coloured flame. Most dragons were in colours and shapes he had never seen before. But Jon knew the large behemoth with pretty blue scales and cobalt wings that spewed a veritable river of flames, if it was far smaller in his memory.

The fighting seemed to go on forever, one side pushing the other, but Jon’s eyes were on the grey sky above.

He waited and waited for that fiery comet to come down crashing, but it never did.

The moment he moved his leg, the world shifted around, and he was in a familiar grove covered by a quilt of snow as soft steam crept through the treeline. Jon could recognise it anywhere. Winterfell’s godswood.

It was dim above, neither day nor night, but Jon couldn’t say if it was dawn or twilight. Even the chill felt… welcoming. The familiar scent of oak and pine almost made him weep. How long had it been since he had come here?

Ah, Rickon, what had happened to poor Rickon in the end? What of Ghost?

His heart felt empty, hollow. Something was missing. Where was blazing Vermithor’s presence?

His boots crunched through the snow as he moved deeper and deeper, heading towards the heart’s tree.

He saw a young maiden halfway there, with a plain dress all soaked in blood from the belly downwards. She turned, and Jon was stunned as he looked at the pale-faced woman looking at him with grief and sorrow.

“Arya?” he asked, voice uncertain.

The long face, dark hair and grey eyes were unmistakable. He saw them each time he looked across a bucket of water.

No, this was not Arya. This maiden was older, almost a woman grown, but not quite.

“M-Mother?” he croaked out weakly.

Lyanna Stark gave him a tight nod and a sad smile, but her eyes were full of guilt and sorrow. She shook her head and retreated into the mist, as if unwilling to speak to him.

Jon chased after her, almost desperately. But there were no footsteps in the snow below, no traces to follow, as if she had never been there.

Then, a soft melody tugged at his ears. An even softer voice echoed through the trees, caressing his mind like a mother her newborn child.

“High in the halls of the kings who are gone,
Jenny would dance with her ghosts,
The ones she had lost and the ones she had found…”

But it was soft and slow, filled with longing and sorrow.

Jon stepped forward and saw him sitting on a rock. A sad face, adorned by a pair of purple gems and a sleek hair of silver flowing over his shoulders, tugging on a harp as he sang. He wore a ruby breastplate, but it was dented deep in the chest, and half of the rubies were scattered across the snow around him. But he kept tugging on his harp and singing.

The Silver Prince. Rhaegar Targaryen. The man who sired him.

“…And the ones who had loved her the most.
The ones who’d been gone for so very long,
She couldn’t remember their names.
They spun her around on the damp old stones,
Spun away all her sorrow and pain.
And she never wanted to leave…”

The music came to a halt, and Rhaegar lifted his head. Purple eyes met grey. Jon froze, not knowing what to do.

But Rhaegar merely gave him a wry smile.

“You were supposed to be… the third head of the dragon,” he whispered sadly, his gaze veering towards the south. “Visenya to my Aegon and Rhaenys.”

“I…”

“Remember, my son. Prophecies are nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Broken words left by broken men. And those who chase them are the greatest fools of all.”

Taking a step closer, Jon asked. “What about that vision I saw earlier? Why was there no… falling star? Can it be avoided?”

“The future is always in motion, like a rushing river,” Rhaegar said with a heavy sigh. “Always shifting, always moving. A small butterfly can flap its wings in Yi Ti, and it might bring a storm to the Narrow Sea. Do not dwell on what could be, and live in the present.”

Jon blinked, and Rhaegar was gone.

But the rubies strewn across the snow were still there. Jon reached out, grasping one, but it turned into blood, seeping between his fingers and painting his hand red. The coppery scent tickled his nose.

It felt real. Too real.

He stared at the other rubies, but he felt a pull. Something was summoning him, deeper in the godswood.

Shaking his head, he stood up, marching to the heart tree.

Jon saw another then, a tired man leaning on an old oak, just before the final clearing. He was taller than Jon, but thinner, with a crown of red gold with points that looked like flames resting on his balding head.

The harsh, grim face and the sharp blue eyes were unmistakable. They looked at Jon’s head, where a crown of dragonbone and bronze rested.

“I knew you had the make of kings,” Stannis Baratheon said, his jaw tight and his eyes harsh. “No mere boy of six and ten could have forced a dying order to stand back on its feet. No mere boy could lead armies and win victories with such decisiveness. You could be a kingmaker, a Hand, a highlord, a Lord Commander, and would bear the burden with duty and decisive grace that would make many envious.”

“Yet you kept me by your side,” Jon said, words heavy on his tongue. “Did you not fear what I could have become?”

Stannis ground his teeth.

“Nay, because you had the loyalty to match it,” he said at last, closing his eyes. Burns started to appear on his face, as if someone were roasting Stannis Baratheon on the spot. His skin melted and cracked, but he kept talking, “And I had no fear from Eddard Stark’s bastard. The man outsmarted us all. It didn’t matter, in the end. My daughter wanted you as her consort and would have no other, no matter what grand names I put forth before her. All because you smiled at her once. You would have made a fine consort and a finer king, I could see it clearly. A pity…”

Jon opened his mouth to speak, but he realised he had been looking at the moss-covered bark of the great oak, in the vague likeness of a man.

“Remember,” the voice echoed in his ears from somewhere far away, but the man was gone. “A king has to be ruthless, but he must always do his duty to the realm. Great or small, we must all play our part…”

Closing his mouth with a click, Jon stepped into the small clearing. The heart tree was as Jon remembered, but crimson wept from its carved eyes.

By the root sat a familiar figure with a great fur cloak and doublet of grey silk and silver, laying a greatsword of smoky steel against a rock. A deep red line ran from one end of his neck to the other. A pale whetstone ran through the edge with practised smoothness, even though it did not sharpen it. Nothing could sharpen Valyrian steel, and in turn, nothing could dull it either.

Jon knew the sword; he had seen it a hundred times. He knew the man too; he had seen him even more.

Eddard Stark. The man who raised him. Just the sight of him awoke a tangle of old feelings that Jon had thought long gone, like a ball of worms wiggling in his heart.

“I did not expect it,” Eddard Stark whispered, shaking his head. “Ah, I did not expect it.”

“…” Jon swallowed heavily. Father was too intimate. Too close. It was false. The man had raised him, but he had lied in turn. Whether out of necessity or love or something else, it did not matter. “Lord Stark.”

“A lord no longer,” was the even reply. Was he resigned? Sad? Jon struggled to tell. The face and the voice never surrendered anything, even after so many years. “Unless you count broken souls and crumbled families. Ah, I was too foolish. But of all the things I regret, I regret not calling you my son the most. You were my son in every way that mattered. Alas, the lies we tell ourselves are the heaviest of all.”

How much Jon had longed to hear Eddard Stark call him ‘son’? He had noticed, too, once Howland Reed spoke of his parentage. Lord Stark had always referred to him as ‘Jon’, or ‘boy’ before others and before himself. Never son.

Jon wanted to rush forward and pull the man into an embrace, but he couldn’t. He didn’t.

“Did you not once say there can be honour in lying, too?” he prodded instead, swallowing the bitterness.

“Sometimes,” Eddard Stark acknowledged, letting go of his whetstone. “But gods make fools of men and their plans and schemes. You stand before me, wearing a crown that never should have been and sitting on a throne long before your parents walked.”

“Do you think I should have turned away?” Jon asked, voice growing fiercer than he intended. “That I should have closed my eyes and let Aegon run roughshod over even the most sacred rites? Or perhaps flee, avoiding the fight altogether?”

“No,” Eddard Stark said. He lifted his head then, and his eyes were full of sorrow. “The moment Aegon pulled you into the Great Game, you had to win or die. You learned the lesson that killed me all too well. But remember this, Jon. A crown can change any man. It unearths the tiniest cracks in your soul and digs into them like a hungry leech. Even the strongest and the sharpest can be worn down by the burden.”

Even now, he was teaching him, like a father would. There was no sign of disapproval on his uncle’s face, just plain earnestness.

The knot in his chest eased, then. Gods, how he missed Eddard Stark. He missed Robb with his laughing eyes, and Bran, who always tried to climb. He wanted to see Arya’s stubborn scowl and Rickon gleefully running through the hallways, and even Sansa’s haughty smiles. He almost missed Catelyn’s disapproving stare for half a beat. It was like an eternity had passed, like a dream of another life. Perhaps it was another life.

Jon would never see them again. They would never come. They could never be born.

Vhagar. Aemond Targaryen. Jon would kill both soon enough.

“Any other advice?” Jon asked, finding his jaw clenched tight.

“The son has long surpassed the father,” Eddard Stark said, smiling sadly. “I’m afraid my words will mislead you.”

Jon froze. This was the first time Eddard Stark had called him ‘son’. It felt bittersweet to hear those words only come after his demise, to come to him in what was clearly a dream.

“Your words led me this far,” he said at last.

Eddard Stark sighed, his hand finding the red line running across his neck. The same red line where Ice had passed through to take his head.

“Then, do not forget your honour,” he whispered sadly. “Do not let it chain you like it chained me, but never forget it. Honour can be an unbreakable shield, as it can be a terrible burden, but you already know that.”

Jon swallowed. He indeed knew—bastards had no honour, even if he strove for it.

Eddard Stark turned, as if to leave.

“Wait!” Jon cried out.

The man did not turn. “Our time is running short, I’m afraid. No feast lasts forever.”

“Is this real?” he asked desperately. “Or is this just some… dream, some vision conjured in my mind?”

Crimson began to seep from every line carved across the pale bark, and the melancholy face was drowned by blood.

“Why can’t it be both?”

Jon opened his eyes with a gasp, his back soaked in cold sweat. He was in Maegor’s Holdfast, in the royal apartments and the king’s bed.

Rhaena’s concerned face greeted him.

“Jon?” she whispered, her hands stroking his face. “Are you well? We tried to wake you for nearly a quarter of an hour.”

“I… I will be,” he rasped out, his hand reaching for Blackfyre’s hilt.

He found it, and his heart calmed. He felt Vermithor’s scalding presence snap back into his mind, and he was wide awake, then.