23.A New Path Forward

130 AC

The Dragonslayer

Jon crawled onto the rocky shore, gasping for breath and shivering. The earlier tension had drained out of his body, leaving weakness behind. His limbs felt heavy, and his joints groaned painfully with each movement. His innards felt like someone had stirred them with a ladle, and the skin on his hands and chest was burned by Vhagar’s searing blood earlier and still stung. It was not a terrible burn, but Jon knew it would leave a mark—yet another trophy of survival upon his torso to join the multitude of scars.

His gaze found the dark waters of the Gods Eye. The previously calm waters were now disturbed; chilly waves kept licking at the stony shore, and the half-frozen lake bubbled with steam where Vhagar had fallen.

Jon watched for what felt like forever, but the old she-dragon did not emerge. It was over. He had won. Vhagar had drowned, and so had Aemond, who was chained to the saddle.

It had been so close. Too close. The outcome would have been different if Aemond had been more decisive to land when Jon started hacking at Vhagar’s wing. If the kinslayer had been bolder and ready to take down the Bronze Fury without regard for his safety… if the she-dragon had been a tad more flexible, enough to twist its neck and spew fire at her own back…

Jon shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had won. Blackfyre was safely hanging on his belt, as he had sheathed the sword during his fall.

A loud sizzling sound had him turn to his dragon.

Vermithor had not escaped unscathed from the collision with Vhagar. Steaming blood dribbled with a hiss on the snowy shore from four large gashes on his side—the old she-dragon had managed to claw at him during their clash. Some of the scales on his belly were cracked, battered, and dented. Yet a quick glimpse into the Bronze Fury’s mind told him the wounds were shallow, and the pain bearable.

The dragon nudged him slightly with his enormous snout and snorted lightly, as if to say, ‘take care of yourself first.’

Jon’s teeth had already begun to chatter; the cold garments felt like lead on his body, wet and soaked with icy water.

Without hesitating, Jon tore off his cloak, grimacing in pain as he tried to reach the straps of his brigandine. A bruised rib at least—perhaps even cracked. Gritting his teeth and ignoring the jolts of agony, he drew Blackfyre and sliced through, cutting through the ringmail and the straps of his arming doublet too. By the end, his hands shook like a leaf in the storm, and he clenched his jaw as he endured the chilly wind. His remaining garments looked like a beggar’s get, torn and half-burned at places, and half-melted from dragon spit.

Vermithor leaned in at his urging, letting out a small belch of fire. Without waiting, Jon neared, drying and warming himself by the golden flame. The crisp winter air felt cold to his skin, but it was not as terrible as the wet garment. Once he was no longer shivering, it took him another quarter of an hour to dry up what was left of his boots, breeches, arming doublet, and cloak—his armour was left in the snow, discarded. Jon wanted to take it, but couldn’t.

Each movement was too painful to the point that agony lanced through his innards. They, too, were bruised. His fingers were all stiff, and not from the cold but from exertion, and his aching wrists felt like they would fall off. Jon’s face was almost set into a permanent grimace. This was the aftermath of his climb over Vhagar’s back, holding all his body’s weight at the tip of five fingers. He had a strength that could rival a giant, but his joints could not keep up.

His gaze flicked back to the Gods Eye. The water still bubbled deep in the distance, but less so, and the curtain of steam had thinned out.

With Aemond dead, Jon knew the war had been won. But it was not truly over until he won the peace, too. The sun was about to set soon, and he needed to find a place to weather the night, preferably with a new set of garments and enough rest.

Ignoring the pain lancing through his ribs, Jon gritted his teeth, pulled the rag of a cloak on, and climbed back on Vermithor’s saddle and lazily flew towards Harrenhal.

Surely enough, it was as the Vypren letter had claimed—the grim half-melted fortress was besieged by a Northern host. At a first glance, they looked to be about ten thousand strong—enough to siege the castle, but not enough to take it by force. Familiar banners fluttered in the cold winter wind above: the twin axes of Dustin, the horse head of Ryswell, the green mermen of Manderly, the grey shield of Slate, and the crossed keys of Locke. There were a surprising number of Riverlords here, too, but Piper, Vance, and Deddings were the ones of importance.

The oddest thing was that the Riverlords were just as eager as the Northmen at his arrival, looking at him with almost fanatical gratitude, even though he was half naked, with only a ruin of a cloak left.

A hoary greybeard with a scarred face, wearing a dented plate of lobstered armour and two rusted long axes on his faded yellow surcoat, was the first to greet him from a retinue of half-awed, half-cautious Northmen.

This could only be the infamous Roderick Dustin. “Your Grace, Jon Stark?”

He paused for a moment, enjoying the sound of the deep Northern brogue. How long had it been since he had heard a voice speak it so? The Manderlys did not count—they sounded closer to Crownlanders than to Northmen.

“Aye,” Jon said as he carefully slid off the saddle, his limbs now stiff with cold. He sucked in a sharp breath at the jolt through his innards, but tried not to show any of the pain he felt on his face. He barely succeeded. “Where’s Lord Stark?”

“Staying in Castle Vypren with the Princess Baela, Your Grace,” a Slate replied. The man was gaunt and sharp of eye, with a face like a vulture, and looked no older than forty.

“We saw the battle above the Gods Eye, Your Grace,” Roddy the Ruin rasped, but his cold grey eyes were filled with respect. “It looked like half the sky was on fire.”

“My heart almost stopped when the dragons clashed,” a man with Ryswell heraldry added. “But then, we saw Vhagar fall, her wing suddenly askew.”

There was a question there, but none dared to ask for the details. Not directly. If they were confused by his state of undress, they did not show it either.

“I leapt onto Vhagar’s back after the collision and chopped off the wing at the base,” Jon said, his eyes drooping. Gods, he was tired, and his body felt weak from pain. Hours of flight, and then the battle after had taken their toll, not only with wounds. “The fall was painful, but I somehow survived it.”

With some struggle, he unsheathed Blackfyre, and surely enough, it was covered by a dark crimson layer that clung to the steel like rust. Jon lashed out at a nearby stone with the flat of the sword, and with a keening ting, the dried-up dragonblood fell off in flakes. He quickly regretted it, for the pain speared through his torso again, turning him all stiff.

The Northmen stood stunned for a good while before they erupted in cheers and clamours, chanting, “King Dragonslayer!”

Jon was too tired and wounded to care, though. The commotion did not last long—the chill had a way of quickly cooling even the hottest of tempers, let alone mere excitement.

“Your Grace,” Roderick Dustin began, his weather-worn face split into a savage, bloodthirsty smile. “Should we mount an assault upon Harrenhal immediately?”

“…I’m afraid I have to disappoint you, Lord Roderick,” Jon said tightly. He swept out a hand to the west. “The sun will set within half an hour, and the day has been too long. I require rest, a change of garments, and the care of a maester if you have one.”

The disappointment in Roddy’s eyes was palpable, but the man swallowed it down and nodded.

He was even more disappointed when Harrenhal’s garrison surrendered the next dawn.

Jon could understand Roderick’s frustration—he was in his twilight years and had come here for a worthy death in battle.

But there were no more grand battles to fight. Who would dare to stand against Vermithor’s flames for Alicent’s dead children?

It was for the better, too, for Jon could barely get out of bed, and his body felt like it had been chewed through and then spat out by some giant beast. Even the maester said his organs had been bruised, and Jon had to decline the constant offers of milk of the poppy. The surrendered garrison swore oaths of fealty before the sept and were then released to return home as the Northmen took hold of the cursed castle.

A raven was sent to King’s Landing, informing Rhaena of his victory. There was no need to keep his wife worrying. Another one flew to Casterly Rock, announcing Vhagar’s demise.

“Why not give them terms directly, Your Grace?” Dustin asked.

“Because they might not believe, thinking this some sort of ruse,” Jon said lightly. “I’m merely giving them time to think and consider their options.”

After three days of rest inside Harrenhal and enough meat to feed a dozen men per day, Jon felt well enough to walk around and exert himself a little, and in ten, he no longer felt any ache or pain even when he swung his sword.

Plans upon plans swirled in his head. Aemond was dead, but not all had dipped the Green banner just yet. It would be some time until the realm knew of his victory, and even if they knew, some might not bend the knee.

Jon was bearing the name Stark here, not Targaryen. Others might be disgruntled by his faith in the Old Gods or perhaps his bastard origin. He had a dragon and a Targaryen for a queen, but was it enough to quell the restless?

What Jon feared the most was not a direct battle or a hard fight, but trickery and scheming. He had seen the outward compliance many had shown to Stannis when he ascended. It had been no true loyalty, but stiff and unwilling, spiced with thoughts of defiance deep down.

His head began to ache just by thinking about it. But now he had taken the Iron Throne for all to see, and he could no longer get off. Now, the question was how to bring a swift end to this conflict. Winter was here, and it would be long and harsh and cruel, especially if the winter fever came knocking.

On the eighth day, he summoned the Northern lords for a council.

“I want you to take a host and bring any rebellious crownlanders to heel,” Jon ordered. “Rosby and Stokeworth in particular stubbornly refuse to bend the knee.”

The glint of excitement returned to Dustin’s flinty eyes, but it quickly cooled down. Roderick’s restraint was admirable. Those too blind, too reckless, or too thirsty for glory and valour did not live to see their beards turn grey. No, Roderick’s desire for battle was out of pride, eager to avoid a slow, painful death in a bed—an old thing raging against the dying of the light, unwilling to go quietly.

“Wouldn’t flying Vermithor over their castles be enough?” he asked calmly.

“I have no time to waste on those small flies, and seeing an army come unhindered will make them realise Aemond is not coming to save them.” ‘Win the peace,’ Jon chanted inwardly. Gods, he prayed that they did not turn stubborn and force his hand over pride. But if they did, he would not hesitate to act. “And have some men parse through the Gods Eye where Vhagar fell.”

“What for?”

“Aemond sank into the lake with the Conqueror’s crown. Whoever finds it and brings it back to me will be richly rewarded. Once you’re all done, you’re welcome to stay in King’s Landing.”

“Can the city handle nearly ten thousand mouths to feed?” Roger Ryswell asked.

The Lord of the Rills was a Northman to the bone, an experienced lord who was only a decade younger than Roddy the Ruin, but no less fierce. Roger the Lance, they called him, for he had managed to pierce three men with a single lance in the Battle of the Snowy Hill.

“Last year, King’s Landing had two hundred thousand souls,” Jon began. “When I took the throne, it was barely a quarter of that, so worry not. I’ll even grant you a corner in the city.”

The Northmen quickly saw through his meaning.

“You want to make the host your hands and eyes in King’s Landing?” Roderick asked with a heavy frown.

Jon nodded. “Aye. I need men I can trust, and the Crownlands are filled with those who previously fought for Aegon or Rhaenyra. The men of Crackclaw Point are reliable, but they’re far from enough to help me rule the city. The loyalty of the rest is… questionable, at best.”

To rule the Seven Kingdoms, Jon first had to have an iron grip over his own domain. With the clean slate granted him from the war, plotters and schemers would find no purchase if they could easily be replaced.

“Where will you go now, Your Grace?” Ryswell asked, looking at the map.

Lord Borros Baratheon was still sworn to the Greens, even though he had spent the Dance loitering around the Marches to fight a vulture king. The vulture king had been killed, but the Baratheon Lord had not been in any hurry to test his mettle against dragons. The fate of the Iron Islands was uncertain, as Jon had no word of the Red Kraken and the Iron Fleet.

Last was the Reach with the Tyrell dowager and the lord in swaddling clothes. But the Tyrells in this age were powerless, unable to command most of their bannermen. The true power there was the Citadel, the Faith, and the young Hightower Lord, infamous in the history books for lusting over his Tarly stepmother.

“First, I will go see my good sister,” Jon said at last.

Allies needed to be assuaged, and there was no greater ally to Jon than House Stark right now. Trust was established now that they had fought and won a battle for him, and appearances had to be observed. He could trust the Northmen because he knew how they thought, he knew what drove them, and where their desires lay. It was nearly two centuries before his time, but the North still felt as familiar as the back of his hand.

The Vypren seat was a squat castle with four round towers at each corner of its curtain wall, nestled on the outskirts of the Mountains of the Moon. It was hewn entirely out of granite, perched atop a rocky rise with one side shielded by a quick river stream.

The surrounding hills were overflowing with tents, and here Jon saw the other half of the Northern banners. The grey direwolf of Stark was snapping at the wind, surrounded by the chained giant of Umber, the sunburst of Karstark, the silver fist of Glover, the bear of Mormont, the flayed man of Bolton, and some Riverlords—Jon could recognise Frey, Blackwood, and Mallister but not the rest.

His lips pressed together in a frown at the sight of the flayed man and the blue towers of the crossing. Yet at this time, they had done nothing to slight his kin and House Stark, nor had they broken any laws or vows. Shaking his head, he banished the surge of anger and dismounted Vermithor.

A man who looked like a younger, but taller and more dashing version of Eddard Stark awaited him, Ice strapped on his back. Even the cloak lined with wolf fur almost looked the same. There was no doubt who this man was, even when he wore a doublet of black silk and a silver-buckled belt.

“To Jon Stark I pledge the faith of Winterfell,” Cregan began, falling on one knee in the snow before Jon could say a word. “Hearth and harvest I yield unto you, my king. The North’s swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you. I swear it by earth and water. I swear it by bronze and iron. I swear it by ice and fire!”

Solemn old vows, from when the First Men still ruled Westeros. Cregan Stark was testing him, and at the same breath, declaring he was following the old ways.

Cunning. Unlike Lady Arryn’s vows of fealty, these were genuine and came easily, without any burdens or struggles.

Hundreds of men clustered near the clearing were all kneeling in the snow, their heads lowered. Even more were trudging out of their tents and joining their comrades. Thousands now knelt at the sight of him alone. This was the royal power of a dragonrider. It felt… satisfactory.

“And I vow that you shall always have a place in my council,” Jon said, voice deep and crisp as it echoed through the clearing. “I shall be the shield to your weak, the hand to your helpless, and a sword pointed to all those who would do you harm. I shall ask of you no service that might bring you dishonour. Let the old gods and the new be my witness as I accept your fealty. Rise.”

Surprise flickered in Cregan’s grey eyes as he stood up. He had not expected Jon to know the old ways.

The two men measured each other, but Lord Vypren came over, followed by a host of Riverlords and Northern chieftains and lords.

After a painfully long hour of courtesies, introductions, and rites of hospitality, Jon finally secured a private meeting in Vypren’s audience chamber with his distant ancestor, Cregan Stark. Baela came along, too, emerging from the guest wing of the castle.

Rhaena’s sister was a tad thinner than he remembered; the left side of her face and her arms had angry red burns. There was a new limp in her left leg—the victory over Seasmoke and Silver Denys had been costly. The restlessness in her eyes had greatly dwindled, and there was something else there. Jon did not miss how she hovered close to Lord Stark.

“So, you killed the Kinslayer?” Baela asked as soon as they were alone, her purple eyes almost shining.

“Not quite,” Jon said, his lips twitching. “I hacked off Vhagar’s wing. The dragon and the rider fell into the Gods Eye and drowned.”

At least five different versions of the fight above the Gods Eye had reached his ears in the last week, and each one was weirder than the rest.

Baela’s smile only widened. “Good,” she said as she leaned onto Lord Stark. “It means he died slowly, struggling for breath as water entered his lungs. Aemond the Drowned sounds fitting for a wretch like him.”

“You were supposed to accompany the Northern host, not fight,” Jon reminded as he eyed the burns of his good sister.

Baela had the decency to blush and mumbled something like ‘revenge’ under her nose.

“Without the Lady Baela, Denys the Betrayer would have seen the Northern host burned and scattered, Your Grace,” Cregan said firmly, but Jon did not miss how his hand was placed on Baela’s waist.

Rhaena’s sister did not even realise. Or she knew, and was too used to it to care.

Jon had merely asked to gauge their reaction, and surely enough, he got more than he intended.

“How was the battle, then?” he prodded.

“Quite easy,” Cregan was the one to reply. “The Reachmen had very few scouts, probably thinking their dragonrider meant they were invincible in battle. The louts did not expect an attack through the snow. Baela baited the Betrayer and then led Seasmoke into an ambush of marksmen, but Moondancer was grievously wounded in the pursuit.”

Baela was nodding by the side, listening with half an ear. There was probably quite more to the story, but this was good enough for him.

A smile crept to Jon’s face, and he started rapidly firing questions, “What of Lord Hightower, Lord Commander Criston Cole, and the rest of the Reachlords?”

“Dead.”

“Do you intend to leave most of the Northmen in the South?”

“Aye.”

“Have you two lain together?”

“Not yet,” Baela’s confident answer came, and then her eyes widened as she hastily covered her mouth with her hands.

Jon shook his head. Why was he not surprised?

Cregan Stark cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I would like to ask for Lady Baela’s hand in marriage. I mean to make her the Lady of Winterfell and my wife.”

“What about you, Baela?” Grey eyes met purple. “Are you willing to accept Lord Stark’s suit?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” was the quick response. Gods, she was eager. All too eager.

“Are you certain?” Jon’s voice grew cold. “Marrying outside of House Targaryen means I will not allow you and your descendants to claim dragons or dragon eggs.”

Baela reeled, looking at him as if he had grown a second head.

Cregan Stark remained silent on the side, face a frozen mask of ice that betrayed no feelings. The Lord of Winterfell had probably already expected such a condition. After all, Jon knew House Stark—his maternal ancestors loved collecting bloodlines, but knew not to reach beyond their station.

“I…” Baela hesitated, stealing a glance at Cregan, then swallowing deeply as tears started swimming in her eyes. “That’s cruel.”

“Then I will be cruel now, so as to not follow the footsteps of Viserys and Jaehaerys,” Jon vowed, not backing down. “Giving out dragons to all blindly is what saw the Dance happen, but I will not foster such a danger for my descendants. They would have to bear the name Targaryen to claim a dragon, too. All the dragonriders will be forever stationed in King’s Landing, except one who must preside over Dragonstone.”

“Would not your children be Starks?” Cregan asked with a frown.

“Nay,” Jon said. “House Stark rules in Winterfell, not King’s Landing. King Viserys named me Stark, so I shall keep my name.” Because he had yearned for it for so long, he could not let go. “But no further—all children of my loins will bear the name of the Conqueror’s line.”

His gaze settled on Baela without moving. “What will it be, good sister?” he asked. “A dragon or a marriage and a lordship?”

“Can’t I have both?” she stubbornly asked, as if his previous words had come in through one ear and left through the other.

“No,” Jon said flatly. “Dragons are the main source of royal power, and no other House but Targaryen will be allowed to master them from now on. Take as much time as you wish to think on this. Hate me for it, if you will. I will bear your hatred if I can avoid leaving deadly problems to my future descendants.”

“Even if the dragons remain in the royal family, there is no guarantee a future struggle will be avoided,” Cregan pointed out. “Mine own uncle and cousins turned against me, trying to wrestle Winterfell out of my hands for no other reason than ambition. Brothers have turned against brothers, and cousins against cousins for far less than a crown.”

Jon snorted. “That is true enough,” he acknowledged. “If my descendants forget the bitter lessons of today and come to blows between each other, there is hardly anything I can do. It is not that I doubt your loyalty, Lord Stark. But what of your sons? Grandsons? Great-grandsons? I am not as foolish as Viserys and Jaehaerys to foster dragons away from King’s Landing to contest royal power in a generation or two. That much is not a matter of negotiation.”

Just as Jon turned to leave for his quarters, Baela cried out, “Wait!”

“Yes?”

“I’ll… I’ll still wed Lord Stark,” she sniffed. As soon as the words were spoken, Baela took Lord Stark’s hand and latched onto his elbow.

…Was this love at first sight?

No, it was not that blind, single-minded devotion and pursuit he had seen before. Cregan and Baela seemed affectionate, but there was no desperation there. Merely warmth, admiration, and understanding.

Well, it was for the better.

“You will have no dowry from me other than what House Stark has already been promised,” Jon said at last. “Alysanne’s Gift. The right to dispense town charters in the North. Fostering of children—I expect your sons and daughters to come to King’s Landing when they turn ten for at least five years, and a position on the small council for you. I’ll take at least one of your sons as my squire—two, if another proves himself worthy. Of course, Lady Baela will be acknowledged as a royal princess with all the other deserving privileges.”

After a moment of contemplation, Cregan nodded. “It speaks of your character that you honour your promises without hesitation. But I’m not interested in staying in the south for too long. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and my son is too young to rule the North.”

“Then appoint a man you trust on the small council,” Jon said dryly. “But he has to be capable, or I’ll send him to the Wall and demand another. Since you intend to have most of your men stay in the south, I’ll take my pick and recruit three hundred of the mountain clansmen.”

“Very well,” Cregan agreed with a wave of his hand. Not that he had much choice—Jon was merely informing him out of courtesy. “If I might be so bold as to ask, what does a king need three hundred mountain clansmen for?”

“I have no household guard.”

“You should have a thousand men following you,” Baela pointed out, still clinging to her betrothed to be.

“Those thousand men are not mine,” Jon chortled. “They swear to Royce, Velaryon, and the other houses they came from first, and to me second. All I truly have right now is one ugly iron chair, a pair of loyal knights, a dragon, and a wife. The men of Crackclaw Point are good, but they have alliances and feuds formed with the neighbouring lords. I need someone… not involved with the local southern lords. Someone I know will remain staunchly loyal to me once vows are given.”

Cregan tilted his head and asked with a half-smile, “And you would trust the mountain clansmen with this? Men that you have never seen?”

“They might not have seen or heard of me before, but I know of their worth.” Jon’s voice thickened with nostalgia. “To me, that’s enough. I am willing to trust them with my life once they give their vows before a heart tree. Two white cloaks I will grant to the Northmen in your army, to those willing and strong enough to win them.”

Jon spent three days in Castle Vypren making arrangements and clearing up details.

Before he left, Cregan found him in the small godswood, when Jon was praying before the heart tree.

He reached out, stroking the face carved in the heart tree. Half looked like it was crying, and the other half looked like it was laughing. The Vyprens were Andal warlords, but they had conquered one of the local noble houses here, married their daughter, and kept their keep and godswood untouched.

“I didn’t believe you were a Stark before seeing you.” Cregan’s hoarse voice broke through the silence. “I never truly believed it until I saw you climb off Vermithor’s saddle, in truth. But gods be my witness here, you carry the North with you and are indeed a Stark—of that, there can be no doubt.”

“I did not ask for the Stark name,” Jon murmured. “It was given to me by King Viserys.”

Cregan’s face tightened. “I know,” he said, exhaling. “But that is not the issue. If you did not want it, you would not have taken the name. There is no doubt, though. Snow or Stark, you’re of the North as much as any other. But why did I not hear even a whisper of you until you appeared on Dragonstone last year?”

Jon remained silent as Cregan stood before the heart tree.

“I asked around the mountain chieftains. I asked the Boltons, the Karstarks, and even the Umbers. Not a shadow of any Jon Snows—not of the lineage of Stark. Even the Night’s Watch doesn’t know of you, and I sent runners to ask through the lands of the Gift.” Cregan’s voice lowered to a whisper. “It’s almost as if… you were never there. Who are your parents? Where were you raised?”

Jon’s eyes flickered at the heart tree. No man who believed before the Old Gods would lie here. Truth be told, he could deflect the question. He could remain silent, too, and Cregan would have no choice but to accept it.

Yet, where all the others nodded their heads at Jon’s confessed origins, taking his word for granted, the Lord of Winterfell diligently checked and found nothing. This could be a small, inconsequential issue, or it could become a burdensome complication.

“You have quite the patience,” he said softly. “I can tell you the truth, Cregan Stark, but I would have your vow of silence here, before the old gods.”

“I will take your secret to my grave,” Cregan vowed without hesitation. It was no grand oath or pretentious vow, but it was enough.

“My birth name is Jon Snow, that much is true,” Jon confessed. “My mother was named Lyanna Stark, and my father was Rhaegar Targaryen. I was raised by my uncle, Eddard Stark.”

“There is no Targaryen named Rhaegar,” Cregan said, a heavy frown settling over his brow. “And of all the maidens in the Stark branches, only Lord Karstark’s niece is named Lyanna, and she’s three. And Eddard… the last Stark named Eddard lived before the Conquest.”

“You’re not wrong,” Jon agreed quietly. “But by the Old Gods, everything I have told you thus is true. There is more, of course. Far more. The things I have seen with my own eyes… some men dare not dream of it in their worst nightmares. I would be called a fool, a lackwit, a madman, if I speak of it, so I shall remain silent.”

He leaned in, placing a hand on Cregan’s shoulder. “I have seen the eternal night gather, Cregan Stark,” he continued, his voice as heavy as it was hollow as he recounted his past. “I watched as snow fell without end, and the cold grew so thick that the seas themselves froze. I’ve seen old, forgotten things crawl out from the depths of winter and puppet the fallen to their will. I have witnessed the depths of depravity a desperate man can reach, I have seen swineherds with ambition, lords without a spine, and I have survived the sky itself being torn asunder by molten rain as the world ended in fire.”

Standing up, Jon dusted off his breeches and left the stunned Lord Stark before the heart tree, but not before warning him, “I’ll trust you’ll take my secret to your grave, Lord Stark.”

It was a three-day calm flight from Castle Vypren to the heart of the Westerlands. Even more so, considering that Jon had brought two new companions with him—a feat that had required the dragon saddle to be further modified by Vypren’s saddle-maker.

Jon had wheeled around Casterly Rock and above Lannisport with Vermithor, the Bronze Fury roaring to announce his presence, and then the dragon had turned northward, landing at a river less than two leagues from the Rock. Here, by the Sunset Sea, the weather was milder. If it had snowed, it was little and had already melted, revealing an expanse of grey and brown, dotted with the occasional weed stubbornly surviving the cold or pines up the hills.

The two white cloaks got off the dragon’s saddle first, and Jon quickly followed, glad to set his feet back on land. Being chained to two men for hours in the air was not the most pleasant experience, but his new white cloaks had insisted on accompanying him on this trip.

While the three Northmen busied themselves, Vermithor lazily circled above, swooping down to snatch a cow and roast it alive. Three cows later, the dragon was finally full and lazily curled on a hilly rock next to them.

Under the disbelieving gazes of his kingsguard, Jon swung Blackfyre to chop a nearby fallen tree into logs for seating.

“That’s—that’s the Conqueror’s sword!” the taller white cloak said, his voice trembling with agitation as he pointed a finger at him.

“I know,” Jon said laconically. “And the edge will never dull, chip, or break. It’s pretty handy—I wish I had an axe from the same make.”

It took the two Northmen a few minutes to recover their daze, but they kept muttering with displeasure underneath their noses.

“Pah,” Jeor Wull spat on the shore as they had set up a tent and cast their fishing rods into the river. “Can’t believe they call this puny river the Crimson Rush.”

“Some poor sod found a red jasper long ago, probably.” Timotty Snow clicked his tongue as he roasted the three salmons already caught over the fire. “Unlike the Northern Mountains of the Flint Cliff, the hills here are teeming with precious metal and gems. I heard even the spoons were made ‘o gold in Casterly Rock.”

Lord Stark had thrown a melee where hundreds of men had competed for the honour of donning the white cloak by the virtue of duels. In the end, Timotty Snow, the bastard of Flint’s Fingers, had won, with the runner-up being Jeor Wull, the second son of the Wull himself. Both men had proved their valour in the Battle of the Snowy Hill and were in their prime—Jeor at eight and twenty, and Timotty at three and twenty, not inferior to the other four of Jon’s kingsguard.

Now, Jon had six white cloaks to his name. The last one would remain free as a position of honour or opportunity.

It was an odd sight to see Northmen all clad in white, but it fit them all too well.

“Your Grace, is it wise to remain here in the open?” Jeor murmured, looking around warily.

He was a tall man, half an Umber from his mother’s side, and was over half a head taller than most, with arms as thick as three trunks.

“I don’t particularly trust the Lannister hospitality,” Jon said calmly, his eyes not moving from his fishing line. “It’s better that they come to me. Now that they know of my presence, they will have no choice but to do so.”

Timotty cleared his throat. “They might think it is a ruse,” he offered. “If I were Lord Lannister, and someone told me my king lost, and I should bend the knee to some faraway bastard… I’d deny him and sit inside my mountain until he gave up.”

Jon chuckled.

“It’s good, then, that Lord Lannister is merely four years old, and his mother rules Casterly Rock. No widow who loves her children will be needlessly stubborn. Even better, I saw Hightower sails in Lannisport. If I can get Lannister and Hightower in one fell swoop, this visit will be more fruitful than I imagined.”

“We should get some bread and mead to go with the fish,” Timotty murmured. “I believe there was something resembling an inn up the river.”

“Take off your white cloak and go buy some,” Jon reminded, tossing him a purse of coin.

“Jeor, watch over the fish,” the bastard said as he rushed towards the inn.

Timotty Snow was lanky but no less dangerous for it. Staff, spear, sword, mace—he was deadly with any weapon a warrior could wield.

As new kingsguard, they had only procured the famous white cloaks, but that was as far as their appearances went. Their armour was still battered black and grey—brigandine or coat of plates, for full plate was rare in the North. They looked half-shabby in it, but as soon as Jon returned to King’s Landing, the finest smiths in the realm would be overeager to forge armour for him and his men. What Jon valued was their loyalty and skill at arms. Even now, he was in a suit of plate taken from Harrenhal’s armoury—completely lacking in heraldry yet still superb in make.

It wasn’t long before Timotty returned with a wrap of bread, a cup full of salt and dried herbs, and a small wooden cask of ale, a smile so wide it threatened to split his face. It wasn’t as good as the hospitality of the Rogers of Willow Wood, where they had last rested in the Riverlands, but it was better than the dried rations they had eaten in the western hills.

“Poor sods were scared senseless from Vermithor’s presence,” he said with a shake of his head. “So afraid that he’ll come down and burn everything that they forgot to ask me any questions.”

“And with good reason. Dragons are more terrifying than your worst nightmares,” Wull said darkly. “How many villages and castles burned in the Riverlands under Vhagar’s flames? Countless. They will sing songs praising the kinslayer’s bane for decades to come.”

“Thousand pardons, Your Grace—they had no cheese,” Timotty added, looking mortified as Jon inspected the goods brought.

Wull scoffed. “As if the Westerlanders would know how to make good cheese.”

Jon merely hummed as he continued eating. One fish was not enough to fill his belly, but he simply caught more.

The bread was not as good as the one baked in Ashcove, the ale was half-decent for something brewed in a southern inn in the middle of nowhere, but at least the spiced salmon was quite filling.

That’s how the procession from Casterly Rock found them an hour later—three Northmen merrily eating by the river next to the sprawled out Vermithor.

“Oh look, His Grace was right.” Jeor’s eyes flickered to the muddy road, where the mounted retinue approached warily. “A Lannister and a Hightower, under a flag of parley. And that is… Lord Grape?”

“Redwyne, you dolt.”

“Right, the very same.”

The look on Lady Lannister’s face was a sight to behold, and even the young Lyonel Hightower stared at them with a wide-open mouth. Jon’s opinion of the two rose by a notch—they were bold enough to come in person instead of sending envoys. Clever as it was bold.

His reputation for mercy had already spread, it seemed. Vermithor’s presence made the steeds reluctant to approach further, forcing the newcomers to dismount and trudge through the mud with their pattens.

“Only three of you can come to even the numbers,” Jon called out, resting his hand on Blackfyre’s hilt. “You won’t be harmed—on my honour.”

The accompanying knights reluctantly stayed behind. The three that approached were Redwyne, the young Hightower, and the Lady Lannister. The first two were clad in steel as if ready for battle—as if armour would save them from Vermithor’s flames—while Johanna Lannister was dressed for a different kind of battle.

Her gown was of crimson velvet lined with black, and she wore a black veil in mourning for her late husband. But the corset was almost scandalously low, comparable to what courtesans in King’s Landing would wear.

Jon was not deceived, however. He had read through his history books, and the three widows were infamous—the one in front of him more than the other two. She was capable, ruthless, and cunning. The display was merely a show to lower Jon’s guard and get more favourable terms. Or perhaps she aimed to become a royal paramour to advance her son’s standing.

It didn’t matter. The beads of sweat running down her neck and the tension in her shoulders betrayed her unease. Johanna Westerling—Lannister was scared.

But then again, Vermithor gazed upon them from the hill behind the Northmen, not even blinking. Before a dragon’s gaze, even the bravest souls could see their courage falter.

“Vhagar is dead, and so is Aemond,” Jon began, not mincing words. “All of Alicent’s sons are slain, and all surviving dragonriders are loyal to me and mine. Dip your banners, return the royal treasury sent to Casterly Rock and Hightower, swear fealty to me, and you shall be pardoned of all crimes you have committed, real or imagined.”

Lyonel and Johanna shared a look, both looking surprised.

They had not expected so generous terms, that much was plain to see. But the truth was Jon had no feuds with the Lannisters of this generation, and even less with the Hightowers. He himself was a usurper, after all. Or king, as they called the victorious usurpers. Besides, as a king and a dragonrider, he had too many ways to deal with the unruly—as long as he had the will to see it through, that is.

Johanna Lannister was the first to step forward, determination and resolve plain on her face.

“I, the Lady of Lannister, pledge the honour and service of House Lannister to King Jon Stark—” she tried to curtsy then, and slipped, falling face-first in the mud.

Lyonel Hightower howled out in laughter, and Jon’s white cloaks and Lord Redwyne guffawed without care. Jon swallowed his amusement and stepped forward, helping the widow up.

Her face was mortified, and her gown and cloak were now soiled with mud.

“I—I apologise—”

“At ease,” Jon said softly, using her gilded cloak to wipe the mud from her face. Johanna tried to stand alone, but her leg buckled, and this time, he caught her before she fell again. Jon frowned at her clearly twisted ankle. Sighing, he helped her to the log by the crackling fire. “I have heard your vow and received your sincerity. Jeor, be a good lad and help the lady.”

At his sign, his kingsguard did not shy away and eagerly sat beside the widowed woman. Jon was curious if she would try to play coy or seduce the white cloaks.

Hightower and Redwyne swallowed their mirth and finally gave their oaths, and Jon graciously accepted them.

“And… what of the Ironborn?” Lady Johanna asked cautiously, eyeing the Wull like a particularly dangerous beast as he gave her a smile full of surprisingly pearly teeth.

“No Greyjoy has sworn any fealty to me or mine, so do with the pirates as you see fit.”

“But… how can the Ironborn reach King’s Landing when we control the Sunset Sea?” the young Hightower asked, brow furrowed.

“That is a problem for the reavers.” Jon’s smile turned ruthless. Then, he reached for the last two salmon skewers over the fire under the incredulous gazes of his newest subjects. “Anyone want a bite? Come over and bring out your wine.”

A pity there was no cheese.