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Year 300 AC
Castle Black, The Wall
Ice crystals formed on Jon's breath as he trudged through knee-deep drifts, three leagues south along the kingsroad. Far enough that his transformation wouldn't send black brothers scrambling for the horn, close enough to return before the midday meal.
The open tundra stretched before him, virgin snow unmarred save for the tracks of a lone shadowcat. Jon closed his eyes, feeling for that burning core within. The change came easier now—no longer the agonizing tear of flesh and bone, but a flowing shift, like water finding its course.
Violet flames engulfed him. When they cleared, the dragon stood where the man had been, obsidian scales drinking in the weak northern sun. His wings unfurled, each membrane catching the wind with a sound like thunder.
He launched skyward, reveling in the freedom of flight. Below, the Wall dwindled to a white line across the landscape. Jon wheeled north, then south, testing his limits. An hour passed. Then two. By the third, exhaustion crept through his muscles like poison. By the sixth, his wings trembled with each beat.
Half a day, he realized as he spiraled down to land, the transformation already pulling at him. Violet fire erupted again, and Jon collapsed naked into the snow, gasping. His limbs shook as he pulled on the clothes he'd left bundled beneath a cairn of stones.
The first time, he'd remained a dragon for days. But that had been different—the shock of resurrection, the surge of battle-fury at Hardhome. And perhaps... Jon touched the scars on his chest, remembering Bran the Builder's sacrifice. Ancient magic has a price. Always.
The way back to Castle Black took longer than expected, even on horse back. By the time he reached the southern gate, the sun had climbed past its zenith. The courtyard rang with the clash of steel on steel.
Val moved through a circle of Free Folk warriors like a dancer, her blade singing. Across the yard, Torghen Flint barked corrections at a group of green boys attempting basic sword forms. And there—Jon's lips twitched—Alliser Thorne demonstrated a disarming technique to a cluster of wildling spearwives, his perpetual scowl somehow even deeper than usual.
"Keep your weight forward!" Thorne snapped at one woman. "You think a group of knights won't cut through you like a knife through butter?"
The woman snarled something in the Old Tongue that made several Free Folk laugh. Thorne's face darkened, but he continued the lesson. Jon found himself oddly grateful for the man's prejudices—better Thorne hate the Free Folk than focus on more dangerous grudges.
"Enjoying the view?"
Val had noticed him. She stood at the edge of her practice circle, sweat gleaming on her skin despite the cold. Her grey-blue eyes held that familiar challenge, the one that made something twist in Jon's chest.
"Just watching the Lord Commander's justice at work," Jon said, nodding toward Thorne. "Making him train wildlings might be crueler than taking his head."
"Har!" Tormund's voice boomed from across the yard. "This crow's got worse woes than showin' us where to stick a blade in an Other." He jerked his chin at Jon. "You look like a bear wiped its arse with you, Snow."
Jon felt the truth of it—exhaustion pulled at him like lead weights. But Val was watching, that smirk playing at her lips, and his pride wouldn't let him show weakness.
"I'm well enough," he said.
Val's blade flicked out, stopping a hair's breadth from his throat. "Prove it."
The Free Folk formed a circle, sensing entertainment. Even some of the Night's Watch brothers and southern soldiers drifted closer. Jon saw Edd watching from the armory door, his long face creased with an unbidden laugh.
"Val," Jon began, but she was already moving.
Her first strike came fast and low. Jon's body reacted before his mind—he twisted aside, her blade whistling past his ribs. But the movement felt wrong, too quick, his muscles responding with inhuman speed. He stumbled, overcorrecting.
Val's eyes narrowed. She pressed her attack, each strike probing, testing. Jon found himself moving in stutters—too fast, then too slow, his body caught between human limitations and draconic power.
"You're pulling your blows," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "Afraid you'll hurt me, Lord Crow?"
"I'm not—"
Her blade slipped past his guard, the flat smacking his ribs hard enough to bruise, normally. The Free Folk hooted. Jon's temper flared, purple fire dancing at the edges of his vision.
No. He forced it down, but Val had seen. Her next attack came harder, faster, driving him back. Each impact of steel on steel sent shocks through his exhausted muscles.
"There," she said, voice low enough only he could hear. "There's the dragon—but you're choking it, pretending you're still some soft kneeler."
Her blade swept for his legs. Jon leaped—too high, impossibly high. He landed hard, off-balance, and Val's sword found his throat again.
"Dead," she announced. Then, quieter: "You can't fight what you are, Jon Snow. The beast and the man—they're both you now."
She lowered her blade and turned away, but not before he caught something in her eyes. Not fear or disgust at his inhuman speed. Something warmer. Something that made his pulse quicken for reasons that had nothing to do with combat.
"Seven hells," someone muttered. Jon turned to find Alliser Thorne staring at him, face pale beneath his permanent scowl. "You jumped near ten feet."
The crowd dispersed slowly, whispers following in their wake. Jon remained in the circle, sweat cooling on his skin. His body ached with a bone-deep weariness, but his mind raced.
"You look like you need wine," Edd said, appearing at his elbow. "Or milk of the poppy. Or a nice deep grave to crawl into."
"I'm fine."
"Course you are. That's why you're swaying like a green boy after his first taste of Mole's Town ale." Edd's voice dropped. "How long can you hold the shape?"
"Half a day," Jon admitted quietly. "Maybe less if I push too hard."
Edd whistled low. "And I thought my problems were bad. All I have to worry about is feeding a few thousand mouths and keeping the Free Folk from murdering Thorne in his sleep."
"Has he been behaving?"
"As a right proper arse? Aye. But he's teaching them to fight, and that's what matters." Edd glanced across the yard where Thorne had resumed drilling the spearwives. "Though I wonder sometimes if he's thinking of the dead when he shows them how to gut a man."
Jon followed his gaze. Thorne's hatred had always run deep, but there was something different now. The way he'd stared when Jon jumped...
"He bent the knee to the Targaryens once," Jon said quietly. "Maybe he sees the dragon and remembers old loyalties."
"Or maybe he's pissing himself with fear like the rest of us." Edd clapped Jon's shoulder. "Get some rest. You look like the Others already got you."
Jon nodded, but his eyes found Val again. She'd returned to her practice, moving through forms with deadly grace. As if sensing his gaze, she glanced over, and that smirk returned.
The beast and the man—it seems they both want the same thing.
Tomorrow they would march south, but watching Val move, feeling the echo of her blade against his skin, Jon wondered if some hungers had nothing to do with the dragon at all.
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The Shield Hall's air hung thick with pipe smoke and the acrid tang of too many bodies pressed into one space. Jon stood at the head of the great oak table, watching the assembled commanders argue like dogs over a bone. His enhanced hearing caught every muttered curse, every shift of mail, every nervous swallow.
"You should strike at the Dreadfort first," Alliser Thorne growled, his gaunt face twisted with barely concealed hatred. "Cut the head from the snake while Bolton's forces are scattered."
"Aye, and leave Winterfell at our backs?" Ser Axell Florent's nasal voice cut through. "The castle commands the North. Without it—"
"Without it, we're pissing in the wind." Wylis Manderly's shifted in his chair, wood groaning beneath him. "My lord father holds White Harbor, but for how long? The Boltons have Hornwood, the Umbers are split, and half the mountain clans won't move without a Stark in Winterfell."
Jon let them talk, studying each face. Thorne wanted blood—that much was clear. The man who'd tried to hated him now bent the knee, but Jon could smell the fear rolling off him like sweat. Florent still clung to Stannis's ghost, desperate to salvage something from his king's defeat. The northmen wanted their home back.
"You're all thinking like southron fools," Val said from her place by the wall. She'd refused a seat, preferring to stand where she could see everyone. "The dead don't give a goat's piss what holdfast you cower in. Winterfell, Dreadfort, that gleaming harbor o' yours—it won't matter. They'll come all the same."
Toregg nodded beside her. "My da always said the crows were blind. Now I see it true. You argue over stones while the real enemy gathers strength."
"The wildling has a point," Torghen Flint admitted grudgingly. "But we need those stones to rally the North. Men won't follow promises—they need to see Stark banners on Winterfell's walls."
Justin Massey leaned forward, his handsome face earnest. "Lord Snow, surely you see the wisdom in revealing yourself? One glimpse of you in... your other form... and the Boltons' men would flee. Why hide such a weapon?"
The room fell silent. Jon felt their eyes on him—fear, awe, calculation. He'd known this moment would come.
"Because fear is a blade that cuts both ways," Jon said quietly. "The North remembers the Field of Fire. They remember Harrenhal. The Targaryens conquered with dragonfire, but they never truly won the North's loyalty—only its submission."
"You're not a conqueror," Wylis protested. "You're Ned Stark's son—"
"I'm Ned Stark's bastard who can turn into a dragon." The words tasted bitter. "How many lords will see that as deliverance? How many will see it as another threat wearing a familiar face?"
Alliser's laugh was harsh. "So you'll fight as a man? Against Bolton's thousands?"
"I'll fight as what I am—a northern man who happens to be something more." Jon met each gaze in turn. "When the need is great enough, when lives hang in the balance, I'll use every weapon at my disposal. But I won't rule through absolute fear. The North needs unity, not more terror."
"But how do we take Winterfell?" Florent questioned.
"With the right strategy." Jon turned to the map spread across the table. "We draw them out. Make them come to us on ground of our choosing. The Boltons expect a siege—we give them a running battle. Hit their supply lines, bleed their forces, make them chase shadows. When they're extended, desperate, then we strike."
"And if they don't take the bait?" Thorne asked.
"Then I burn their gates and we take the castle." Jon's voice hardened. "But that's the last option, not the first."
The debate continued, voices rising and falling like tide. Jon listened, weighed, decided. When they'd talked themselves hoarse, he raised a hand.
"Enough. We march for Last Hearth tomorrow. Manderly, your men will—"
The door opened. Two guards entered, dragging a figure between them. Asha Greyjoy's face was pale but defiant, her wrists bound with iron. They forced her to her knees before the table.
"The ironborn prisoner, as you commanded," one guard said.
Jon studied her. She met his gaze steadily, though he could see the rapid pulse at her throat, smell the fear-sweat beneath her brave facade. When he'd first heard of her capture, his hand had gone to Longclaw. The Greyjoys had helped destroy Robb's kingdom. They'd burned Winterfell, murdered Bran and Rickon—or so he'd believed.
"Lady Greyjoy." His voice was winter-cold. "When I was told you were here, my first thought was to take your head. Tell me…why I shouldn't."
She lifted her chin, and when she spoke, her voice carried the iron pride of her people. "Lord Snow, killing me serves your vengeance but not your war. I command the loyalty of captains who oppose my uncle Euron—the same man whose fleet threatens your southern allies. Execute me, and you lose any chance of dividing the Ironborn against themselves."
"Go on."
"I did not participate in the taking of Winterfell. When my brother seized your home, I was raiding along the Stony Shore—still your enemy then, yes, but not the one who betrayed Robb Stark's trust. I never set foot in Winterfell until after the Boltons took it."
Val stirred. "Pretty words from a reaver."
Asha's eyes flicked to her, then back to Jon. "I've seen your dead traitors walking in their cells, Lord Snow. Whatever differences lie between us pale before that. My uncle styles himself a god, but even gods can't fight the dead. You need every ally you can find."
"And you'd be that ally?" Jon let skepticism color his tone.
"Spare me, and I pledge to rally what loyal captains I have left against Euron. When your war against the dead is done—if any of us still live—I will ensure the Iron Islands accept the same terms as they did under your brother Robb: independence, but with a sworn oath never to raid the North again."
The silence stretched. Jon rose from his chair, walked slowly around the table. Asha's eyes followed him, but she didn't flinch when he stopped behind her.
"An ironborn oath." He drew Longclaw, the Valyrian steel singing as it cleared the sheath. "Tell me Lady Greyjoy, what is that worth?"
He saw her throat work, but her voice remained steady. "As much as any oath in this world, Lord Snow. We pay the iron price, but we pay our debts too."
Jon held the blade near her neck, watching the torchlight play along its edge. The room held its breath. Then he sheathed the sword.
"After I take Winterfell, we'll see if an ironborn oath holds any meaning." He returned to his place at the table. "If it doesn't, then the Iron Islands are next. Guards, take her back to her cell—but see she's fed and her chains removed. She's a prisoner, not a slave."
As they led her away, Asha turned at the door. "You're not what I expected, Jon Snow."
"Neither are you, Lady Greyjoy."
When the door closed, Tormund chuckled. "You're going soft, Lord Crow. The old kings would've taken her head and been done with it."
"The old kings didn't face what we face." Jon looked at each of them. "We need every sword, every ship, every ally we can find. Even ironborn ones. Now—let's plan how to take my home back."
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The first pale light of dawn crept through the narrow windows of the Lord Commander's tower, painting frost patterns silver against the stone. Jon stood before his washbasin, studying the face that stared back from the polished metal—the same features, yet somehow different. His eyes held depths that hadn't been there before, flecks of purple dancing in the grey when the light caught them just right.
A knock echoed through the chamber. "Enter."
Melisandre glided in, her red robes whispering against the floor. The scent of smoke and eastern spices followed her, mingling with the cold morning air. She moved with that peculiar grace of hers, each step deliberate, calculated to draw the eye.
"Lord Snow." Her voice carried its usual honeyed warmth. "I would speak with you before you depart."
Jon dried his hands on a rough cloth, noting how her gaze tracked the movement. "Speak then. We march within the hour."
She stepped closer, close enough that he could feel the unnatural heat radiating from her skin. "You died and were reborn. The Lord of Light has marked you for greatness."
"Have I?" Jon turned to face her fully. The ruby at her throat pulsed with inner fire, and despite himself, his eyes were drawn to the pale column of her neck, the way her copper hair caught the morning light. She was beautiful in the way a flame was beautiful—mesmerizing and dangerous.
"You know it to be true." Her hand reached toward his chest, stopping just short of touching. "I felt His fire bring you back. R'hllor has plans for you, Jon Snow."
Jon caught her wrist, gentle but firm. Her skin burned hot beneath his fingers. "Whatever brought me back, it wasn't your red god."
Her lips curved in a smile that promised secrets. "Then what was it?"
"Something older. Something that doesn't demand burnt offerings." He released her hand. "Which brings me to my terms, if you're to travel south with us."
"Terms?" She tilted her head, amusement dancing in those red eyes.
"No ritual burnings. Not of men, not of weirwoods. The old gods have as much claim to the North as your R'hllor, perhaps more."
"And if heretics threaten your cause? If sacrifices could ensure victory against the Boltons?"
"Then we'll win without them." His voice brooked no argument. "If you can't abide by this, you'll remain here when we march."
She studied him for a long moment, then that seductive smile returned. "As you command, my lord. I shall be as gentle as a summer rain."
Jon snorted. "Somehow I doubt that."
"You doubt many things." She moved past him toward the door, her fingers trailing along his arm in passing. "But you cannot doubt what you are becoming. Dragon or wolf, fire or ice—you will need guidance."
"What I need is an army that trusts me, not fears me."
She paused at the threshold. "Fear and trust need not be enemies. Even dragons were loved once." With that cryptic pronouncement, she swept from the room.
Jon shook his head, leather creaking as he threaded his sword belt through the loops at his waist. The weight of Longclaw settled against his hip—familiar as breathing, necessary as armor. Ghost's red eyes tracked the movement, and the direwolf's massive head canted sideways, ears pricked forward in that particular way that meant you're being an idiot again.
"Don't start," Jon muttered, yanking the buckle tight. The metal was cold enough to sting through his gloves. "I've had enough cryptic warnings for one morning."
Ghost huffed, a sound somewhere between dismissal and agreement.
Dragon or wolf, fire or ice.
Melisandre's words clung like smoke. He could still smell her—that impossible warmth of summer roses and ash that had no business existing this far north. Could still feel where her fingers had traced his arm, leaving phantom heat in their wake.
Ghost rose, shaking his fur with deliberate force and bumped his head on Jon.
"Point taken." Jon scrubbed a hand over his jaw, feeling stubble catch against worn leather.
He found Edd in the courtyard, overseeing the final preparations. Carts groaned under the weight of supplies, while men checked weapons and adjusted packs. The mix of black brothers and Free Folk working side by side would have been unthinkable moons ago.
"Edd." Jon pulled him aside, away from curious ears. "The command is yours."
"Aye, you mentioned." Edd's long face grew even longer. "Though I notice you're taking all the useful people with you. Grenn, Satin—might as well take the whole bloody Watch."
"I need men I trust for what's coming. You have Alliser as First Ranger."
"Oh, wonderful. Nothing says 'effective leadership' like working with a man who'd gladly see me fed to the Others." Edd sighed. "What are your orders?"
"No ranging beyond the Wall unless absolutely necessary. Send scouts, but only to watch and report. If they see the enemy—"
"Run like buggery. Got it."
"I mean it, Edd. No heroes. We've lost too many already." Jon gripped his friend's shoulder. "The Free Folk who remain will help man the castles. Use them. Trust them. They know what's coming better than anyone."
"And if the Others come knocking while you're playing lord in the south?"
"Then you hold the Wall as long as you can. That's what we do." Jon's expression darkened. "But if it comes to that, send ravens to every castle, every holdfast. After that, run south."
Edd nodded slowly. "And Thorne? You really want him as First Ranger?"
"Keep him busy. Send him to Eastwatch, the Shadow Tower, anywhere but here. Let him inspect defenses, count supplies, whatever keeps him from causing trouble." Jon spotted Val approaching through the crowd. "But don't trust him with anything critical. He's needs to prove where his loyalties lie."
"Buried in tradition and hate, you mean."
"Something like that." Jon watched Grenn helping load the last wagon, Satin double-checking lists with the efficiency of someone who'd found his calling. They were good men, wasted on garrison duty when the real fight lay ahead. "Take care of yourself, Edd. And them."
"Planning to." Edd's voice dropped. "Jon... will we survive this?"
The question hung between them like morning mist. Jon flexed his hand, feeling the fire that always simmered now beneath his skin. "We have to. There's no other choice."
"Encouraging." Edd attempted his usual dour smile. "Try not to burn down Winterfell when you take it. I'd like somewhere warm to visit when this is over."
"When this is over, we'll all be ash or ice." Jon clasped his arm in farewell. "But I'll try to leave you a tower or two."
He turned toward the gates where his host was gathering—wildlings with their bone and bronze, Baratheon men in dented mail, North men antsy for a battle, a handful of mountain clansmen who'd arrived in the night. Not an army to inspire songs, perhaps, but they'd have to do.
Val fell into step beside him as they walked. "The red woman troubles you."
"She troubles everyone with sense."
"Yet you let her come."
Jon glanced at her, noting the bone knife at her hip, the practical furs that made Melisandre's silk seem absurd. "Better to have her where I can watch her than scheming in the shadows. And her fire might prove useful, even if her god won't."
"Fire." Val's grey eyes found his. "Speaking of which—when do you plan to tell them what you are?"
"When I must. Not before."
She made a sound that might have been approval or doubt. Either way, Jon had no answers that would satisfy. He barely understood himself what he'd become. Man, beast, something between—all he knew was that violet flames waited in his dreams and his skin no longer knew the touch of steel.
The horn sounded, low and mournful. Time to march. Time to see if a dead bastard could unite the North against the storm.