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Year 300 AC
Outskirts of The Dreadfort, The North
The damp earth squelched beneath Alysane's boots as she shifted her weight, trying to ease the ache in her calves. Two hours they'd been crouched in these woods, watching the Dreadfort's western wall while the joint Manderly and Reed forces hammered at the southern gates. The siege engines' rhythmic thuds carried across the distance, punctuated by the occasional scream.
"Should've just let Lord Snow burn the whole bloody thing down," Godry Farring muttered, swatting at a mosquito. His plate armor clinked with the movement, drawing a sharp look from Alysane.
"Keep your voice down, you fool," she hissed. The trees provided cover, but sound carried strangely near water, and the Weeping Water ran close.
Grenn, crouched nearby with his crossbow ready, turned his scarred face toward the knight. "It's Jon's decision whether to use his... gift. Not yours."
Godry's hand moved to his sword hilt. "A criminal shouldn't be speaking here. You're only alive because Lord Snow has a soft spot for his old brothers."
"A man who sets folk afire for his gods ain't got no right callin' others criminals." Sigorn's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk. The new Magnar of Thenn hadn't moved from his position, but his bronze-scaled armor caught what little moonlight filtered through the canopy.
Steel whispered against leather as Godry drew his blade halfway. "I won't be talked down to by a savage who eats—"
The distinctive sound of Alysane's morningstar leaving its loop silenced him. She held the weapon loosely, but her stance promised violence. "Put that away before you find iron kissing your skull, Farring. Ki—Lord Jon demands cooperation between us." She let the spiked head of her weapon catch the light. She caught herself before saying 'King Jon.' The lad hadn't accepted King Robb's decree, hadn't taken the Stark name. Still called himself Snow, the fool. But that was a battle for another day. "Though I'd wager he'd understand if I had to discipline a man threatening his allies."
Godry's face went pale in the darkness. His sword clicked back into its sheath with trembling fingers.
"Good." Alysane lowered her morningstar but kept it in hand. "Besides, you're missing the point. It's not just Lord Jon who wants revenge—it's the whole North. We've waited too long to see Bolton heads on spikes. This is our fight, our vengeance. Would you deny us that by having a dragon do our work?"
Harys Cobb cleared his throat. "My lady speaks true. The North remembers, and us Bara—"
Three short horn blasts cut through the night air. Then three more.
"That's it," Alysane breathed. "Lord Jon's army has arrived."
From somewhere behind them, Frostfeather spoke up. The wildling man's voice carried an odd, distant quality. "Hold a bit, let me have a look."
Alysane watched with mixed fascination and revulsion as the man's eyes rolled back, showing only whites. She'd seen skinchangers work before, but it still made her skin crawl. The Free Folk called it a gift from the old gods. Alysane wasn't sure the old gods' gifts were meant to be so... unsettling.
Minutes stretched like hours before Frostfeather's eyes snapped back to normal. "West wall's bare. Not a soul left—every one of 'em's run off north or to the gates. Even left the kill-holes empty."
"You're certain?" Alysane demanded.
"My owl sees better than you in the dark, Bear. Path's clear."
Alysane stood, muscles protesting after the long wait. "Right then. Quick and quiet to the wall. Once we are in, kill anyone who sees us before they can raise an alarm. Sigorn, you take point with the climbers. I will follow and Grenn behind me. Godry, try not to clank like a tinker's cart."
They moved through the darkness in a ragged line, two hundred souls united only by their hatred of House Bolton. The ground between forest and wall lay bare—the Boltons had cleared it generations ago to prevent exactly this kind of approach. But without sentries, it might as well have been a welcome mat.
The first grappling hooks flew up, muffled cloth wrapped around the metal to deaden the sound. Alysane watched the Free Folk scramble up the ropes with disturbing ease. Say what you would about wildlings, they could climb.
She grabbed a rope herself, wrapping it around her forearm the way her mother had taught her. The ascent burned her shoulders, her morningstar's weight pulling at her belt. Halfway up, her foot slipped on the damp stone and with a terrified breath, she fell.
Strong fingers clamped around her wrist, leather biting into skin. The rope burned across her palm as her weight yanked against Grenn's grip. Her morningstar swung wild, its chain singing in the darkness.
"Got you." His voice strained through gritted teeth. The muscles in his arm trembled as he hauled her up, her boots scraping for purchase on the wet stone.
She hooked an elbow over the parapet, tasting copper where she'd bitten her tongue. The wind cut sharp across the battlements, carrying the iron stink of blood from the northern wall. Grenn's other hand found her sword belt, and together they wrestled her bulk over the edge.
Her knees hit stone. She stayed there a moment, chest heaving, watching Grenn flex his fingers. Red welts striped his palm where the rope had torn skin.
"My thanks" She pushed to her feet, testing her ankle. It held. "I would have been paste otherwise."
His ears went pink in the torchlight. "Just doing my duty, my lady."
"Duty." She snorted, adjusting her morningstar's weight on her hip. "Most men would've let the fat she-bear drop rather than risk their sword hand."
The walkway stood empty as promised. In the courtyard below, she could see Bolton men running toward the northern wall where the sound of battle grew louder. Lord Jon's assault had their full attention.
"This way," Alysane whispered, leading a group toward the nearest tower. "We take the archers first, then—"
A door burst open. A Bolton man-at-arms stumbled out, sword in hand. His eyes went wide at the sight of them and swung his sword at Alysane who was the closest.
Alysane's morningstar was already in motion, but the angle was wrong. The man's mouth opened to shout—
A crossbow bolt sprouted from his throat. He toppled backward, gurgling.
Grenn lowered his weapon, already reaching for another bolt. "You're welcome, my lady."
Alysane stepped over the dying man. "That's twice you've saved a Mormont woman. Are you wed? My sister Jorelle's about your age, and I'd allow the courting."
Even in the darkness, she could see him flush red. "I... that is... my lady, I don't..."
She barked a laugh. "Later then. We've got killing to do."
They swept through the Dreadfort like a plague, silent and deadly. The few guards they encountered died before they could cry out. Alysane's morningstar caved in skulls while Sigorn's bronze sword opened throats. Even Godry fought well when he stopped posturing.
The archer's positions overlooked the northern approach where Lord Jon's forces pressed against the gates. Alysane counted at least forty bowmen raining death on the attackers below. They were so focused on their targets they never heard death approaching from behind.
"Now!" she roared.
The slaughter was brief and brutal. Surprised archers made poor fighters in close quarters. Some tried to draw swords, others attempted to flee. None succeeded.
Alysane kicked a corpse aside and looked down at the battle below. She could see Lord Jon's banner—the white wolf instead grey of Stark—pressing forward as the gates began to splinter.
She looked down from the murder holes and screamed down "Come on in!"
The great doors groaned open from within just as the ram delivered its final blow. Northern soldiers poured through the breach, meeting the disorganized Bolton defenders with savage fury.
Somewhere in that melee, steel rang against steel as a lone figure carved through Bolton men like a scythe through wheat. Alysane's morningstar hung forgotten at her side, blood dripping from its spikes onto stone as she watched Jon Snow move with inhuman grace. His blade opened a throat, reversed to pierce a kidney, spun to take a leg at the knee—all in one fluid motion that left her mouth dry.
Ghost materialized from the shadows, jaws clamping around a Bolton soldier's sword arm. The man's scream cut short as the direwolf wrenched him down, tearing through mail and flesh. Another Bolton turned to flee only to find Jon's sword erupting from his chest, the lord's face calm as a frozen lake while he twisted the blade free.
Eight bodies littered the courtyard stones in the span of five heartbeats. Steam rose from spreading hot blood in the cold night air, the metallic stench mixing with voided bowels and fear-sweat. Jon's eyes—gods, were they glowing?—swept the yard for new threats while Ghost padded to his side, muzzle dark with gore.
The remaining Bolton men backed away, shields raised, faces pale beneath their helms. One dropped his sword entirely, hands shaking as he stared at the white wolf banner advancing through the shattered gates.
She raised her bloodied morningstar high. "For the North! For the Starks!"
The cry echoed from two hundred throats as they descended into the courtyard to finish what they'd started. The Boltons had sown. Now they would reap.
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The last Bolton man-at-arms collapsed beneath Ghost's jaws, arterial spray painting the cobblestones crimson. Jon watched his direwolf shake the corpse once more before dropping it, those red eyes finding his across the courtyard. A slight satisfaction flickered through him but the feeling passed like smoke. They had work yet.
"Clear the castle!" Jon's voice carried across the Dreadfort's yard, cutting through the moans of the dying. "Every room, every cellar. Any Bolton men who surrender are to be taken prisoner. The servants, women, and children are not to be harmed. Any man who breaks that command answers to me."
The mixed force of northmen, Free Folk, and Baratheon soldiers scattered to their tasks. Jon spotted Alysane Mormont wiping blood from her morningstar, Grenn checking a cut on his palm beside her.
"Lady Alysane." Jon approached, Ghost padding at his side. "That was well done. Your infiltration saved lives on both sides."
The She-Bear snorted. "Saved our lives, you mean. These Bolton dogs would've held the walls for days if we'd tried a straight assault but your plan prevails." She gestured at Grenn. "This one saved my arse when I slipped on the climb. Thinking of offering him one of my sisters."
Grenn's ears went red. "My lady, I only—"
"Did your duty, aye." Jon clapped Grenn on his shoulder. "As you always have. Well done, Grenn."
"Thank you, Lord Commander." Grenn straightened, pride flickering across his face despite the blood spattering his jerkin.
"Open the southern gates," Jon commanded a cluster of soldiers. "Lord Manderly's and Lord Reed's forces are to enter immediately."
As men rushed to comply, Jon turned back to Alysane. "Gather the other commanders. We'll meet in the Great Hall once"
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"Jon Snow!" A familiar voice cut through the din. Davos Seaworth strode through the Great Hall, Lord Wyman's forces streaming in behind him. The onion knight looked older than Jon remembered, new lines etched around his eyes, but his shortened fingers still gripped his sword hilt with practiced ease.
"Ser Davos." Jon inclined his head. "It's good to see you well."
"And you, though I confess I expected to find you at the Wall, not taking castles." Davos's weathered face crinkled. "When I heard you'd accepted King Stannis's offer to join the fight against the Boltons, I..." He paused, swallowing hard. "His Grace would have been pleased to know you honored his cause, even after..."
"I know Ser Davos, I know." The words sat heavy between them. Jon saw the grief flicker across Davos's features—a good man mourning a hard king. "But I haven't taken up his war for Winterfell, Ser Davos. I fight because the real war is almost upon us. The dead are coming."
Understanding dawned in the older man's eyes. "Aye. I know something of that." He held up his shortened hand. "Fought the wights myself at Skagos. Terrible things, blue eyes burning in the dark. Lost good men to them."
"Skagos." Jon's pulse quickened. "Your mission Ser Davos, then my brother...where is Rickon?"
A rare smile crossed Davos's face. "Safe and well, my lord. With Lord Wyman at White Harbor, along with his wolf and the wildling woman."
Relief flooded through Jon, so sudden and fierce he had to close his eyes. Rickon lived. His little brother lived. When he opened them again, he found the Great Hall filling with his commanders. Tormund and Val, Justin Massey and Richard Horpe, Sigorn and his Thenns, Hugo Wull and the mountain clan chiefs. Even Wylis Manderly had arrived, still breathing hard from the southern assault.
"Rickon Stark lives?" Alysane Mormont's voice rang with disbelief and joy. "The boy lives?"
"Aye," Davos confirmed. "Wild as his wolf, but alive and whole."
The hall erupted. Northern lords who'd held their tongues now spoke openly, voices raised in excitement. The Stark line endured. The North would have its lord again. Only Wylis Manderly stood silent, and Jon caught the knowing look in his eyes. He'd been part of this secret.
"The gods are good," Hugo Wull boomed, thumping his axe handle against the floor. "Another of The Ned's boy lives—"
"You look so much like your mother."
The quiet words cut through the celebration like a blade. Every head turned to the speaker—a small, slim man Jon hadn't noticed enter. Howland Reed stood near the door, green eyes fixed on Jon with an intensity that made his skin prickle.
Silence crashed through the hall. Jon felt every gaze swing between him and the crannogman. The northern lords knew Howland Reed had been Eddard Stark's companion at the Tower of Joy. They knew he was the only living witness to whatever had happened there which resulted his father bringing him back to the North. And they knew that Jon Snow's mother was the great mystery Eddard Stark took to his grave.
The Free Folk looked confused at the sudden tension. They cared nothing for southern mysteries of parentage. But the northmen, the Baratheon knights, even the Night's Watch brothers present, they all leaned forward, barely breathing.
Jon stared at Howland Reed for what felt like an eternity. The man who knew secrets that could shatter everything Jon believed about himself. His throat felt full of sand.
"Everyone out." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Lord Reed and I need to speak alone."
"Jon—" Val started.
"Out." He didn't look at her. Couldn't. "All of you."
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Tormund grunted and headed for the door, the others following. Val's hand brushed his arm as she passed, a fleeting touch that said I'm here when you need me. Only Ghost stayed, Bolton blood still covering his fur.
The door closed with finality, leaving Jon alone with the Lord of Greywater Watch.
"How did you known my mother?" The words scraped out of him. "My father never spoke of her. Never. Not once in all my years at Winterfell."
Howland's face creased with old sorrow. "Ned was the most honorable man I ever knew. He kept his promises, even when they tore him apart." The crannogman moved to the hearth, studying the flames. "Do you know the tale of the Knight of the Laughing Tree?"
Frustration boiled up in Jon's chest. "I don't want to hear about some mystery knight. I want to know about my mother. Who was she? Why did my father—"
"Patience." Howland's voice held gentle command. "The story of the knight leads to your mother, Jon. All stories connect, in the end."
Jon bit back his anger, hands clenching at his sides. After all these years, all the wondering and shame and questions—he could wait a few moments more.
"It was the year of the false spring," Howland began, still watching the flames. "Lord Whent held a great tourney at Harrenhal. I was young then, barely grown, come south to see the wonders of the realm. But I was small, and some squires thought that made me prey."
Despite himself, Jon found his breathing slowing, drawn into the rhythm of the tale.
"Three of them set upon me, beating me with wooden swords, mocking my size and my accent. I thought they might kill me for sport." Howland turned from the fire, meeting Jon's eyes. "And then she appeared. Barely ten and six, but she moved like a wolf, all grace and fury. She had a tourney sword in her hand, and she drove them off like the cravens they were."
"She?" Jon's voice came out hoarse.
"Lyanna Stark." The name hung in the air between them. "Your father's sister. She helped me to my feet, tended my wounds with her own hands. Brought me to her tent where her brothers waited—Brandon, wild and bold; Ned, quiet and watchful; little Benjen, eager to hear tales of the crannogmen."
Jon's mind reeled. His aunt. The woman Robert Baratheon had loved. The woman whose kidnapping started a war.
"That night, I prayed to the old gods of stream and stone and tree. Prayed for justice against those who'd shamed me." Howland's voice dropped. "And the next day, my prayer was answered in the strangest way. A mystery knight appeared at the lists, small of stature, armor mismatched, shield painted with a laughing weirwood tree."
"The Knight of the Laughing Tree." Jon knew the tale now—every child in the North did. "He challenged the three knights whose squires had bullied you. Defeated them all and demanded they teach their squires honor."
"She." Howland's correction was soft. "She defeated them all."
The words hit Jon like a physical blow. "What?"
"I knew the moment I saw her ride. The way she held her lance, the way she sat her horse—I'd seen her practice with her brothers a few times. Your aunt was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, Jon. Lyanna Stark, defending the honor of a crannogman she'd known for barely a day."
Jon's legs felt weak. He sank onto a bench, trying to process this revelation. "But the histories say King Aerys sent men to find the knight..."
"He did. He saw treason in mystery, madness making monsters of shadows." Howland moved closer. "But someone else solved the mystery first. Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen found the knight's shield, abandoned after the jousts. And somehow—through wit or insight or simple observation—he knew who'd carried it."
Anger flared hot in Jon's chest. "And then he abducted her. Raped her. Started a war that killed thousands—"
"No."
The single word stopped Jon cold.
"No," Howland repeated. "That's the story Robert Baratheon told himself, because the truth would have broken him worse than any war hammer. Rhaegar didn't abduct Lyanna, Jon. I saw them together, after he found her out. Saw the way they looked at each other. The dragon prince had found a wolf maid with fire to match his own, and she..." He sighed. "She found someone who saw her truly. Not as a prize or a pretty face or a lord's daughter to be traded for alliance. He saw the warrior, the defender, the wild spirit who'd risk everything for justice."
"That doesn't make sense." Jon's voice cracked. "The histories—"
"Are written by the victors. And the victors needed Rhaegar to be a monster, needed Lyanna to be a victim. The truth was harder and simpler both." Howland sat beside him on the bench. "They fell in love. And love makes fools of us all."
"Their love killed tens of thousands." Bitterness coated Jon's tongue. "Their love destroyed dynasties, orphaned children, widowed wives. Their love—" He stopped, a terrible understanding creeping over him. "What does their love have to do with my mother?"
But even as he asked, he knew. The pieces fell into place with horrible clarity. Lyanna's statue in the crypts, weeping. Her voice calling him Prince. The dragon in the depths, recognizing him. Bran the Builder's words about ice and fire in his blood.
"No." The word came out strangled. "No, that's not... it can't… it isn't true."
"Ned found her in a tower in Dorne," Howland said quietly. "In a bed of blood, fever burning through her. She'd given birth, you see. The child came too early, or perhaps too hard. She was dying when we fought our way past the Kingsguard Prince Rhaegar had left to protect her."
Jon's hands shook. He pressed them flat against his thighs, trying to still the tremors.
"She made Ned promise. Made him swear on his honor, his life, his love for her." Tears tracked down Howland's weathered cheeks. "Promise me, she said. Promise me, Ned. Protect him. Protect my son. Protect Aemon. Robert would kill him if he knew."
"Stop." Jon couldn't breathe. The walls pressed in, the air too thick, too hot.
"So Ned claimed you as his bastard. Stained his honor, let his wife hate him for it, let the world name him faithless. All to keep his promise to his dying sister. All to protect her son."
"I said stop!" Jon surged to his feet, purple fire flickering at the edges of his vision.
"Your mother was Lyanna Stark." Howland rose too, facing him squarely. "Your father…your father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."
The world tilted. Jon's knees hit stone, and he barely felt it. Everything he'd believed, everything he'd built himself on—bastard, Snow, Ned Stark's shame—all of it crumbling like the Dreadfort's doors.
He wasn't Ned Stark's son.
He was the son of the Last Dragon.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock and denial and rage, the violet fire sang in recognition of the truth.