A/N: Wanted to add an extra scene for this chapter, but had to decide to remove it as the chapter was getting too long. Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
Davos Seaworth shifted on the hard bench, feeling the warmth from the great hall's hearth seep into his weathered bones. The ale tasted bitter after weeks of ship's water and Skagosi mead, but it was good northern brew, dark and thick as the secrets that seemed to hang in Winterfell's ancient stones. Across from him, Wylis Manderly nursed his own mug, the large man's face flushed from drink and proximity to the flames.
"Seven hells, but I still can't believe it," Mors Umber growled, his one good eye gleaming in the firelight. "A dragon. The boy can turn into a bloody dragon and now he just flew off with thirty men like they weighed nothing."
Hugo Wull spat into the rushes. "Believe what you want, Crowfood. We saw what we saw. Black as night, bigger than this hall, with fire that burned violet." He took a long pull from his ale. "The old gods have strange ways of showing their favor."
Bronze Yohn Royce sat rigid on his bench, his rune-carved armor catching the light. The Vale lord had barely touched his drink since they'd gathered here after Jon's departure. "Strange favor indeed. In all my years, through all the tales of the Age of Heroes, I've never heard of such a thing."
"That's because you southrons forgot the old stories," Hugo shot back. "Up in the mountains, we remember. We remember when the Starks were more than just lords, when they could speak to the heart trees and see through wolves' eyes."
Robett Glover leaned forward, his scarred hands wrapped around his mug. "My brother Galbart would've stayed to say this, but his bones ache worse than mine in his age. Still, he saw the same as us. The boy breathed fire and flew. Whether it's the old gods or something else..." He shrugged. "Does it matter? He took Winterfell. He freed the North."
"It matters if we're to follow him," Justin Massey interjected, his Queen's Men pin glinting. "What manner of creature leads us now? Is he still Jon Snow, or has he become something else entirely?"
The heavy door groaned open, and Tormund Giantsbane stomped in, snow still clinging to his wild red beard with a horn of something that smelled like… fermented goat's milk in his massive fist.
"Still talking about the crow-turned-dragon, are you?" Tormund dropped onto a bench with enough force to make it creak. "You kneelers spend too much time thinking and not enough drinking."
Bronze Yohn's jaw tightened. "We're discussing matters of import, wildling. The fate of the North—"
"The fate of the North is that boy with wings is going to save all your southern arses from the real enemy." Tormund took a deep drink from his horn. "But go on, keep fretting like old women at a birthing."
Mors Umber barked out a laugh. "Got stones on you, wildling. I'll give you that." He raised his mug. "To stones and stupidity. The only things that'll see us through what's coming."
Hugo Wull grinned, showing teeth stained brown from chewing sourleaf. "Aye, and to dragons that used to be bastards. Strange times make for strange drinking companions." He clinked his mug against Tormund's horn.
Davos watched the exchange, noting how quickly these hard northern men accepted the impossible. Perhaps when you lived in the shadow of the Wall, where grumkins and snarks were nursery tales and giants were...
"Tell me, Tormund," Hugo said, wiping foam from his mustache. "When did you first see Lord Jon... change? What was it like?"
Tormund's eyes went distant, and for once, the boisterous wildling seemed subdued. "Most terrifying thing I ever saw, and I've seen the dead walk and ice spiders big as yer horses." He stared into his horn. "One moment there's a funeral pyre with the boy's body burning, the next there's this... thing. Black as a moonless night, eyes like Ghost's but burning with something that weren't natural. Even the giants were scared."
The hall went silent except for the crackling fire. Davos noticed Wylis hiding a grin behind his mug while he himself barely suppressed a cough.
"Giants?" Bronze Yohn's voice was carefully neutral. "You speak of them as if they are real."
"As if they're real?" Tormund looked around the table, genuinely surprised. "You mean you've never... ah, right. Har! You lot haven't been to Castle Black." He laughed, a booming sound that filled the hall. "Aye, giants are real as you or me. Wun Wun could crush a man's head like a grape. Gentle as a babe most times, though. Well, except when someone tries to steal his vegetables."
Robett leaned forward, fascination overcoming skepticism. "There are giants at Castle Black?"
"They are helping them crows. Jon wouldn't bring them south. Said he wanted the Boltons feeling safe, not pissing themselves at the sight of giants marching with his army." Tormund shook his head. "Smart lad. Though Wun Wun was right disappointed. He wanted to pull down some castle walls."
"Giants," Robett Glover muttered. "Dragons. The dead walking. What next, grumkins?"
"Don't joke about grumkins," Tormund said seriously. "Nasty little buggers if you catch them in a bad mood."
The wildling's expression shifted, becoming thoughtful in a way that seemed foreign on his weathered face. "Here's something I don't understand, though. You all knew Jon Snow before, aye? Who was his mother? Every time someone mentions it, you kneelers get quiet as a sept."
The question hung in the air like smoke. Davos felt his chest tighten as he watched the northern lords exchange glances.
Wylis Manderly cleared his throat, setting down his mug with deliberate care. "Jon Snow is the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark. That much is known throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
"Aye, but with who?" Tormund pressed. "The lad never said, and neither did anyone else at Castle Black."
"Lord Eddard never named her," Wylis continued, his voice taking on the careful tone of a man navigating dangerous waters. "He returned from Robert's Rebellion with the babe and his sister's bones. Lady Lyanna had died in Dorne, at a place called the Tower of Joy. Lord Stark brought her home to rest in the crypts, and he brought Lord Jon to raise as his own."
The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney. Davos found himself thinking, really thinking, about what Wylis had just said. Eddard Stark returning from war with his sister's bones and a bastard babe. The same war that had been fought because Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped by...
His blood turned cold.
"The smallfolk are going mad with rumors," Justin said, breaking the silence. "Some say Lord Jon's Bran the Builder reborn. Others..." he laughed, but it sounded forced, "others say he's the secret son of Queen Rhaella and Lord Eddard. Imagine that. The Dragon Queen bedding the Quiet Wolf."
A few chuckled, but Davos didn't. The pieces were falling into place in his mind like stones in an avalanche, and he didn't like where they were leading.
"Lord Royce," Davos heard himself say, his voice sounding strange and distant. "You knew Lord Eddard well, didn't you?"
Bronze Yohn nodded slowly. "Aye. Fostered to Lord Jon Arryn, and I had the honor of meeting him many a times."
"Would you say he was the most honorable man in Westeros? In recent memory, at least?"
"Without question." Bronze Yohn's response was immediate, certain. "Eddard Stark's honor was as unbending as Valyrian steel."
Davos felt his mouth go dry. "Then riddle me this, why would the most honorable man in Westeros sire a bastard? He needed the marriage alliance with the Riverlands. The realm was at war. Everything depended on keeping faith with his vows."
Hugo Wull's hand moved to his axe handle, his voice dropping dangerously low. "What are you saying, Onion Knight? That the boy's not a Stark? He has the look—the long face, the dark hair, all of it."
"Oh, he's a Stark," Davos said quietly. "But what if he's not Lord Eddard's son? What if he's Lord Eddard's nephew?"
Mors Umber shot to his feet, his chair scraping against stone. "You're saying Lord Eddard lied to us? To all of us?"
"Peace, Mors." Robett Glover raised a calming hand. "Let the man speak."
Wylis Manderly set down his mug carefully. "Brandon Stark was known to be... free with his affections. If Jon were Brandon's son, it would explain why Lady Catelyn held such resentment. A reminder of her husband's brother's indiscretions."
But Davos shook his head, his heart hammering against his ribs. "Not Brandon." He looked around the table, seeing the confusion on their faces. All except Wylis and Justin, where he could see the terrible understanding beginning to dawn.
"Lyanna," Davos said, the name falling like a headsman's axe. "I think Jon is the son of Lyanna Stark."
"That's madness," Hugo protested. "How could Lord Eddard have gotten a child on his sister? She was kidnapped, held prisoner during the war!"
He stopped. They all stopped. The truth hung between them, unspoken but suddenly, terribly clear.
Justin Massey's face had gone pale as parchment. "You couldn't possibly mean..."
Davos met his gaze steadily. "Jon Snow is the son of Lyanna Stark and Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. It's the only thing that makes sense. Why else would he become a dragon? Why else would Lord Eddard, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms, claim another's child as his bastard? He was protecting the boy. His nephew. From Robert. From everyone who would see Rhaegar's son dead."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the fire seemed to quiet, as if the very walls of Winterfell were holding their breath.
Mors Umber broke the silence with a grunt that could have been laughter or disgust. "Reed knows the truth." His one eye fixed on Davos with unsettling intensity. "First time the crannogman met Lord Jon, you know what he said? Not 'well met' or 'my lord.' Just looked at him and said, 'You look like your mother.' Like he'd been waiting years to say it."
"Har!" Tormund's booming laugh shattered the tension like a warhammer through ice. "You southrons and your blood, your names, your claims." He drained his horn and slammed it on the table. "The boy killed Others. He breathes fire. He flew—flew—with thirty men clutched in his claws like a mother eagle with her chicks. And you sit here fretting about which cock went into which cunt thirty years past?"
Yohn's face darkened. "Watch your tongue, wildling. We're talking about matters of the realm!"
"You're talking about nothing," Tormund interrupted, leaning forward. "Jon Snow, Jon Stark, Jon Targaryen, Jon Dragoncock for all I care. Changes nothing about what he's done or what's coming for us all."
Wylis Manderly cleared his throat, as he looked around the table. "The… freefolk speaks sense, crude as it is." He paused, choosing his words with the care of a man navigating a frozen river. "Does it matter anymore who Lord Jon's parents were? Would knowing change anything? He took Winterfell. He commands dragons, or becomes them. I'm still not clear on that particular impossibility. But, the North follows him."
Davos thought of Skagos, of the dead rising from black water with seaweed trailing from their mouths like green tongues. "It doesn't stop the Long Night from coming," he said quietly. "But it changes everything else."
The men turned to him, and Davos continued, his voice steady as a ship's keel. "If he's truly Prince Rhaegar's son, he has both the blood and the might to challenge for the Iron Throne. A dragon who can become a dragon." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The realm's never seen the like."
Hugo Wull's fist struck the table. "After we kill every last Frey, we want nothing to do with the south. Let them rot in their—" He stopped mid-sentence, his weathered face shifting as understanding dawned. His next words came slower, weighted with reluctance. "But we need them, don't we? Their swords, their grain, their..."
"Everything," Tormund finished. "You need everything they got and more besides. I seen what's coming. Seen it in the darkness beyond your Wall. All the pride in the world won't stop the dead. You could have a hundred thousand northmen, and it wouldn't be enough. Not without the whole bleeding continent standing together."
One by one, heads began to nod. Davos watched Bronze Yohn Royce struggle with the implications, his jaw working as if chewing tough meat.
"Even if he's not Lord Eddard's bastard," Royce said slowly, "he'd still be Rhaegar's bastard. We do not know if the prince ever married Lyanna Stark. That makes Lord Jon no true heir to anything."
Davos met the Vale lord's eyes directly, seeing in them the same exhaustion he felt in his bones. "Does it truly matter, my lord? When the dead come, will they care about marriage vows spoken or unspoken? Will the Others check succession papers before they kill us all?"
Bronze Yohn held his gaze for a long moment, then sighed deep enough to rattle his bronze armor. He shook his head. "No. No, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."
Justin Massey shifted on his bench, his Queen's Men pin catching the firelight. "Do you think Lord Jon knows? Or Lady Sansa?"
The question sparked another round of glances. Davos noticed how Wylis' eyes narrowed slightly, calculating.
"Best we keep this between ourselves for now," Wylis said firmly. "When Lord Jon returns from his dragon business, we can sound him out. Ask about his plans for the south. Maybe we'll get our answers then without having to speak it plain."
Robett Glover rubbed his scarred jaw thoughtfully. "Lady Sansa should know. She's a Stark, she has the right to."
"Do you really think that's wise?" Davos interrupted gently. "Without knowing if Lord Jon wants it known? Without knowing what he knows himself?" He thought of all the secrets he'd kept for Stannis, the weight of unspoken truths. "Some stones are better left unturned until we know what lies beneath."
Robett's face paled slightly, and he shook his head with a visible shiver. "No. You're right. Telling her that her bastard brother is actually..." He couldn't finish the thought.
The fire crackled, sending shadows dancing across their faces. Outside, Davos could hear the wind picking up, rattling the shutters like skeletal fingers trying to get in.
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Sansa drifted up from sleep like a swimmer breaking through dark water, her head thick with the remnants of wine and strange dreams. The feather mattress beneath her felt familiar, a bit too familiar and for a moment she wondered if she'd dreamed it all. King's Landing, the Eyrie, the long journey home. Perhaps she'd simply drunk too much at one of Father's feasts and would wake to find Arya bouncing on her bed, demanding they go watch the boys in the practice yard.
But no. The room smelled of pine pitch and old stone, not the lavender water Septa Mordane insisted proper ladies use. Her fingers found rough wool beneath them instead of silk sheets. This was Winterfell, truly Winterfell, though the chamber felt wrong somehow—smaller than she remembered, or perhaps she'd simply grown larger in all the ways that mattered.
She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to chase away the lingering image from her dreams. Jon, standing in the courtyard with something wild burning behind his eyes. Jon, his skin rippling and stretching until…
Ridiculous. She'd clearly had far too much wine at dinner. The stress of seeing him again, of being home, had twisted itself into the strangest fever dream. A dragon. She'd dreamed Jon had transformed into a dragon and flown away. The wine must have been stronger than she'd thought, though she couldn't recall drinking a cup.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim morning light filtering through the shutters, and she noticed the room had been restored with Stark colors with grey wool hangings, a direwolf banner on the far wall. Someone had even found one of Mother's old tapestries, the one depicting the coming of winter with white threads against dark blue. It should have comforted her, but something felt off, like a painting hung slightly crooked.
A soft exhale made her freeze.
In the corner, barely visible in the shadows, two red eyes gleamed. Ghost sat perfectly still, his massive head tilted slightly, pink tongue lolling out between white fangs. The direwolf watched her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"Ghost?" Her voice came out as a whisper. She raised her hand tentatively, and the wolf padded forward without hesitation, pressing his great head against her palm. His fur felt real enough, thick and warm. The solid weight of him grounded her, chasing away the last wisps of her impossible dream.
Voices drifted through the heavy oak door and from what she could tell were women's voices. Before Sansa could make out the words, the door burst open.
Lady Maege Mormont filled the doorway, her broad frame blocking the light from the corridor. The older woman's eyes widened at the sight of Sansa sitting up, and she bellowed over her shoulder, "Fetch the maester! Now!"
The She-Bear crossed the room in three quick strides, her heavy boots thundering against the stone floor. "Lady Sansa, thank the old gods you're awake." There was something in her voice that Sansa had rarely heard—genuine concern.
"I'm well, my lady." Sansa touched her temple, feeling slightly foolish. "Just a bit parched."
Maege's weathered face creased with something between relief and worry. She grabbed the water pitcher from the bedside table and poured a cup, pressing it into Sansa's hands. The water was cold enough to make her teeth ache, but she drank gratefully.
The maester arrived within moments, a thin man she didn't recognize, followed by two women. One bore such a striking resemblance to Lady Maege that she could only be a daughter, while the other was a striking blonde woman with a wild beauty about her that seemed familiar.
The maester fussed over her, checking her pulse, peering into her eyes, pressing cold fingers against her forehead. "No fever," he muttered. "Pupils responding normally. Heart rate steady." He straightened with a satisfied nod. "You're in good health, my lady. Perhaps just exhaustion from your journey. Rest is all you need."
"I've had quite enough rest," Sansa protested, moving to swing her legs over the side of the bed.
Ghost chose that moment to leap up, his massive paws landing squarely on her stomach, pinning her to the mattress. The wolf settled his considerable weight across her middle, tail wagging slightly as if pleased with himself.
"Ghost!" She pushed at his shoulder, but she might as well have tried to move a boulder. Despite her annoyance, she found herself fighting back a smile. "This really isn't necessary."
The younger Mormont woman chuckled, a rough sound like river stones grinding together. "Seems Lord Snow's wolf has made the decision for you."
The mention of Jon's name cut through Sansa's amusement like a blade through silk. "Lord Snow?" She studied the woman more carefully. "Forgive me, but I don't believe we've been introduced."
"Alysane Mormont, my lady." The woman inclined her head slightly. "I had the honor of serving under Lord Jon during the war against the Boltons."
"And I'm Val." The blonde woman's grin held something knowing that made Sansa take a second look. "An ally of Jon's, you could say."
"Well met, both of you." Sansa tried to sit up again, but Ghost rumbled a warning deep in his chest. "Where is Jon? All this fuss really isn't necessary. I simply had too much wine and needed to sleep it off."
The women exchanged glances—quick, but not quick enough for Sansa to miss. Confusion flickered across Maege's face, while Alysane looked puzzled. But Val's expression shifted to understanding, and that knowing smile widened.
"You think you fainted from wine?" Val's voice held barely suppressed amusement.
Heat crept up Sansa's neck. "What else could it be? It's not as though Jon actually transformed into a dragon and flew away." She laughed, but it came out forced, hollow.
The silence stretched like a bowstring drawn too tight.
Sansa's gaze darted between their faces as she noticed Maege's grim acceptance, Alysane's careful neutrality, Val's patient amusement. Her stomach began to churn and she was sure they could hear her heartbeat. "That's... that's not possible."
Val leaned against the bedpost, her voice gentle despite the smile playing at her lips. "What you saw was true, Sansa Stark. Jon did transform into a dragon. And he did fly away."
The room tilted. Sansa fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling beams as if they might offer some explanation for the world suddenly making no sense. The rough-hewn wood stared back, solid and real and completely unhelpful.
"My brother," she said to no one in particular, her voice distant and wondering, "transformed into a dragon."
Alysane cleared her throat, the sound sharp in silence. "Lord Jon has gone to Deepwood Motte with some of his men. To clear the ironborn from the North." She paused, seeming to struggle with the words. "I... I cannot say when he'll return. I don't know how long it takes for a... a dragon to fly such distances. But he should be back within days."
"Thank you," Sansa managed, still staring at the ceiling. The beams hadn't changed. Nothing had changed, except everything had.
Maege's heavy hand settled on Alysane's shoulder. "Come. Lady Sansa needs time to rest."
"Wait." The word came out sharper than Sansa intended. She forced herself to look at them, to focus past the impossibility of it all. "Jon told me about what's coming. The Long Night. He said there was a wight in the dungeons. Is it true?"
Maege's jaw tightened, and she gave a terse nod. The gesture said everything—yes, the dead walked, yes, winter was coming for them all, yes, the world had gone mad and they simply had to accept it.
"I need to see it." Sansa pushed Ghost's head, and this time the wolf allowed her to sit up. "I have to see it with my own eyes."
Maege studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Aye. Perhaps you do at that."
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The dungeons beneath Winterfell had always frightened her as a child. Now, descending those same stone steps behind Maege Mormont's broad back, Sansa found herself wishing for those simple childhood terrors. At least those had been imaginary.
The air grew colder with each step, carrying the damp rot of centuries-old stone and something else, a wrongness that made her skin crawl. Val walked beside her, moving with the easy grace of someone accustomed to true cold, while Alysane brought up the rear, her hand resting on the pommel of… black glass?
"Just through here," Maege grunted, pushing open a heavy iron door that screamed on its hinges.
The smell hit Sansa first—decay and old meat, like the tanneries near King's Landing but worse. She pressed her sleeve to her nose, fighting the urge to retch. The chamber beyond was small, lit by a single torch that cast dancing shadows across rough stone walls.
And there, chained to the far wall, was the corpse.
Sansa's mind refused to process what she was seeing. The thing had been a man once, that much was clear from the tattered black cloth that still clung to its frame. But no living man moved like that with jerky, unnatural movements as it strained against the iron chains that held it. Its head lolled at an impossible angle, the neck clearly broken, yet still it writhed. The chains rattled with each movement, a rhythmic clanking that seemed to echo in her bones.
The face was the worst part. Grey flesh hung loose from the skull, and where it's eyes should be, a blue so bright it seemed to glow in the torchlight. Those terrifying eyes tracked their movement, following them with an intelligence that made bile rise in her throat. Its mouth opened and closed soundlessly, teeth clicking together in a mockery of speech.
"Gods," Sansa breathed, her voice barely a whisper. The reality of it crashed over her like a wave of ice water. Everything Jon had said was true. The Long Night wasn't just a story to frighten children. It was coming for them all.
Her legs felt weak, and she might have fallen if Val hadn't steadied her with a firm hand on her elbow. The wildling woman's face showed no surprise, only grim acceptance.
"It's always like this the first time. Seeing them." Val asked quietly.
Sansa could only nod, unable to tear her gaze from the writhing corpse. How many of these things were out there, beyond the Wall? Thousands? More?
"Aye, that there was one of the Night's Watch brothers," Alysane said, her voice carrying a note of satisfaction. "One of the ones that killed Jon. Bowen Marsh, his name was. Jon had him executed for breaking his vows, beyond the wall to show people what we're really fighting."
The words hit Sansa like a slap to her face. She turned so fast she nearly lost her balance, her voice tearing from her throat in a scream that echoed off the stone walls.
"What do you mean 'killed Jon'?!"
Alysane's face drained of color, her eyes going wide with horror as she realized what she'd just said. Before she could speak, Maege's meaty hand connected with the back of her daughter's head with a resounding smack.
"You bloody fool," Maege growled.