A/N: Phew, this was a long chapter to write but also fun! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
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Year 300 AC
Meereen, Essos
The throne room of the Great Pyramid felt smaller with each passing hour. Daenerys gripped the armrests of her bench—she refused to think of it as a throne, not when her true seat waited across the Narrow Sea—until her knuckles whitened. The scent of smoke still clung to her hair, her clothes, her very skin. Below, through the open terrace, Meereen smoldered.
"Your Grace." Ser Barristan's voice held that careful tone men used with grieving mothers. "The fires in the harbor have been contained. We've lost seven ships, but the rest—"
"Seven ships." The words tasted of ash. "And one dragon."
Silence fell like a shroud. Her councilors consisting of Ser Barristan, Grey Worm, Reznak mo Reznak, the Green Grace had all found fascinating things to study in the floor's geometric patterns.
Viserion. Her cream-and-gold child, her gentle one. The memory of Drogon's jaws closing around that pale throat would haunt her until her dying day. Brother killing brother at her command. No—not her command. That ironborn savage with his cursed horn had stolen her child, twisted him into a weapon against his own blood.
"The Yunkai'i grow bold," Reznak ventured, wringing his perfumed hands. "With the Iron Fleet gone and our ships burned, our enemies see blood in the water."
"The Iron Fleet." Daenerys's voice could have frozen the Dothraki Sea. "Tell me again how Ironborn ships appeared in my harbor. How an Ironborn captain rode my dragon."
More silence. More careful study of floor tiles.
"Your Grace," Missandei's clear voice cut through the tension as she entered, "there is someone who claims knowledge of these events. He insists it is urgent."
"Send them in." Anything to break this suffocating circle of ignorance and platitudes.
The man who entered was the ugliest she'd seen since leaving Pentos with stunted legs, mismatched eyes, a nose that had been cut off. His clothes bore the salt-stains and sun-fade of hard travel, yet he carried himself with the assurance of a lord.
"Your Grace." His bow was awkward but not mocking. "Tyrion Lannister, at your service."
The name hit her like a crossbow bolt. "Lannister."
"The same family that murdered your father, yes." His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—held steady. "Also the family that exiled me for the crime of existing. We have that in common, Your Grace. Unwanted children cast out by those who should have protected us."
"You dare—"
"I dare because I have information you need." He straightened, hands clasped behind his back. "Three days ago, I encountered Victarion Greyjoy in a brothel. He spoke of dragons and conquest. More importantly, he carried a horn."
Daenerys leaned forward despite herself. "What manner of horn?"
"Black as dragonglass, banded with red gold and Valyrian glyphs." Tyrion's scarred mouth twisted. "He guarded it like a lover. When I showed too much interest, he nearly took my head. A guilty conscience, perhaps. Or protective instinct over a prize too valuable to share."
"Dragonbinder." The word escaped her in a whisper. The old Valyrian texts spoke of such things—I'd traced my fingers over the faded glyphs in Illyrio's library, thinking them mere fables. She'd read of such things in the dusty scrolls of Pentos, dismissed them as legends.
But if Victarion truly possessed one... if he'd blown it near my children... Her stomach clenched at the thought, bile rising in her throat. No. They are mine. Blood of my blood. No horn could sever what fire and sacrifice forged.
"The Greyjoys will pay for this." Fire and blood, the words of her house had never felt more appropriate. "I'll sail for the Iron Islands. I'll burn every keep, every boat that takes sail, every Kraken in sight."
"Your Grace." Tyrion's voice held a note of warning. "Might I suggest you look closer to home first?"
She fixed him with a stare that had cowed sellswords and slave masters. "You presume much for a kinslayer."
"I presume to point out that Yunkai masses troops while we speak." He gestured toward the terrace and the smoke-hazed city beyond. "Leave now, and you'll return to find Meereen in chains again. Or worse—in ashes."
"You counsel patience while my child's murderers feast in their halls?"
"I counsel victory." His mismatched eyes glittered. "Crush Yunkai. End the threat at your back. Then sail west with your full strength and show the Greyjoys what it means to wake the dragon. A rushed vengeance serves no one but your enemies."
The worst part was that he was right. Daenerys could feel it in her bones, that cold political calculus Ser Barristan had tried to teach her. A queen's heart must be ice when her blood runs hot.
"You speak sense for a Lannister." She settled back, studying him. This twisted little man with his sharp tongue and sharper mind. "Tell me, why should I trust you?"
"Because I've nowhere else to go." Simple. Honest. "My sweet sister wants my head. The crossbow bolt in my father gut doesn't help the matter. I've crossed half the world to stand before the last Targaryen, because you're my only chance at seeing another sunrise."
"Or perhaps you seek to finish what your family started."
"If I wanted you dead, would I counsel you to secure your position before seeking vengeance? A poor assassination attempt, even by my standards.?" He tilted his oversized head.
Despite everything—her grief, her rage, the smoke still burning her nostrils—Daenerys felt her mouth twitch. "You will remain as my... guest. For now."
"Your suspicious guest, you mean." But he bowed again, deeper this time. "I am at your disposal, Your Grace."
She turned to her council, decision crystallizing like ice in her chest. "Ser Barristan, prepare what ships survived. Have them ready to sail within the moon's turn. Reznak, send word to the shipwrights—I want every hull that can float made seaworthy."
"Your Grace means to leave?" The Green Grace's voice held careful neutrality.
"I mean to return." She rose, and they all rose with her. "But first, Yunkai burns. Grey Worm, ready the Unsullied. We march at dawn."
"This one hears and obeys."
"And the Ironborn, Your Grace?" Ser Barristan asked.
"Will learn patience is not mercy." The fire in her belly had cooled to something harder, more dangerous. "When I come for them, it will be with the full might of my dragons—" Dragon, the correction burned, "—and my armies. They took my child. I will take everything they have ever loved."
She swept from the throne room, leaving them to their preparations. Only when she reached her private chambers did she allow the mask to crack. Viserion was gone. Her gentle child, who'd preferred fish to meat and loved to sun himself on the pyramid's highest towers.
But tears were for later. Now, she had a war to win.
And then, then the Greyjoys would learn what Khal Jhaqo had learned. Dragons had returned to the world, and their mother's memory was long.
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Year 300 AC
Castle Black, The Wall
The wind screamed across Castle Black's courtyard, carrying ice crystals that stung like needles. Jon's massive wings beat once more before he descended, his obsidian scales catching torchlight from the Wall's towers. Men scattered from the landing zone—some stumbling backward in terror, others running without looking back. The ground trembled beneath his weight.
Control. Find the center. He lowered his hand, letting Val slide down first. She landed gracefully despite the melted slush beneath them, her white furs stark against the darkening sky. Grenn followed, less steady, gripping one of Jon's scales for balance before his boots found purchase.
"By the old Gods!" someone whispered. A Manderly man, to Jon's surprise, by the look of his surcoat. The crowd pressed closer despite their fear, drawn like moths to flame. Jon recognized faces among them—Satin near the front, Edd with an eyebrow raised, Allister Thorne gripping his sword and Othell Yarwyck stood with the builders, mouth agape. Queen Selyse had emerged from the King's Tower, Melisandre at her side, the red priestess's eyes reflecting her desires.
Jon closed his eyes, searching for that thread of humanity buried beneath dragon flesh. The purple fire churned in his chest, eager to escape, to consume. He pushed it down, down, until he found what he sought—the memory of snow on his tongue, the weight of Longclaw in his hand, Ghost's fur beneath his fingers.
I am a bo—man. Be a man.
The transformation began as heat. Not the comfortable warmth of a hearth, but searing agony that started in his bones and radiated outward. His scales rippled, flesh beneath them shifting, reshaping. The screams from the crowd began anew.
Then the flames erupted.
They burst from every inch of him, shooting skyward in a pillar that turned night to eerie day. The flames didn't burn like normal fire—they consumed the air itself, leaving afterimages that danced behind closed eyelids. The heat melted snow in a perfect circle, exposing mud and dead grass beneath. Steam rose in great billowing clouds.
Jon felt his wings fold inward, dissolving into flame. His neck shortened, talons became fingers, the massive weight of his dragon form compressed into something achingly familiar. The fire roared louder, drowning out the crowd's cries of alarm and wonder.
When the flames finally died, Jon stood naked in the center of the scorched earth, steam rising from his skin. The cold hit him again after the inferno of transformation but it simply felt like a soft caress. His legs shook—human legs, thank the gods—and he had to lock his knees to keep from falling.
Silence. Complete, absolute silence from the hundreds of souls gathered in the courtyard. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Then Satin broke from the crowd, running toward him with a black wool cloak clutched in his hands. "My lord," he said, voice cracking. He threw the cloak around Jon's shoulders, fingers trembling as he fastened the clasp. "We thought—when you didn't return—"
"Later." Jon's voice came out rough, raw from the change. The cloak's weight felt strange after scales and wings. He pulled it tight, grateful for its familiarity and modesty both.
White fur brushed against Jon's thigh, warm and familiar. Ghost's massive head pushed under his palm, the direwolf's tail sweeping wide arcs that beguiled his excitement. Jon's fingers found the thick ruff behind Ghost's ears, working through the coarse fur until the wolf leaned his full weight against Jon's leg, nearly knocking him sideways.
The red eyes—his eyes, in his dreams—gazed up at him with an intelligence that made Jon's chest tight. Ghost's tongue lolled out, pink against white fangs, and for a moment Jon could taste the memory of hot blood on his own tongue, feel the crunch of bone between jaws that were no longer his.
The crowd remained frozen. Free Folk and Night's Watch, Queen's men, builders, and Northmen all staring as if he might burst into flame again at any moment. Jon saw Tormund near the armory, beard singed from some recent encounter. Edd stood with a cluster of stewards, his long face even longer than usual.
"Well?" Jon's voice carried across the courtyard. "Has the Wall fallen while I was gone? Or do you all have duties to attend?"
That broke the spell. Men began to move, though slowly, casting glances over their shoulders. Tormund shouldered through the crowd, his massive frame parting the sea of bodies like a ship's prow. The singed edges of his beard still smoked faintly, filling the air with the acrid scent of burnt hair.
"Snow!" His voice boomed across the courtyard, rough as gravel. "Where's m'boy? Where's Toregg?"
Jon turned, the black wool cloak heavy on shoulders that still remembered scales. The wildling's face was carved from worry—deep lines etched around eyes that usually danced with mirth.
"He's at Eastwatch." Jon's replied. "Safe. Helping secure the garrison there."
Tormund's shoulders dropped, tension bleeding out of him like water from a punctured skin. "Eastwatch." He spat the word, then laughed—a harsh bark that echoed off Castle Black's walls. "Aye, he's off, sure as snow. Lad always had a nose for the salt wind." His eyes narrowed, studying Jon with an intensity that made the cloak feel suddenly thin. "You'd speak it straight if he weren't, wouldn't you? Even with them pretty wings you're flappin' round with now?"
"I'd tell you true." Jon met the wildling's gaze steadily. "Your son fights for the living, same as us all."
"Here." Edd's voice cut through the moment, gruff as old leather. The sound of steel sliding against leather preceded Longclaw's weight settling into Jon's hands. The pommel's white wolf seemed to grin up at him, ruby eyes catching the torchlight. "Figured you'd want this back. Though I half expected you to breathe fire on it, forge yourself something new."
Jon's fingers closed around the familiar grip, the Valyrian steel singing faintly as he drew it an inch from its sheath. The blade caught the light like dark water, ripples of the ancient forging still visible after centuries. He could smell the oil Edd had used to clean it—whale oil from the stores.
"Still fits," Jon murmured, sliding the sword home and buckling it to his hip. The weight settled against his leg opposite Ghost's warmth, twin anchors to who he'd been. Who he still was, beneath scales and flame.
Melisandre approached, her red robes seeming to glow in the torchlight.
"The prince who was promised," she murmured, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Death and rebirth, ice and fire made flesh."
"Enough." Jon cut her off. He had no patience for prophecies tonight. His human body ached in ways his dragon form never had—tired from the transformation and the haunting memory of daggers in the dark. "Where's the food? I'm starving."
Satin's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "The kitchens have mutton stew, my lord. And bread from this morning's baking."
"Mutton," Jon said in disgust while taking a step forward and nearly stumbling. His legs felt too short, his vision too limited without the dragon's heightened senses. Everything seemed muted, dampened. "That will do for now. Edd, Tormund—my solar. One hour. I will speak to the rest after."
Jon turned to see a large man stumbling forward through the crowd. The man's bulk spoke of White Harbor's famous feasts—thick neck, jowls that trembled with each labored step, fine wool stretched tight across his belly. Yet something in his eyes, a sharpness that cut through the flesh, marked him as more than just another soft lordling.
"Lord Commander Snow." The man dropped to one knee with surprising grace for his size, mud squelching beneath his weight. "Ser Wylis Manderly, at your service."
Jon's stomach clenched. Manderly. The name tasted of betrayal and Bolton steel. Around them, the courtyard had gone still—Free Folk pausing mid-stride, builders setting down their tools, everyone watching this unexpected theater.
"Rise, Ser Wylis." Jon pulled the cloak tighter, acutely aware of his bare feet on the mud. "The Manderlys serve the Boltons now, do they not? Strange to find you so far from your masters' kennels."
Color flooded Wylis's face, but he pushed himself upright, breathing hard. "My lord, I've ridden through storm and snow to reach you. White Harbor has never served those butchers. We remember our oaths."
"Do you?" Jon's voice carried across the silent courtyard. "I hear your father was enjoying the feast at Winterfell under the Boltons murmur."
"We were—" Wylis swallowed, glancing at the watching crowd. "My lord, perhaps we might speak inside? What I have to say touches on matters best discussed privately."
Wylis Manderly looked like he'd been riding hard with mud-caked boots, travel-stained cloak, the smell of horse sweat clinging to him despite the cold. Either an elaborate mummer's show, or...
"Very well." Jon nodded to Satin. "Have food brought to my solar, whatever meat the kitchens can spare." He fixed Wylis with a hard stare. "You'll share my meal, Ser Wylis. Let's see what truths White Harbor offers."
The crowd parted as they moved through Castle Black's yards. Jon felt their eyes— he was becoming accustomed to their wariness, though now the wariness was not solely reserved for Ghost. The Manderlys had been conspicuously quiet after the dreaded wedding, and now one appeared at his doorstep claiming loyalty? He'd learned enough about the nobles and their games to know nothing came without price.
They stepped into the solar and the man collapsed into a chair with a groan, accepting the ale Satin offered with a grateful nod. Jon stayed by the hearth, watching flames lick at blackened logs while platters clattered onto the table—black bread, salted pork, pickled onions. Plain food, but Wylis tore into it like a starving wolf.
The knight paused between bites, wiping grease from his mustache. "Before we begin, my lord, might I ask what happened to you? The…dragon..." He trailed off, studying Jon with shrewd eyes that belied his travel-worn appearance.
"What happened to me." Jon watched the flames dance, ordinary orange now, though he could feel the purple lurking beneath. "I died. Then I didn't. The how and why would sound like madness to any sane man."
Wylis paused mid-chew. "My lord, I've seen enough strangeness in this world to believe most anything. The red priestess speaks of men returned from death. The words from the brothers of the Watch tell tales of beyond the Wall that grow darker each day."
"Tales." Jon turned from the fire. "Tell me, Ser Wylis, why should I believe White Harbor's sudden remembrance of old oaths? Where were you when after they butchered my brother at the Twins?"
The knight set down his bread, meeting Jon's gaze squarely. "Held hostage by the Freys, my lord. They had me at Harrenhal, used me as surety for my father's good behavior. Every feast, every gathering where my lord father smiled and japed with Freys and Boltons—it was to keep my throat uncut."
"Convenient. But why do you call a bastard 'lord'?"
"Truth rarely is." Wylis reached into his cloak, movements slow and deliberate. "As to your question, mayhaps this will convince you."
He produced a leather cylinder, sealed with black wax. Jon recognized the direwolf even before breaking the seal, and his hands trembled slightly as he unrolled the parchment. Robb's hand, clear as day. His brother's final will.
"I name my brother Jon Snow as my heir, to rule as King in the North should I die without issue..."
The words blurred. Jon blinked hard, seeing Robb's face as it had been—young, earnest, "You are my brother. Now and always." They'd parted in an embrace, but now all that remained were words on parchment and graves in the ground.
Wylis shifted his weight, the leather chair groaning beneath him. His thick fingers drummed against the table's scarred surface before he spoke, each word measured as if weighing gold coins.
"There's more to it than that, my lord." The knight's eyes flicked to the parchment, then back to Jon's face. "Your brother... King Robb... he didn't just name you heir. He legitimized you." Wylis's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, though they were alone save for Ghost's steady breathing. "Witnessed before Lady Stark, the Greatjon, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover. Before the old gods and the new."
Jon looked up from the parchment and gave Wylis a hard stare.
"You're Jon Stark now. True-born son of Lord Eddard Stark." Wylis leaned forward, his bulk making the table shift. "Not Snow. Never again Snow."
Jon Stark.
The name sat heavy on his tongue, foreign as a Myrish sweet. All his life he'd been the bastard, the half-brother, the boy who stood apart at feasts and sat below the salt. Now Robb—dead Robb, murdered Robb—had given him what he'd never dared dream of.
"He trusted me." The thought burned worse than any transformation. "Named me his heir, and I couldn't do anything to help him. To save him."
The purple fire responded to his rage, and suddenly every flame in the room shifted—candles, hearth fire, even the oil lamp hanging from the ceiling blazed with that otherworldly hue. Wylis jerked back, wine cup clattering to the floor.
"Seven hells!"
Jon stood at the hearth, staring into flames that danced between purple and blue and colors that had no names. The fire didn't burn the wood—it seemed to burn the very air, leaving strange afterimages.
"I know about Davos Seaworth's quest." Jon's voice came out rougher than intended. "Your father sent him hunting for something on Skagos."
Wylis had gone pale as curdled milk, but he managed to nod. "Lord Stark—Lord Rickon. We had word he might have survived, might be hidden there with his wolf. My uncle Marlon went with Ser Davos to be certain."
"And you believe this?" Jon turned from the flames, fixing Wylis with a stare that would have made even the Others hesitate. "That my little brother lives?"
"We pray for it, my lord. They should be returning to White Harbor even now, if the old gods are good."
Jon held Robb's will, feeling the weight of it—not just parchment and wax, but all the expectations, all the trust his brother had placed in him. King in the North. The words tasted like ashes.
"Your father is cleverer than he appears." Jon set the will carefully on his desk. "This names me Robb's heir, but Rickon's survival changes everything. The boy has the stronger claim."
"My lord, King Robb believed—"
"King Robb believed his brothers were dead." Jon cut him off. "Would he have named a bastard, even if it's me, had he known Rickon lived? Would any Northern lord accept it?" He shook his head. "No, Ser Wylis. If Rickon lives, the crown is his by rights. I'll not be a usurper." She will never be right.
"The boy is six years old!"
"Then he'll need good men to guide him." Jon moved to the window, looking out at the Wall. Even from here, he could feel its weakness, the ancient spells fraying like old rope. "I'll serve as his regent, nothing more. The North needs Starks, not another war of succession."
Wylis struggled to his feet. "My lord, the Northern lords who've seen this will—they expect—"
A sharp knock interrupted him. Jon frowned—remembering his orders.
"Enter."
The door burst open and Edd stumbled through, Tormund close behind. The wildling's presence filled the room like a storm cloud, and Wylis shifted nervously, hand moving to where his sword would hang.
Edd's words died in his throat. The hearth fire, moments before a natural orange, now writhed in shades of violet and indigo.
Tormund's hand flew to his sword hilt, the leather creaking under his grip. The big man took a step back, his boots scraping against stone. The purple light caught in his wild beard, turning the white strands to lavender.
Edd pressed himself against the door, his knuckles white where they gripped the iron handle. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Jon." Edd's long face looked even longer than usual. "We've had ravens. Stannis is dead."
The words hit like a crossbow bolt. Jon gripped the window ledge, stone crumbling slightly under his fingers. "How?"
"Ramsay Bolton." Edd's mouth twisted. "Led a charge himself, they say. Stannis took an arrow but his men carried him off. Died two days later from the wound. His army's scattered—some heading here, others fled south."
"These Boltons seem ferocious" Tormund spat on the floor, ignoring Wylis's look of disgust. "Har! Let's see how fierce these Boltons piss when we come knockin'!"
Jon closed his eyes. Stannis—rigid, unbending Stannis who'd offered him Winterfell, who'd been the only king to answer the Watch's call. Another good man dead while monsters prospered.
Jon reached into his desk and withdrew the parchment, its pink wax seal already broken. The paper crackled as he unfolded it, the sound sharp in the stone chamber. He held it out between thumb and forefinger like something diseased.
Wylis leaned forward, squinting at the elaborate script. His walrus mustache twitched as his lips moved, parsing the words. The color drained from his already pale face, leaving him gray as old snow.
"Seven hells," Edd muttered, reading over the knight's shoulder. His Adam's apple bobbed in his long throat. "That's... creative."
Tormund snatched the letter before Jon could stop him, his thick fingers leaving smudges on the pink paper. He thrust the parchment at arm's length, squinting at the black scrawl as if distance might transform the letters into something sensible. His brow furrowed deeper with each passing second, thick fingers rotating the page ninety degrees, then back again. A low growl built in his chest.
"What's this chicken-scratch from a kneeler meant t' say, eh?" He shook the letter, pink wax flaking onto the rushes. "All them fancy loops and swirls—might as well be bloody runes, for all the sense they make."
The wildling's breath misted in the cold chamber as he turned to Jon, holding the parchment like a man might hold a viper. "So spit it out plain—what's this pink bastard after that's got Dolorous lookin' like he choked on a wrigglin' eel?"
Jon's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath stubbled skin. "He claims we harbor his bride. Arya— who we now know is Jeyne Poole." Remembering Jeyne's ordeal only brought forth more anger. "Says he'll flay the skin from her bones while I watch. Cut pieces from me—" His voice caught on the specifics, bile rising. "Feed them to his dogs."
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling up the chimney. Jon's fingers found the pommel of Longclaw, the cold Valyrian steel grounding him.
"Wants his wife back, his Reek." The words tasted of ash and iron. "Threatens to march on Castle Black with the Bolton host if I don't deliver them all by the new moon."
Ghost stirred in the corner, hackles rising along his spine. The direwolf's red eyes fixed on Jon, sensing the violence coiling beneath his skin.
"This pup threatens you?" The wildling's voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. "Says he'll cut your—" He glanced at the letter again, incredulous. "—make you watch while he... Har! The boy's got stones, I'll give him that. Mad as a bag of weasels, but stones."
The parchment trembled in Tormund's grip, his knuckles white. Jon could smell the rage rolling off him—hot metal and old leather, the scent of violence barely leashed.
Wylis's hand shook from anger, his meal long forgotten. "My lord, this cannot stand. Such threats against the rightful—against you—demand answer."
"The dog wants his bride back." Edd's voice carried its usual funeral-parlor cheer. "Shame he wont live long enough to see her."
Jon watched them react, feeling oddly detached, Ramsay's florid script promising tortures that would make the Dreadfort's dungeons seem merciful. Come and see, the Bolton bastard had written. Come and see.
The stone beneath Jon's fingers cracked audibly. All three men stepped back.
"The North bleeds while we sit here." Jon opened his eyes, decision crystallizing. "It ends now. I'll take Winterfell myself if I must. The Long Night comes, and we waste time with Bolton madness."
Wylis started forward. "My lord, we need to plan. You can't simply—"
"Can't I?" Jon smiled, and something in it made the knight step back. "The board is already set, Ser Wylis. Men and women march from Eastwatch to Last Hearth. We meet them there."
"Jon." Edd's voice carried warning. "The lads we discussed, Marsh and the others. What do you want done?"
Understanding flickered in Jon's eyes. The mutineers. Men who'd stabbed him for the Watch, who'd seen his policies as betrayal. Part of him wanted to hang them all, let them dance at the end of ropes like common criminals. But another part, a colder part, had different ideas.
"Take them beyond the Wall." The words came out flat, final. "All of them."
Edd nodded slowly, understanding passing between them. Wylis looked confused, but Tormund grinned, all teeth and malice.
"Aye, that'll do. Let 'em see what they were so afraid of, eh?"
"My lord," Wylis ventured, "surely you mean to execute them here?"
"I mean what I said." Jon turned from the window. "They'll go beyond the Wall. They'll become what they refuse to believe."
He looked at Wylis, seeing the doubt there, the careful calculation of a man raised on southern politics. "You wanted proof of what I've become, Ser Wylis? Today you'll have it. Bring whoever you like—let them all see. The dead are coming, and the North needs to understand that our petty wars mean nothing anymore."
The flames in the hearth danced purple again, casting strange shadows on the walls. Outside, the wind howled, and Jon could swear he heard something else in it—a distant roar, like ice cracking on a frozen sea.
The Long Night was coming, and he'd waste no more time on southern games. Winterfell would be his, one way or another. And then, finally, he could prepare for the real war.