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Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
Jon surveyed Winterfell from above, his massive dragon form casting a long shadow over the ancient castle. From this vantage, he could see the damage Theon's betrayal and Bolton occupation had wrought—the burned library tower, the collapsed section of the inner wall, the scorched stones of the Great Keep. Yet the heart of Winterfell remained, enduring as it had for thousands of years.
Below, his forces secured the castle. Northern men-at-arms disarmed surrendering Bolton soldiers. The Mormont women led a group through the armory. Free Folk secured the gates with practiced efficiency, while mountain clansmen gathered prisoners in the courtyard. They all gave him a wide berth, eyes darting nervously upward.
Time to be a man again, Jon thought.
He launched from the tower, circling once before landing in an open area beyond the eastern wall. The snow melted beneath him as he concentrated, feeling the familiar heat building within. The transformation had become easier with practice, though no less draining.
Flames erupted around his massive form, consuming scale and wing. The fire reached skyward, a beacon visible for leagues, before collapsing inward. Where the dragon had stood, Jon Snow knelt naked in steaming snow, his skin glistening with sweat despite the winter cold.
His senses remained unnaturally sharp even in human form. He heard hoofbeats approaching before he saw the riders—Grenn and Satin in the lead, with Davos and Wylis Manderly not far behind. They'd brought an extra mount, as he'd instructed them to do if the battle went as planned.
Jon rose to his feet, feeling strangely at peace despite his nakedness. His body bore the scars of his murder at Castle Black, white lines against pale skin, but otherwise showed no sign of the brutal battle he'd just fought.
Satin was the first to dismount, rushing forward with a heavy cloak. "My lord," he said, his voice remarkably steady as he offered the garment.
"Thank you, Satin." Jon wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, grateful for his steward's foresight.
Grenn dismounted more slowly, his broad face split by an irrepressible grin. "Seven hells, Jon. When you said you'd take Winterfell, I didn't think you meant you'd do it by yourself."
Jon couldn't help but return the smile, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "Didn't want you lot getting all the glory."
Satin covered a small giggle with his hand, then offered Jon boots and breeches he'd carried in his saddlebag.
As Jon dressed quickly, Davos and Wylis reached them. The Onion Knight's face was carefully composed, but his eyes betrayed his wonder. Wylis looked pale, as though he'd seen things he couldn't quite comprehend.
"You might have warned us," Davos said, his voice carefully neutral.
"Would you have believed me?" Jon asked, pulling on his boots.
"No," Davos admitted. "I wouldn't have. Even seeing it now, I scarce believe my eyes."
Jon mounted the spare horse, feeling a strange flutter in his chest as he gazed toward Winterfell's gates. The last time he'd ridden through them, he'd been leaving for the Wall, a boy of fourteen, a bastard with no prospects beyond the black. Now he returned as it's liberator.
"The castle is ours, then?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Surrendered almost to a man after you... after the dragon appeared," Wylis said. "Those who fought died quickly."
They rode toward the gates, the army parting before them. Jon felt their eyes upon him—some fearful, others filled with awe, still others calculating what his transformation might mean for the wars to come. He kept his gaze forward, his face the solemn mask he'd perfected at Castle Black.
The gates of Winterfell stood open, welcoming him home. As they passed beneath the ancient arch, memories washed over Jon—playing at swords with Robb in this yard, watching Bran climb that wall, helping Arya practice archery when no one was looking, avoiding Lady Catelyn's cold stare.
In the courtyard, northern lords, mountain clan chiefs, and Free Folk leaders had gathered. Silence fell as Jon dismounted. He recognized Hugo Wull, Mors Umber, Maege Mormont, Howland Reed and Galbart Glover at the front of the assembly, with Val standing with Mance slightly apart, her pale blonde hair shining in the winter sun.
"Winterfell is ours," Jon announced, his voice carrying across the yard. "House Bolton's rule ends today."
A cheer rose from the assembled warriors, echoing off the ancient stones.
Jon's gaze swept the familiar surroundings, noting changes large and small. Bolton banners still hung from some walls, though men were already tearing them down. The lichyard where Old Nan had told them ghost stories had been expanded, filled with fresh graves. The glass gardens lay shattered, their heat dispersed into the cold northern air.
"Seven hells," Mance breathed, his weathered face slack with something between awe and disbelief. "You've gone and become a fucking dragon."
Every eye in the courtyard swiveled between Mance and Jon, waiting for denial or confirmation. The wildling king—former king—stood with his arms crossed, that familiar sardonic smile playing at the corners of his mouth, but his eyes held a wariness Jon had never seen there before.
"That's one way to put it," Jon said quietly, aware of how the crowd pressed closer, hungry for every word.
"One way?" Mance barked a laugh that echoed off Winterfell's ancient stones. "What's another way? You sprouted wings and breathed fire on our enemies, boy. Unless that was some mummer's trick with wildfire and ravens."
"The dragon is simply... one more face I wear," Jon answered, his mouth twisting with something between embarrassment and resignation.
"And how exactly did you come to possess the face of a dragon?" Maege asked, voicing her wariness.
The question brought a hush over the crowd. Jon met her gaze steadily.
Jon looked around at the faces watching him—northmen who had fought for his family, Free Folk who had followed him south of the Wall, mountain clansmen who had answered his call. They deserved the truth, or as much of it as he understood himself.
"I died at Castle Black," he said simply. "Murdered by my sworn brothers for allowing the Free Folk through the Wall. What happened after..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I returned, changed. The blood of the dragon awakened in me. I'm still learning what that means."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Jon could almost hear the thoughts racing behind their eyes. Jon's gaze swept the assembled prisoners until it snagged on Barbrey Dustin—that bitter twist to her mouth, the way she held her chin high despite the bruise mottling her cheekbone like spilled wine on parchment.
"Lady Dustin," Jon acknowledged her with a nod. "I trust you've been treated with the respect due your station?"
Barbrey Dustin stepped forward from the group of prisoners, her proud face bruised but her eyes defiant. "So the Bastard of Winterfell is a skinchanger after all. Old Nan's tales come to life."
Jon studied Barbrey Dustin's proud face, noting how her eyes glittered with carefully concealed calculation. The bruise on her cheek had darkened to purple, but she held herself as straight as any queen.
"I understand your happiness, Lady Dustin," Jon said, his voice carrying across the silent courtyard.
Her sly grin faltered, confusion flickering across her features. "My happiness?"
"Of course." Jon stepped closer, his boots crunching on frost-brittle stone. "You must be overjoyed that Lord Roose finally dealt with his bastard. Ramsay Bolton, who murdered your beloved nephew Domeric." He let the words hang in the winter air. "The same Ramsay who turned your nephew's inheritance into a charnel house of flayed men and broken oaths."
The color drained from Barbrey's face. Around them, northern lords shifted uneasily, whispers rippling through the crowd like wind through grain.
"I don't know what you—"
"How proud you must feel my lady," Jon continued, his grey eyes never leaving hers with a slight tilt to his head. "allying yourself with such a twisted family. Supporting the house that harbored your nephew's murderer for years."
Barbrey's jaw worked silently, her composure cracking like ice on a spring river. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally managed, "You know nothing of what I endured."
"I know you bent the knee to Roose Bolton," Jon said. "I know you rode with them against Stannis. I know you watched Ramsay parade through the North wearing Domeric's title like a stolen cloak." His voice dropped lower, forcing everyone to lean in. "And I know the North remembers everything, Lady Dustin. Every betrayal. Every compromise. Every brother left unavenged."
The assembled northmen murmured their agreement, a low rumble of shared grievance. Ghost padded forward, his red eyes fixed on Barbrey as if scenting prey.
"But House Stark has always been fair so there will be no executions without trial," Jon said firmly. "Those who bent the knee to House Bolton under duress will be given the opportunity to renew their oaths to House Stark."
Larence Snow approached, saluting Jon with obvious nervousness. "My lord, the castle is secured. We've taken inventory of prisoners—Lady Dustin, as you see, Torhen and Gryff Whitehill, and Rickard and Roose Ryswell among the highborn. The Bolton men have surrendered their arms."
"Casualties?" Jon asked.
"Almost none on our side, my lord. The... the dragon's appearance broke their will to fight."
Jon nodded, unsurprised. Fear was a powerful weapon, one he'd hoped to avoid using but had prepared to wield if necessary.
Morton Waynwood stepped forward, his earlier arrogance replaced by a new deference. "My lord, with your permission, I should ride to inform Lady Stark and the Vale forces of our victory."
Jon shook his head. "No. I'll send my own messengers." He turned to Larence Snow and Robett Glover. "Take twenty men and ride to meet my sister. Tell her only that Winterfell belongs to the Starks again. Nothing more."
Robett Glover's eyes widened slightly as he caught Jon's meaning. The fewer who knew about the dragon, the better, at least until Jon could explain to Sansa himself.
"At once, my lord," Robett replied with a short bow, already turning to select men for the journey.
"Wylis," Jon continued, "send word to your father. Tell him to bring Rickon to Winterfell as soon as possible."
"Yes, my lord."
Jon raised his voice so all could hear him. "Once Lady Stark has arrived, I mean to fly to Torrhen's Square and drive the Ironborn from our shores once and for all."
This announcement brought another round of cheers, even louder than before.
"Winterfell belongs to House Stark again," Jon declared, meeting the eyes of each lord in turn. "And the North remembers."
The roar that followed shook the very stones, northern voices raised in triumph after years of suffering and loss. Jon let it wash over him, his own feelings complex and contradictory. Pride in what they'd accomplished, grief for all that had been lost, determination for what lay ahead.
As the crowd dispersed to their duties, Jon's eyes found Val. The wildling woman watched him with a knowing look, neither impressed by his display of power nor intimidated by the lordly command he'd assumed. Their gazes held for a moment before Jon turned away, already thinking of the tasks that lay ahead.
The Great Hall of Winterfell lay silent and cold, the hearths unlit, the long tables empty. Jon stood alone amid the shadows, his skin still radiated unnatural heat, steam rising from his shoulders in the chill air.
The door creaked open, admitting Davos, Galbart, Howland, Hugo, and Tormund. The wildling leader grinned broadly, while the other four men approached with more caution.
Howland's weathered face creased with something between amusement and reproach. "After our conversation, I thought you might trust me with such a secret." His soft crannogman's voice carried just enough edge to make Davos's head snap toward him.
"What conversation?" Galbart asked puzzled.
Galbart's eyes narrowed, frost still clinging to his wild beard. "You knew? You knew he could breathe fire and fly, and you said nothing?"
"Some truths must be earned, not given." Howland's moss-green eyes never left Jon's face. "Though I confess, I expected something more... subtle than what we witnessed today."
Hugo spat into the cold hearth. "Subtle? The boy turned into a beast the size of Balerion himself! My grandfather would've shit his smallclothes."
"Your grandfather would've bent the knee and thanked the old gods," Howland countered mildly. "As you did."
The mountain clansman's face furrowed, but he didn't deny it. The memory of that obsidian dragon, wreathed in violet flames, hung between them all like smoke in still air.
"How long have you known?" Davos asked, his voice careful as a man stepping on muddy ice.
"Since before he knew himself." Howland's gaze shifted to the empty lord's chair, where once Ned Stark had sat. "Some secrets run in the blood. Others... others are written in the snow itself, for those who know how to read."
Hugo shook his shaggy head. "Not bloody likely. Dragon magic... in my day, such tales were meant for children and fools."
"Those days are gone," Jon replied simply.
Tormund clapped a massive hand on Hugo's shoulder, nearly staggering the mountain clansman. "Told you the crow had claws! Saw him burn a hundred dead men at Hardhome. Made my cock stand hard as a spear, it did!"
"The North is ours again," Jon said.
"The North is yours," Hugo corrected. "After what those men saw today... seven hells, boy, they'll follow you into the shadow lands themselves."
Jon shook his head. "The North belongs to Rickon Stark. I am merely his regent until he comes of age."
"A regent who turns into a bloody dragon," Galbart snorted, having returned from dispatching the messengers. "That's not something you see every day south of the Wall."
"No," Jon agreed quietly. "It's not."
The revelation of his abilities would spread quickly now. Thousands had witnessed his transformation, and tales would grow with each telling. By the time Sansa arrived with the Knights of the Vale, all would know of the dragon who had reclaimed Winterfell.
"The men are asking questions," Davos said carefully. "About what you are. What this means."
Jon moved to the high table where his father had once sat, running his fingers along the scarred wood. "Tell them nothing has changed as we still have a greater war to fight."
"But they ask… if you are still a man?" Davos asked bluntly.
Jon met the Onion Knight's gaze. "I am still Jon Snow. I still fight for the living against what comes from beyond the Wall. That's all they need to know for now."
Davos nodded slowly, accepting this. "The prisoners await your judgment with more than three thousand surrendered once they saw... what happened."
"Feed them and treat their wounded," Jon ordered. "Those who'll swear allegiance to House Stark may do so. The rest can take the black."
The men turned to leave, but Jon called out before they reached the door. "Lord Galbart."
Galbart paused. "My lord?"
"Keep a check on all the ravens flying from Winterfell. I do not want word to leave about the recent… changes in the North."
"As you wish."
Left alone in the hall, Jon found himself drawn to the lord's chair, where Ned Stark had dispensed justice for nearly two decades. He approached it slowly, his fingertips tracing the worn wood of its arms. How many times had he watched Lord Stark—the man he'd believed was his father—sit here, listening to petitions, settling disputes, passing judgment?
He did not sit. That chair belonged to Rickon now. Instead, Jon moved to one of the great hearths, kneeling to light the fire himself. As the flames caught and spread, he felt an answering warmth within his chest, the dragon's fire responding to its mundane cousin.
Ghost padded silently into the hall, red eyes gleaming in the firelight. The direwolf approached without hesitation, pressing his massive head against Jon's hand. The familiar touch anchored Jon, drawing him back from the edge of his darker thoughts.
"We're home, boy," he whispered, kneeling to embrace the white wolf. "What's left of it, anyway."
Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of his army securing the castle—orders being shouted, horses whinnying, men calling to one another across the yard. Life returning to Winterfell's ancient stones.
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The godswood stretched before Jon, ancient and untouched by the chaos that had consumed Winterfell's halls. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he walked the familiar path, each step carrying him deeper into memories.
The heart tree waited at the grove's center, its bone-white trunk stark against the gathering dusk. Red sap wept from the carved face, frozen into bloody tears that had run for centuries. Jon approached slowly, his breath misting in the cold air. The face seemed to watch him—those deep-set eyes that had seen Brandon the Builder, witnessed the Kings of Winter, observed his father's prayers.
And my mother's, he thought, the knowledge still raw as a fresh wound.
Jon knelt in the snow before the weirwood, placing his palm against the rough bark. The wood felt warm beneath his fingers, pulsing with a life that defied winter's grip. He closed his eyes, seeking the peace that had always eluded him in septs but sometimes found him here, among the old gods.
"Show me a way," he whispered to the tree. "Show me a way to win this hopeless war."
The moment his skin touched the bark, the world lurched sideways. Colors bled together like wet paint, the godswood dissolving into streams of light. Jon tried to pull back, but his hand remained fixed to the tree as if the roots themselves had grown through his flesh. The ground beneath him vanished, and he fell—
—into darkness that wasn't dark, silence that hummed with possibility.
"Jon?"
He knew that voice. Jon spun in the void, searching for its source. "Bran?"
His brother materialized from the shadows but this wasn't the boy Jon remembered. Bran sat cross-legged in the emptiness, his eyes milk-white and ancient, though his face remained young. Roots grew through his clothing, pale as bone, weaving in and out of his flesh without seeming to cause pain.
"Thank the gods you're still alive." Jon breathed, moving toward him.
"As alive as one can be, this far from the world." Bran's voice carried an odd flatness, emotion dampened like a fire banked with ash. "It's good to see you, Jon. Even if seeing isn't quite the right word anymore."
Jon dropped to his knees before him, reaching out to touch him, then hesitating. "Are you well? Are you safe?"
"Safe enough. The grove protects us from the dead, though they press closer each day." A ghost of the old Bran flickered across his features—a child's worry quickly suppressed. "Hodor keeps me warm. Meera keeps me fed. The Children keep me learning."
"I should come for you. I can fly now, I can—"
"No." The word cut through Jon's protests with unexpected sharpness. "I must remain here. This is my place now, my purpose. Just as you have yours."
Jon's hands clenched into fists. "Your purpose? You're a child, Bran. You should be home, safe behind Winterfell's walls."
"I haven't been a child since I fell from that tower." Bran tilted his head, studying Jon with those terrible white eyes. "You want to know about the three-eyed raven."
It wasn't a question. Jon nodded slowly.
"His name is Brynden Rivers." Bran's lips curved in something that might have been amusement. "Your very great-uncle, actually. Bloodraven, they called him once. Bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy, Hand of the King, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He's been waiting in that cave for nearly fifty years, preparing."
Jon's mind reeled. "That's impossible. He'd be—"
"One hundred and twenty-five years old, give or take." Bran shrugged, the gesture disturbingly casual. "The trees sustain him. The magic sustains him. Though sustain might be too generous a word. He's more root than man now, dreaming of spring while his body rots."
"Gods." Jon rubbed his face, trying to process this impossibility. "And you're becoming like him?"
"Becoming something, certainly. Whether it's like him remains to be seen." Bran's expression grew distant. "He's teaching me to see—truly see. Past, present, future, all tangled together like roots beneath the earth. It's beautiful and terrible and I'm not strong enough yet to look away."
Jon reached out, gripping Bran's shoulder. The boy felt solid enough, though cold as winter stone. "Let me help you. The Others, the ice dragons—I could distract them, draw them away while—"
"You don't understand." Bran's hand covered Jon's, his touch gentle but firm. "The Night King knows exactly where we are. He stands at the edge of our protections every night, waiting. If I tried to hide our location from his sight, if I attempted to cloud his vision while at the very heart of his power..." Bran shuddered. "It would be like opening a door. He'd walk right through me, into the grove, and everyone would die."
"Then how do we stop him? How do we keep him from growing stronger?"
Bran's white eyes seemed to pierce through Jon. "You already know the answer. You felt it at Hardhome."
"The deaths," Jon whispered. "All those who died—"
"Fed him. Just as R'hllor feeds on those burned in his name." Bran's voice took on a teaching cadence, eerily reminiscent of Maester Luwin. "The red priests think they honor their god with sacrifice, but they're really feeding him. Souls, life force, whatever you want to call it. The Great Other works the same way, only he prefers his sacrifices cold and willing."
"Willing?"
"What do you think the Others are, Jon? What do you think wights become?" Bran leaned forward. "Every death beyond the Wall, every soul claimed by winter—they all feed him. And now, with magic returning to the world, he grows fat on the feast."
"Magic is returning…" Jon said in incredulous acceptance.
"Can't you feel it?" Bran gestured at Jon's chest. "The dragon fire burning in your veins? That's not natural, Jon. None of this is. The dragons returning, the Others stirring, even my abilities—we're all symptoms of the same disease. Or cure, depending on your perspective."
"And we're growing stronger too?"
"Every day. You most of all." Something like pride flickered across Bran's features. "I watched you take Winterfell. Thank you for that. For doing it the way you did."
Jon looked away, uncomfortable with the gratitude. "I turned into a monster in front of thousands."
"You showed them the truth. That's what they needed—not another king or lord, but proof that the old stories are real. That winter truly is coming." Bran squeezed Jon's hand. "Father would be proud."
The mention of Ned Stark sent a spike of pain through Jon's chest. "Would he? The son of the man who he fought against. I'm everything he stood against."
"You're everything he protected." Bran's voice grew firm. "But we don't have time for your self-pity. Listen carefully. The realm bleeds while you secure the North. The Riverlands burn under Lannister and Frey boots. Cersei has lost her mind—she burned hundreds alive in the Sept of Baelor, lords and smallfolk alike. The Faith militant rises in response."
Jon's eyes widened. "Cersei did what?"
"That's not even the worst of it. A young man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen—your half-brother—has landed in the Stormlands with the Golden Company."
"That's impossible. Aegon died during the sack of King's Landing."
"He did." Bran shrugged. "But does it matter if he's real or not if people believe him?"
Jon's head spun with the implications. Another claimant to the throne. "And the Dragon Queen? My… aunt."
"Daenerys Targaryen finished her wars in Essos. She's sailing for Westeros with two dragons, tens of thousands of Dothraki, Unsullied, and sellswords." Bran replies with a sigh.
"More war." The weariness already creeping but Jon straightens his back and asks, "Where's Arya?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, the question burning through him like wildfire.
Bran's pale eyes didn't blink. "Braavos."
His little sister across the Narrow Sea while Westeros tore itself apart. "Braavos," he repeated, tasting the foreign name. "She's safe then. Away from all this madness."
"Safe is relative." Bran's fingers traced patterns on the weirwood armrest. "But yes, she's beyond the reach of Freys and Lannisters."
Relief flooded through Jon's chest, loosening knots he hadn't realized were there. The scent of pine resin and old stone filled his nostrils as he drew a deep breath. "I'll go to her. Fly across the Narrow Sea and bring her home."
"Will you?" Bran's voice held neither approval nor condemnation.
"She's our sister." Jon's hand clenched involuntarily, feeling phantom scales beneath his skin. "I can reach her in days, maybe less if the winds favor me."
Bran's expression grew grave. "But she's not your greatest concern right now."
"The Others—"
"No. Euron Greyjoy."
Jon frowned. "The Crow's Eye? He's just another ironborn reaver."
"He's so much more than that." Bran's voice dropped to a whisper. "He serves something ancient and terrible, something that should have died with Valyria. Only Euron being Euron, he's trying to twist that service to his own ends. He thinks he can become a god himself if he sacrifices enough people, if he speaks the right words, if he claims the right artifacts."
"You're saying he's more dangerous than the Others?"
"I'm saying he's chaos incarnate, and chaos might be exactly what destroys us all before the dead even reach the Wall." Bran released Jon's hand. "You need to unite the South, Jon. Not as regent, not as a bastard, but as their king."
Jon jerked back. "King… of these back stabbing southerners."
"The more they kill themselves, the more powerful the Night King will be when he crosses the wall" Bran paused. "They need to be tamed Jon."
"I can unite them witho—"
"Why haven't you visited the crypts yet?"
The sudden change of subject left Jon speechless. Bran watched him with those unnerving white eyes, patient as stone.
"I..." Jon swallowed hard. "I'm not ready."
"To face her? Your mother?"
The word 'mother' from Bran's lips made it real in a way Howland Reed's revelation hadn't. Lyanna Stark was his mother. The woman whose statue had stood in the crypts his entire life, beautiful and tragic and forever young.
"She left something for you," Bran said gently. "In her tomb. Something that might help you understand."
"Understand what?"
"That Targaryens have been known to take two wives. That love and duty don't have to be enemies. That sometimes the dragon must wake to save the realm."
Before Jon could respond, the void began to fracture. Cracks of light spread like breaking ice, and Bran's form grew distant.
"Wait!" Jon reached for him. "How do I find you again?"
"You don't. I'll find you when it's time." Bran's voice echoed as if from a great distance. "Remember, Jon—you're not just ice or fire. You're the balance between them. The song itself."
The world shattered into brilliant fragments. Jon gasped, his hand pulling free from the weirwood's bark as he fell backward into the snow. Above him, the face in the heart tree wept its eternal bloody tears, and the first stars emerged in the darkening sky.
He lay there for a long moment, breathing hard, feeling the cold seep through his clothes. The dragon fire in his chest pulsed with each heartbeat, neither ice nor flame but something between.
The crypts, he thought. She's waiting in the crypts.
But not tonight. Tonight, he had a castle to secure, a sister to await, and a North to unite. The crypts and their secrets would keep a little longer.
Jon pushed himself to his feet, brushing snow from his clothes. As he turned to leave the godswood, he could have sworn he heard wolves howling in the distance—or perhaps it was only the wind.