A/N: As always, if you enjoyed the chapter, please give it like and maybe comment what you liked and didn't like. I am always trying to improve! :)
Enjoy my writing? Support me on Patreon [https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon] and get early access to 10 chapters for each of my stories!
----------------------------------------
Year 300 AC
Winterfell, The North
The courtyard stretched before Jon, torches casting long shadows across the packed snow. Free Folk huddled around braziers, their breath misting in the frigid air. A group of Vale knights stood near the stables, armor gleaming despite the late hour. They all looked at him differently now—the dragon lord who'd taken Winterfell with fire and fury.
His boots crunched through fresh snow as he crossed toward the family quarters. The Great Keep loomed above, its windows glowing amber with firelight. Home. But not his home. Never truly his.
The door to his chamber stood slightly ajar, candlelight spilling into the hallway. Jon pushed it open, already unbuckling his sword belt. Someone lay beneath the furs on his bed, a feminine shape barely visible in the dim light.
"You awake?" Jon asked, setting Longclaw against the wall. His fingers worked at the clasps of his cloak, the heavy wool sliding from his shoulders.
The furs shifted. Val's blonde hair emerged first, then her face, eyes bright with mischief despite the late hour.
"If your clothes are still on, then I'm asleep."
Heat crept up Jon's neck. He turned away, pulling his tunic over his head, the cold air raising goosebumps along his skin. The bed creaked as he sat on its edge, still wearing his breeches. Val's hand found his chest, fingers tracing the old scars there.
"We need to talk."
Val's hand stilled. The playfulness drained from her voice. "Is this about Ygritte?"
Jon twisted to look at her, genuinely startled. "What? No. Why would you—"
"Because you get that look sometimes. Like you're seeing ghosts." Val pulled the furs up to her chin, studying him with those pale eyes that missed nothing. "And we haven't talked about her. Not really. I know you cared for her."
The name sat between them, heavy with memory. Jon could still smell the cave, feel the heat of the hot spring, hear Ygritte's voice telling him he knew nothing.
"Why bring her up now?"
Val was quiet for a long moment, just watching him. The candle flame danced, throwing shadows across her face.
"Sometimes it's hard to know what you're thinking. All that brooding you do." She shifted closer, the furs falling to reveal her bare shoulder. "I mentioned her because we haven't dealt with it. Can't build something new on top of old ghosts."
"We never truly talked about Jarl either."
Val's expression softened. "No, we didn't."
"He was your man."
"Aye. He was brave. Stupid brave, the kind that gets you killed trying to climb the Wall." Her voice carried fondness rather than grief. "Died doing what he wanted, trying to prove himself. I mourned him. Still do, in a way."
Jon thought of Ygritte's arrows, the way she'd smiled even as blood bubbled from her lips. "She died in my arms. During the battle at Castle Black. Said we should have stayed in that cave."
"Would you have? Stayed?"
"No." The admission came easier than expected. "My duty was here. Always was. She knew that."
"They're part of us," Val said, her hand finding his again. "Always will be. But life goes on, Jon Snow. The dead don't get to claim the living."
Jon stared at their intertwined fingers, his skin still unnaturally warm from the dragon fire that lived within him now. Tomorrow he would stand before the northern lords. Tomorrow everything would change.
"What did you actually want to talk about?"
The weight of it crashed back over him. He pulled his hand away, standing to pace the small chamber. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet.
"Jon." Val's voice carried a warning. "You're brooding again."
He stopped at the window, looking out at the snow-covered battlements. "Tomorrow everything changes."
"Changes how?" Confusion colored her words now. She sat up fully, the furs pooling around her waist. "What are you on about?"
"I'm going to tell them. About my heritage. My real heritage."
"Good." The response came quick and firm. "Living a lie eats at a man. Better to have the truth out—"
"You don't understand what that means." Jon turned from the window, and something in his expression made Val go still. "I'm not Ned Stark's bastard. I'm Rhaegar Targaryen's son. His legitimate son. The heir to the Iron Throne."
Val blinked once, twice. Processing.
"When I reveal that, everything changes. I'll have to leave the North. Go south. Play their games, fight their wars. Make decisions that will turn half the realm against me." He moved back to the bed, sitting heavily. "And you... you'll become a target. The wildling woman warming the dragon prince's bed. Every southern lord with ambition will see you as a weakness to exploit or a rival to eliminate."
The room fell silent except for the wind rattling the shutters.
"I'll understand," Jon continued, voice rough. "If you want to leave. Go back to the Wall, or to one of the settlements we're establishing. You don't have to—"
Val's kiss cut him off, fierce and sudden. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. When she finally pulled back, her eyes blazed with something between anger and amusement.
"You already stole me, Jon Snow. Or Aemon Targaryen. Or whatever name you want to wear." Her forehead pressed against his. "There's no going back from that. Not for the free folk."
"Val—"
"No." She kissed him again, softer this time. "You think I care what southern lords think? You think their politics and schemes mean anything to someone who's survived beyond the Wall? I chose you. Dragon and all."
Jon's hands found her waist, pulling her against him. The heat within him flared, and Val gasped at the warmth radiating from his skin.
"This is what you are now," she whispered against his mouth. "Wolf and dragon. And mine."
Tomorrow would bring revelations and chaos. Lords would scheme and plot. The realm would learn that dragons had returned in more ways than one.
But tonight, in this room that had never been his but felt more like home than anywhere else, Jon Snow let himself be claimed. Let himself claim in return.
The candle guttered and died, leaving only darkness and heat and the sound of the wind howling beyond the walls. Outside, snow began to fall again, covering the courtyard in fresh white.
----------------------------------------
The morning sun cast long shadows across Winterfell's great hall as Jon sat at the high table, sawing through a thick slice of black bread topped with melted cheese and crispy bacon. Ghost lay beside him, gnawing on the haunch of a deer he'd dragged in at dawn, the wet sounds of tearing meat filling the silence.
Jon had managed exactly two bites when he noticed it—the absolute stillness between Val and Sansa, seated on either side of him. Neither woman ate. Neither spoke. They just... watched each other.
Val tore off a piece of bread with her fingers, never breaking eye contact with Sansa. His sister delicately cut her bacon with knife and fork, each movement precise as a septa's needlework lesson but the scrape of metal on wood seemed unnaturally loud.
"What was life like beyond the Wall?" Sansa asked suddenly, setting down her knife. The question hung in the air like morning frost.
Val's hand paused halfway to her mouth, bread forgotten. She studied Sansa's face, searching for mockery or condescension, but found only genuine curiosity in those Tully-blue eyes.
"Cold," Val said after a moment. "Colder than any southron can imagine. We'd wake with frost in our lungs, ice crystals forming on our eyelashes." She tore the bread slowly, remembering. "My first winter, I watched three children freeze to death in their sleep. Their mother held them till morning, wouldn't let us take the bodies. Said if she held them long enough, they'd warm again."
Sansa's throat worked as she swallowed. Jon noticed her fingers had gone still on the table.
"The summers weren't much kinder," Val continued, her voice taking on the rhythms of memory. "Short growing season meant we fought over every scrap of game, every patch of berries. I killed my first man at twelve summers—caught him stealing from our food stores. Opened his throat while he begged." She met Sansa's gaze directly. "That's what your noble songs don't tell you. Honor's a luxury when your belly's been empty for a moon's turn."
"You survived it all," Sansa said quietly. "That takes strength."
Val's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Aye, I survived. But you'll need that same tough hide down south, princess. The games you highborn play..." She glanced meaningfully at Sansa's silk dress, the delicate embroidery at the sleeves. "Well, least we wildlings can see the knife coming. Can't hide much steel under all that pretty cloth."
Jon tensed, but Sansa's expression remained composed, almost serene. "You're right that we can't hide weapons in our dresses," she said, voice soft as fresh snow. "But it's not those kinds of attacks you'll need to worry about. The ladies of court wage different wars—with whispers that destroy reputations, with smiles that hide poison, with marriages that are death sentences." Her fingers traced the rim of her cup. "You'll need to learn their battlefield as surely as I learned to survive Cersei's court."
Val regarded her for a long moment, something shifting in her grey eyes.
"If you need help navigating it," Sansa added, "you need only ask."
Val gave a small nod, the gesture carrying more weight than words. Ghost lifted his head from Val's lap, ears pricking forward as if sensing the subtle alliance forming.
"Speaking of southron games," Val said, turning to Jon, "what of the Baratheon girl? The one with greyscale?"
Jon's jaw tightened. He knew Val's stance on the grey plague—wildlings burned anyone who showed signs of it, fearing its spread. "Shireen is—"
"Don't tell me it's stopped, Jon Snow. It sleeps, nothing more." Val's voice carried the certainty of someone who'd seen plague sweep through camps. "You need to find a solution. Fast."
The words sparked something in Jon's mind, a connection forming between disparate thoughts. Greyscale was ancient, as old as Valyria itself. And what was he now but a creature of old Valyria, transformed by dragon fire and blood? He would know the answer.
"Jon?" Sansa's voice pulled him back. "What about Shireen? Who is she?"
"Stannis's daughter," Jon said slowly, still working through the implications. "She survived greyscale as an infant, but it left half her face..." He gestured vaguely at his cheek. "The disease stopped spreading, left her scarred but alive."
"Stopped," Val repeated flatly. "Like a wolf that stops hunting. Doesn't mean it won't start again when it gets hungry enough."
Sansa's brow furrowed. "You think it could return?"
"I've seen it happen," Val said. "A boy in our camp had the grey marks on his arm for three years, never spread an inch. Then one harsh winter, when we were all weak from hunger, it woke. Took his whole arm in a fortnight, his chest in another. We had to—" She stopped, but the ending was clear.
"With your... abilities," Val said carefully, glancing at Jon, "maybe you know a cure the rest of us don't."
Jon shook his head, though the thought continued to gnaw at him. "I don't. But..." He hesitated. "I might know someone who does."
The great hall's doors burst open with a bang that echoed off the stone walls. A soldier stumbled in, snow still clinging to his cloak, chest heaving from exertion.
"My lord," he gasped, dropping to one knee. "The Manderly banners have been spotted. Lord Wyman's wheelhouse is less than an hour away."
Jon's heart clenched. Rickon. His baby brother was finally coming home.
----------------------------------------
Jon stood in the courtyard, snow crunching beneath his boots as he watched the Manderly wheelhouse lumber through Winterfell's gates. The massive conveyance groaned under Lord Wyman's weight, its wheels carving deep ruts in the frozen mud. Behind it rode a small escort of Manderly men-at-arms, their merman sigils stark against wool cloaks crusted with ice.
Ghost shot past him like a white arrow, nearly knocking a guard sideways in his haste. A heartbeat later, a black blur erupted from behind the wheelhouse—Shaggydog, wild and massive, his fur matted with burrs and dried blood. The two direwolves collided in the middle of the courtyard, rolling through the snow in a tangle of teeth and fur that looked vicious until Jon heard the playful growls, saw tails wagging as they nipped at each other's ears.
Brothers, Jon thought, his chest tightening. They remember.
Movement near the wheelhouse caught his eye. A small figure dropped from behind the guards' horses and barefoot despite the snow, wearing what looked like three different cloaks layered atop each other. Wild auburn hair stuck out in every direction.
"Father!" The boy's voice carried across the courtyard, high and clear. "Father, you came back!"
Jon's breath caught. The child was running straight toward him, arms outstretched, and for one impossible moment Jon saw Robb, that determined set of jaw.
"That's not your father, boy." A woman's rough voice cut through the air. Osha emerged from behind the wheelhouse, her spear planted in the ground as she leaned on it. "That's your brother Jon."
Rickon skidded to a stop three feet away, his bare feet steaming in the snow. Those blue eyes studied Jon's face with an intensity that belonged on someone thrice his age. The boy had grown wild, Jon realized. Feral, almost.
"Jon?" Rickon's voice dropped to barely a whisper. He took a tentative step forward, then another, until he stood close enough that Jon could smell the woodsmoke and pine needles clinging to those layered cloaks.
Jon dropped to one knee, bringing himself to the boy's eye level. "Aye, Rickon. It's me. Your brother."
The child launched himself forward with such force that if Jon had been someone else, catching him meant toppling backward. Thin arms wrapped around his neck in a grip that spoke of desperation, of nightmares about being left behind. Rickon's whole body shook—not from cold, Jon realized, but from sobs he was trying to swallow.
"Don't leave," Rickon whispered into Jon's ear, the words muffled against his shoulder. "Don't leave like everyone else. Mother left. Father left. Robb left. Bran left. Sansa left. Even Arya left. Please don't leave."
Jon's arms tightened around the trembling boy. "You will not be alone. Never again. The pack stays together now."
Even if I have to burn the whole world to keep that promise, he thought, feeling the dragon fire pulse beneath his skin.
Still holding Rickon, Jon turned toward where Sansa stood frozen on the steps, her hand pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face. "There's someone else who's been waiting for you," he whispered to Rickon. "Your sister Sansa. Do you want to meet her?"
Rickon pulled back just enough to peer over Jon's shoulder, his grip never loosening. "The pretty one who liked songs?"
"Aye, that one."
"Osha has to come too." Rickon's voice turned fierce, protective. "She stays with me. Always."
"Of course." Jon stood, lifting Rickon with him, the boy weighed nothing, all sharp bones and wild energy. He carried him to Sansa, who descended the steps with trembling legs.
When Jon transferred Rickon to Sansa's arms, the boy stared at her face with wonder. "You look like Mother," he said, reaching up to touch a strand of her auburn hair. "But sadder."
Sansa's laugh came out half-sob as she clutched him close. "Oh, sweetling. My brave little wolf."
Jon turned away to give them privacy, his gaze finding Osha. The wildling woman stood apart from everyone, her knuckles white around her spear shaft, eyes darting between the armed men like a wolf calculating escape routes. When their eyes met, she flinched.
"You kept him alive," Jon said, crossing to her. "When everyone else would have used him or sold him or worse. You protected my brother."
Osha's jaw worked. "Was the right thing. He was just a babe when we left. Didn't ask for none of this."
"You're under my protection now. House Stark's protection. Winterfell is your home for as long as you want it."
"Don't want your castle." Her voice cracked slightly. "Just... don't take me from the boy. He needs me. Still wakes screaming some nights, calling for his mother. I'm all he's got."
"You can stay with Rickon. That's not a request—it's a promise."
She nodded once, sharp and quick, but Jon caught the relief that flashed across her weathered face.
The wheelhouse groaned as Lord Wyman Manderly emerged, requiring three men to help lower his massive bulk to the ground. His granddaughter Wylla followed, a pretty girl with the Manderly sea-green eyes who kept glancing at the direwolves with barely concealed delight.
"Lord Commander Snow!" Wyman's voice boomed across the courtyard. "Or should I say, Lord Snow now? The Warden of the North, perhaps?" The fat lord's eyes twinkled with mischief. "My congratulations on your decisive victory against those Bolton turds. And Princess Sansa, returned to her rightful home! The North remembers, as I always say."
Wyman's gaze swept the courtyard, taking in the Vale knights mixed with wildlings and northmen. "Though I confess, the presence of our friends from the Vale is... unexpected. As are some of the more colorful tales my men have been hearing. Something about a dragon?" He chuckled, his chins wobbling. "The smallfolk do love their stories. Next they'll be saying you can breathe fire and fly!"
Jon's lips twitched into a small smile. "Lord Manderly, my thanks for bringing my brother home safely. House Manderly's loyalty to House Stark will not be forgotten, nor will it go unrewarded."
"Bah, we need no reward for doing what's right."
"Nevertheless, you have my gratitude. Please, take some rest. We will have a grand meeting soon enough." Jon's smile turned enigmatic. "Some of your questions will be answered then. Perhaps you'll find the smallfolk's stories aren't always as fanciful as they seem."
Wyman's eyes sharpened at that, but before he could respond, Rickon's voice rang out from Sansa's arms as Sansa gave Jon a smug look.
"Jon can turn into a dragon!?" The boy squirmed to look at Jon. "I want to see!"
The courtyard went utterly still. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Jon met Wyman's suddenly pale face and shrugged. "Children and their imagination, eh? Come, my lord. Let us get you inside where it's warm. We have much to discuss."
----------------------------------------
Jon sat between Rickon and Sansa at the high table, watching the great hall fill with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread. His honeyed chicken grew cold on his trencher, the sweet glaze congealing as he took only small sips of wine. Rickon tore into his food with both hands, grease running down his chin while Shaggydog gnawed a bone beneath the table. The boy's wild energy made Jon's stillness more pronounced.
The hall buzzed with conversation—northern accents mixing with the refined tones of Vale knights, the rough speech of Free Folk blending with Stannis's men's clipped military precision. Jon's eyes tracked every significant face. Davos Seaworth sat with Wylis Manderly, their heads bent together in quiet discussion. The onion knight's weathered fingers drummed against the table as Wylis whispered something that made him frown.
Wyman Manderly occupied an entire bench with his massive frame. Those small, shrewd eyes never left Jon, studying him like a merchant evaluating goods of uncertain provenance. Hugo Wull's scarred face bore the same calculating expression, though he hid it better behind his wild beard. The Glover brothers exchanged meaningful glances across their table, while Justin Massey leaned back in his chair with studied casualness that fooled no one.
Mors "Crowfood" Umber gnawed meat straight off the bone, but his one good eye remained fixed on Jon with an intensity that had nothing to do with hunger. Bronze Yohn Royce sat rigid among his Vale lords, his bronze armor catching the firelight as he dissected Jon with his gaze.
They all wore the same expression beneath their various masks—men trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.
"You're not eating," Sansa murmured beside him.
"Neither are you." Jon noticed her venison remained largely untouched.
"I keep thinking about..." She glanced at Rickon, who was too absorbed in his meal to listen. "I am with you, whatever you decide."
Jon's hand tightened on his cup. "Thank you, Sansa."
Val sat at a lower table with the Free Folk, her white-blonde hair catching the light. She caught his eye and raised her cup slightly, a gesture of support that warmed him more than the wine.
Jon waited. Hungry men made poor listeners and worse allies. Let them fill their bellies first. The servants brought course after course: roasted boar glazed with honey and cloves, pike from White Harbor's waters, blood sausages that the mountain clansmen devoured with enthusiasm. The wine flowed freely—good Arbor gold that Wyman had somehow procured, strong northern ale that loosened tongues.
Gradually, the initial hunger gave way to satisfaction. The desperate edge left men's movements. Conversations grew louder, laughter more genuine. Rickon's head began to droop against Jon's shoulder, his belly finally full.
Jon stood.
The effect was immediate. Laughter died mid-breath. Conversations ceased between words. Every eye turned to him as if pulled by invisible threads. He hadn't spoken, hadn't commanded attention—yet the hall fell silent as surely as if he'd roared.
His hand found Longclaw's pommel, not as threat but as anchor. The weight of the Valyrian steel steadied him as he stepped down to the tables.
"The flayed man burns," Jon said, his voice carrying to every corner. "The kraken drowns. Winter has come for our enemies."
A rumble of approval from the northmen. The Free Folk stamped their feet—their way of showing agreement.
"We feast tonight in a hall that has seen too much blood. But it is our hall again." Jon lifted his cup. "To those who fell taking it back over the years. To every man who bled so we could stand here."
They drank. Even the Vale lords, who'd arrived after the battle, raised their cups.
"Winterfell belongs to the Starks once more." Jon set down his cup and looked at Rickon, drowsing against his side. "Lord Rickon Stark sits in his father's seat, with Lady Sansa and myself as his regents until he comes of age. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell—now there are two."
Rickon stirred at his name but didn't wake. Several northern lords nodded approval. The Stark restoration was what they'd fought for.
Jon turned to the Vale contingent. "Lord Royce, Ser Morton, Lady Waynwood—the North owes you a debt I hope to repay. When my sister fled King's Landing, when she had nowhere else to turn, you sheltered her even if you did ignore Robb's request. Nonetheless, even with Baelish's deception and murmurs, my sister was kept safe." His voice caught slightly. "The North remembers its debts, and I promise you I will give you justice you seek for what Baelish did the Vale—poisoning House Arryn."
Bronze Yohn's expression shifted, surprise flickering across his weathered features. He hadn't expected acknowledgment, much less gratitude framed as obligation.
Jon let his voice drop, forcing them to lean forward. "But there is something you all have to know."
The tension snapped taut as a bowstring. Hands drifted toward weapons. Val's eyes sharpened.
Jon's grey eyes swept the hall. "About time. About how much we have left."
He paused, letting uncertainty gnaw at them.
"The Wall will fall within the year." His words fell like stones into still water. "Perhaps sooner."
Protests erupted. Ser Morton shot to his feet. "Impossible! The Wall has stood for eight thousand—"
"The Wall's magic dies with each sunrise." Jon's voice cut through the chaos without rising. "I have seen it. Felt it. The Night's Watch knows it, though they dare not speak it aloud. Ask Edd Tollett when next you see him. Ask any ranger who's ventured beyond."
Hugo Wull leaned forward. "You're saying the Wall, the bloody Wall, is just going to... crumble?"
"I am saying its purpose—keeping the dead at bay—already fails. They mass beyond it in numbers that mock our comprehension." Jon's hand tightened on Longclaw. "For every living soul in this room, thousands of dead wait beyond the Wall. Perhaps more."
The silence stretched until Robett Glover broke it. "Even if this is true, the North has fought the Others before. We'll fight them again."
"The North alone?" Jon shook his head. "The North that just bled itself in civil war? The North whose granaries burned in Bolton raids? We need the Seven Kingdoms united, or we are corpses walking."
"Will you burn them into submission with your... gift?" Galbart Glover's question carried a challenge.
Jon met his gaze steadily. "Eddard Stark did not raise me to rule through fear. We need the Reach's grain to feed our armies. Dorne's spears to hold the line. The Westerlands' gold to buy supplies. The Stormlands' knights, the Riverlands' arrows, even the Iron Islands' ships. Every sword, every spear, every man who can hold a weapon."
"Summer swords," Mors Umber growled. "But why would southern lords give two shits about northern problems? They think us savages already."
"Because the enemy has dragons too."
The words landed like a thunderclap. Several lords stood. Others remained frozen.
"Dragons of ice," Jon continued. "I have fought one." He touched his shoulder where the armor had been torn. "Yes, I can take the shape of fire. But for every advantage we gain, the enemy matches it."
"How?" Wyman Manderly's voice carried perfectly despite his seated position. "How could a bastard wolf make the south kneel without dragons? What name could Jon Snow claim that would make Oldtown listen? That would make Dorne march?" His eyes glittered with knowing mischief. "Jon Snow means nothing south of the Neck."
Jon's gaze found Howland Reed, seated quietly among the crannogmen. The small man gave an almost imperceptible nod. Jon looked to Val, whose fierce eyes urged him forward. Finally, to Sansa, who sat straight-backed, already knowing what was coming.
"Perhaps," Jon said slowly, "with a different name than Snow."
"What name?" Wylis Manderly prompted, though his expression suggested he already knew.
Jon drew a breath that seemed to pull the warmth from the hearth-fires.
"My bastard name should not be Jon Snow." Each word fell with terrible clarity. "But Jon Sand."
Confusion rippled through the hall. Sand was the bastard name of Dorne, not the North.
"For I was born in Dorne. At a tower you've heard sung about. A tower where seven faced three, and only two rode away."
Understanding dawned on some faces. Davos gripped the table edge. Bronze Yohn's eyes widened. Wyman Manderly nodded slowly, a satisfied smile playing at his lips.
"The Tower of Joy," Jon continued, his voice steady but soft, "where Lyanna Stark died giving birth."
The hall held its breath.
"To me. Aemon Targaryen. Trueborn son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Lyanna Stark."