Chapter 1: In the Heart of Winter. (Tormund)
Summary:
Tormund, leader of the free folk, endures harsh winter. A wight attack forces a tough choice: seek refuge south of the Wall, among his lifelong enemies, for the survival of his people and Westeros.
Chapter Text
Winter was here, falling upon him and his companions in misfortune alike, forcing them to move hunched over, expecting to resist its biting assaults that struck them head-on, bringing in their wake icy gusts that seemed intent on putting Tormund and his people in the worst possible state.
The wildling fought his best to counter this wave of cold that governed this entire northern region of the world. It was no easy task to accomplish, especially since visibility was considerably reduced due to the swirling white powder that seemed to make the snowflakes dance all around him.
Even the unfortunate souls escorting him were no better off, despite the furs that adorned everyone.
Wildling though Tormund might be, he was supposed to have been long accustomed to the harsh conditions found only north of the continent of Westeros. Right?
Har! By the Old Gods, he could even affirm that he had lived through many winter seasons during this long life rich in adventures.
And yet, the Winter currently striking along the Wall seemed to surpass anything he had known since he was a young red-haired lad with eyes as blue as those of that tall warrior woman from the south whom he never thought he would see again.
Memories assailed him then, without him being able to prevent the flood from pouring into his mind. And as he trudged on, flashes occurred inside his head.
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The first time he discovered how deadly cold could be to a man, like a dagger to the heart, Tormund must have been what? Five years old, six years old? A little less? A little more?
Har! It didn't matter in the end. He was a scrawny little kid, no thicker than a twig, as Tormund himself could attest. Far from the impressive fellow he had become since then. Right?
Anyway, at that time, Winter reigned. Oh, it was nothing like the one found on the other side of the Wall where those Southerners got excited at the first snowflake falling from the sky.
No, here, it was the true Winter officiating. The one that came with an air so fresh and icy that it bit your skin with uncommon vigor, no matter how many thick layers of fur one might wear to counter this threat of nature.
To put it mildly, Tormund had the constant sensation that an invisible force was striving to lash at the little exposed skin he had and slowly gnaw at his insides.
It was then, during a night with conditions as hellish as the previous ones and those that would follow, that Tormund stumbled upon the body of his baby brother who had just been born less than a moon ago. The small figure lay there, against the equally cold corpse of their mother, to whom he owed the color of his hair.
At first, Tormund hadn't immediately understood what exactly was going on. So, the little boy had touched them both hoping to wake them up.
Har! Both were colder than ice. Both by the low temperature of their remains and by the hardness of their pale skin.
The wildling remembered very well the burning sensation that brief contact had caused on his fingertips. And now that he thought about it, Tormund even found himself quite foolish for having insisted so much back then, calling out to his mother and his baby brother, who didn't even have a name yet.
But by the Old Gods, Tormund remembered that damned voice emanating from the kid who lay there, with no color tinting his features. A voice that carried for leagues around as soon as he demanded his milk.
Oh yes, he had to admit he had that oral capacity, Tormund conceded to himself.
Whatever his little brother's voice might have been, the scene that presented itself to his child's eyes was extraordinarily clear even today.
It was obvious that the two people present were fast asleep and were playing some kind of trick on him by remaining that way, deaf to his pleas.
His father, who soon followed him into that tent made of reindeer and mammoth hides, immediately understood what it was. Tormund could still feel the pressure exerted by his father's powerful hands on his frail shoulders, urging him to look him in the eye for long seconds.
But it was mostly the events that followed and the words spoken a little later that night, once the bodies had been removed, that remained most vivid in his memory.
« The cold kills, Tormund. And if you're not careful, Har, it'll be you it finally grabs with its formidable sharp claws. »
And young Tormund mentally pictured a huge, misshapen monster, like those the ancients claimed could be found in the lands of the Eternal Winter.
In any case, he had to admit that Winter had indeed tried to carry him away with its invisible talons, and that, all the time it lasted for nearly twenty moon cycles. But, Har, the brave Tormund wasn't easily brought down.
Unfortunately, he couldn't say the same for all the wildlings who lived in his native village and who had succumbed one after another. Even his father had passed, he who wore imposing layers of different furs that were at his disposal due to his rank as clan chief.
Since then, Tormund had become unyielding, constantly showing caution. He still was, moreover, especially to protect his daughters and allow them to enjoy these Northern lands as he had before, he who had traversed them far and wide.
Whatever the case, Tormund pushed back the cold as best he could. Surviving season after season. Perpetually fighting against this relentless, merciless force that relentlessly snatched its daily toll of new victims.
The wildling people, whose representatives preferred to be called the Free Folk, had lived for many generations on this vast territory stretching beyond that damned ice wall erected by the Southerners and the Children of the Forest, yet they were not safe from these icy temperatures.
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Whatever the case, and despite everything he had been through in those more or less distant times, he was certain that this sensation of ice currently running down his back and seeming to flow through his veins instead of his blood, was unparalleled as an illustration of the harsh weather he had been facing for several days now.
To be honest, this fact was not solely due to the temperatures, which must have been well below zero, since Winter had made its grand return to the continent of Westeros.
Which, in itself, was no secret to anyone, as the wildlings had read the signs long before those damned Southerners who were comfortably settled in those warm regions, within their great stone houses.
No, the truth about this feeling of his, and Har, how horribly oppressive it was, came from this fear that predominated even over the cold. A constant dread, which he couldn't shake off and which had engulfed him entirely, seeming to take malicious pleasure in gnawing at him from within, until madness fully seized his entire being.
Tormund could affirm it, even swear it before any weirwood tree, that he was not someone who easily felt dread. He was even ready to challenge anyone who would try to make him out to be a coward. However, Tormund could not help but feel uneasy about the turn of recent events.
Indeed, the Wall, that imposing obstacle that had stood for centuries, at least as far back as his people's memory recalled, that barrier made of ice and ancient magic which, all his life, had symbolized the border between those cold lands that were the north of the continent and those warmer lands further south.
That Wall that the wildlings, himself included, had often dreamed of contemplating after listening to so many tales emanating from the elders, around cheerfully burning campfires.
That Wall that he had climbed countless times since his twelfth year with the aim of fulfilling that fantasized vision and raiding nearby villages.
That Wall that had remained all that time an obstacle preventing the members of his people from moving far from their true enemies, namely the White Walkers and their hordes of wights who executed them as mercilessly as Winter and the freezing cold did.
That Wall, so mythical and a source of many legends.
That Wall simply no longer existed.
Har! Well, that wasn't entirely true. Tormund himself had to admit it, having witnessed the fall of a tiny portion of that ice barrier.
It had happened near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the easternmost fortress of the Night's Watch. The Wall had finally collapsed under the repeated assaults of the Night King and his terrible mount, a dead dragon that previously belonged to that silver-haired queen.
The supernatural being had continuously spewed blue flames that differed from those of its kin, but the havoc wrought must have far exceeded the scarlet infernos.
For the rest, the Wall still stood under the tons of ice that had been used to erect it. Except that it had become completely useless since the dead could now pour into the northern part of the continent of Westeros.
Which they had done without delay, acting under the orders of the one who had created them throughout all those past centuries, the Night King.
Tormund had survived that collapse. By what miracle? Har! He had no idea whatsoever. Some of those accompanying him at that precise moment had thanked the Old Gods. The others, himself included, knew very well that they were still not out of danger.
Indeed, the dead wandered here and there, probably even hot on their heels. So, as best they could, Tormund and about ten wildlings continued to push straight ahead, skirting the intact face of the Wall.
Oh, they weren't wandering aimlessly, and this journey was undertaken with the expectation of reaching Castle Black, the main seat of that order that had fought them since time immemorial.
However, and no one dared to voice this dire eventuality, it was probably too late; the Night's Watch fort, as well as its members who had so plagued the Free Folk's lives, might all have already fallen.
Nevertheless, a part of Tormund refused to give up, concentrating everyone's efforts on this common objective he had set for them. As he had explained to them many times during the rare halts they allowed themselves, which never lasted long, there was nothing more important than reaching Castle Black.
The Night King and his immense army were going to descend upon Westeros. It was therefore incumbent upon those who had miraculously escaped the collapse of the ice wall to warn the rest of the world about the arrival of this dreaded threat.
It was a relentless force that was now going straight to meet every living being that would present itself to them and which, inexorably, would swell the already considerable ranks of the wight hordes.
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A short break was ordered after what seemed like an hour later. After all, the time and the dark sky did not allow one to determine if the day was far advanced.
Thus, Tormund could not determine whether or not night was about to fall soon. Still, he felt exhausted, he was starving, and, Har, he was damn cold, ice had even formed in his thick beard.
This fate of his, Tormund shared with everyone else. However, no one dared to complain about their harsh travel conditions. They simply wanted to survive while hoping that the silhouette of Castle Black fortress would eventually appear before them.
Tormund eyed each of his companions. He was damn happy not to be alone on this expedition, which was more of a suicide mission than anything else.
Unfortunately, of the ten wildlings faithfully escorting him, not half of them were in good health. Three were even injured, and their desperate flight to escape the sad fate of other wildlings, crushed by falling huge blocks of ice, had done nothing to improve their sad state.
A bitter truth dawned on him, which he preferred to keep silent so as not to sap the morale of his kin. If a confrontation were to occur, they wouldn't survive long.
And what about the other members of his people regarding the cold, this adversary that constantly challenged them? Tormund was no more optimistic if he were to judge by the terrible frostbite he saw on the hands of his closest neighbor. The same must have been true for the rest of the representatives of the true North.
Glancing at his own fingers, he quickly realized that at the rate things were going, he might well lose some of his phalanges before they all reached their destination. And what about his toes?
Tormund might wear fur-lined boots, but he could no longer feel them, even though he tried to wiggle them. Har! He nevertheless hoped to possess enough will and a valiant enough heart to succeed in reaching the end of this long journey he shared with his own.
The halt dragged on, and some of the wildlings began to request that a campfire be lit. Despite a proposition that his being would have readily accepted, Tormund declared himself against the idea coming to fruition.
Before the faint protests that arose, Tormund assured them that, like a lighthouse, the flames would allow the dead to head straight for the living. Moreover, staying longer would surely sabotage the meager forces they still possessed, and death would soon welcome them with open arms.
This was a decision made by a clan chief. It was a choice that did not, however, receive everyone's favor. Only, they were aware that protesting would be more harmful than anything else. They had to remain united to survive.
Thus, the long and arduous march resumed, while around them, the wind intensified, lashing their bodies with its icy blades.
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The group continued to move west, at a pace that varied with the hours or differed according to their will to always take one step after another. And things went on like this for the following days.
How many of them passed exactly? Three? Four? More? This was something Tormund could not determine. All he could fervently maintain was that the entire group had slept very little since the moment the wildlings had set off again.
The only positive point, if there could be a glimmer of hope in this world, came from the climatic conditions. The storm that had been escorting them until then had slightly abated, making it easier to distinguish the surrounding landscape.
Nevertheless, besides the fact that Castle Black fortress was still not visible, the compact snow that stretched everywhere, in the form of drifts of varying heights, most of which frankly exceeded them by several meters, strove to impede their movements.
« Har, » Tormund grumbled into his red beard, « a little snow isn't going to slow us down, is it? »
He had uttered these words at the very moment new snowflakes began to fall from the cloud-laden skies that continued to darken.
It seemed that what was said about the Night King, in the legends of the past that had been transmitted orally, was indeed true and that he truly seemed to bring the Long Night in his wake.
Still, the wildlings were not particularly afraid of snow. It was an element found everywhere in the North. And apart from a few regions that allowed for cultivation during the year, all the rest disappeared under the white powder.
In some very remote places, where no man would ever have set foot, it was said that Winter lasted continuously. And Tormund and his people readily gave credit to the myths circulating about these distant lands.
The Night King would have his seat there, and other, even older entities, would also reside there, nameless things that no living being had ever contemplated.
In any case, snow was not the only reason for the slowness that weighed on the group. Surely, since their last stop, they had twice encountered groups of wights.
They had not, however, been able to confirm or deny whether this meant that their adversary's entire army was indeed on their heels, or whether these were merely simple skirmishes linked to scattered troops here and there, in search of survivors from Eastwatch.
As for Tormund's opinion, stopping to get to the bottom of this mystery was out of the question.
So far, they had all been lucky that their enemies were not numerous enough to harm them. However, the Night King would not let them get away with it indefinitely and sacrifice wights that could prove useful in the war he intended to wage against the living.
His forces still remained far superior to any army in Westeros, even if humans managed to regroup all their factions into a single one.
But Tormund was ready to believe that their adversary was not idle and that he was pleased to accumulate new recruits, thus swelling already more than substantial ranks.
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Long before the attacks of recent days, Tormund had already fought the Night King's minions several times. Har! He remembered each of those encounters.
The last two had occurred respectively at Hardhome, a wildling settlement, and then during the expedition that had been led beyond the Wall, in the company of his friend Jon Snow and several lads, all driven by the same objective. This consisted of opening the eyes of the rulers of Westeros to the threat that was about to descend upon the entire territory.
The thought of his previous travel companions reminded him that two of them had stayed at Eastwatch. First, there was that young kid. Har! He couldn't remember the scrawny lad's name.
All Tormund knew was that he was in a pitiful state after running for miles and miles in the cold, all to bring the news to that dragon queen about the terrible catastrophic turn the expedition led by Jon Snow, the former Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had since become King in the North, had taken.
But now that he thought about it, the kid had already left long ago. This departure had occurred a little over two days before the Wall fell. The kid who so wanted to return to Winterfell. In the wildling's opinion, that kid mostly wanted to escape the cold temperatures found at Eastwatch.
Tormund found himself hoping that the other had indeed managed to find refuge in his favorite place, and that he was thus safe, far from the dead. At least for a time.
Despite the boy's young age, Tormund remembered that he had fought valiantly, and it took courage to volunteer to face wights and the terrible White Walkers.
And that was a point Tormund greatly respected.
« He'd probably make an excellent wildling, » Tormund Giantsbane affirmed.
As for marrying one of his daughters? Certainly not.
Suddenly, following this incongruous thought, Tormund burst into a hearty laugh. A laugh that drew the attention of his companions in misfortune, who must have thought he had lost his mind. Containing himself, not despite what they might think, but rather for fear of being spotted by the wights, Tormund remained silent to refocus on his thoughts.
Secondly, among those who had accompanied Jon and Tormund, there was that bearded man whose sword blade was adorned with reddish flames. If his memory served him right, the individual's name was Beric. Tormund, however, could not remember whether or not he had survived.
During the fall of the Wall, they were together at the top of that ice barrier, helplessly witnessing that terrifying spectacle. When they began the long, slow, arduous, and dangerous descent, this Beric was still there, even ahead of him.
So, when had Tormund lost track of him?
Har! He had forgotten that. If the dead had separated them, then that damned fellow had probably joined their ranks since then.
Unless he had come back to life.
Tormund hadn't fully understood the explanations provided by Beric and everything he had told him. A story about a God of Light, with an unpronounceable name, who was also the one who had brought Jon Snow back, about a strange priest, the one who had accompanied them beyond the Wall but never returned, and who, according to Beric, had brought him back from death not once, but six times. Six times!
Had he not himself witnessed his friend Jon's miraculous resurrection, Tormund would have sworn by the Old Gods that it was all just a bad joke, or that it was the work of the Night King.
Today, however, he could admit it, there was something to be scared about regarding this foreign God who seemed to possess powers similar to those of the Night King.
Because, after all, Jon himself was somewhat a walking dead man, just like Beric. The difference was that both could think and act on their own, and they looked damn alive.
At least, as much as Tormund was.
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Entirely focused on his somber thoughts, Tormund didn’t immediately realize that someone was calling out to him, nor could he make out the content of the words the other man had just proclaimed for him.
The individual, a man of imposing stature even without his furs and with a beard so thick that only his eyes were visible, pointed at something looming behind them.
Instantly, Tormund pivoted, his hands already gripping the shaft of his dragonglass axe, a gift from Jon Snow during his visit to Eastwatch just before Jon had laid out his plan for an expedition he intended to lead beyond the Wall to capture one of the Night King’s wights. A dead soldier who would serve to convince those two foreign queens of the truth of this threat that hung not only over all of Westeros, but also over all known and unknown lands.
Just as it was expected that things would go this way, several figures were advancing at a brisk pace. And whether it was the snow or the blizzard, none of them seemed to bother them much.
« Har! Couldn't they have forgotten about us, those ones? »
Unfortunately, and without much surprise, that was not the case. And so, several dozen walking corpses were preparing to descend on them. Whether they had heard him guffaw or if this encounter was just an unfortunate coincidence, Tormund couldn't be certain of the reason that forced them to fight.
All that mattered was that Tormund cursed into his beard against this feeling of fatigue that was already getting to him and wanted him to surrender and accept the grim fate that awaited him.
The wildling didn’t feel up to having the necessary strength for a long confrontation. Especially since he had seen with his own eyes how the wights were far too numerous for victory to be on their side, not without a great sacrifice.
This conclusion was far from satisfying, especially since the representative of the Free Folk couldn't determine whether or not other dead were stationed in the vicinity, ready to battle against the few living individuals that made up Tormund's group.
How could the members of his group hope to emerge victorious from such a fight? However, the situation could become much more desperate if the Great Enemy, the Night King, were to decide to send them one of his lieutenants.
« Is there a White Walker in the lot? » he asked to no one in particular.
No one was able to tell him anything about the presence or absence of one of them. If that were the case, events would become downright catastrophic, with no possible escape.
A piercing scream then rang out among the ten individuals beside him. Other malevolent forces were arriving from the west and the south.
« By the Old Gods », Tormund silently prayed. « May they all come to our aid. »
He was not a man to verbally solicit the help of higher powers, contenting himself with wishes spoken in thought. But the current conditions forced him to resign himself to all forms of conceivable help that could extricate them from this ambush.
And given that there wasn't a single weirwood tree standing nearby, Tormund doubted his request would be heard.
In any case, the assault had begun. Whether it was with or without these Old Gods, he would have to fight no matter what. The clash of weapons rose in the cold of Winter, metal clanging against metal or, in his case, against dragonglass.
Har! It was a blessing that he himself was one of the best fighters of all his people. Alas, the freezing temperatures made his movements slow, and his state of exhaustion also prevented him from using his full strength.
Tormund was not inclined to give up, however, not now that he had his momentum. No king could have forced him to give in. Therefore, simple wights would not succeed.
As valiant as all wildlings were, he parried and struck back. Again and again. His companions, seeing him at work, hurried to follow his example.
One, two, three, four adversaries already lay at his feet, clad in thick boots of reindeer fur. It was at this stage that his group lost its first member.
Har! At the rate things were going, they were all likely to lose their lives before they had even a glimpse of hope of surviving. And the dead were still arriving in ever greater numbers.
Tormund was seized by flashes where he saw himself again at Hardhome. There, many people belonging to his folk had fallen before getting back up, their eyes now blue to testify to their new allegiance to the Night King. Without Jon and the ships that came to free his people, it was very likely that the wildlings would simply no longer exist.
Now that the wights and giants had crossed the Wall, their destiny seemed ineluctable. Tormund couldn't conceive that they had survived for so many centuries only to disappear like this from the face of this world.
So Tormund continued to fight, not just with the goal of saving himself, no. He was fighting above all to give his people a chance to survive and to enjoy a future to which they had a right.
But for that to happen, he still had to manage to warn the world of the approach of this unparalleled threat, at least until then, in the history of humanity.
Three more of the Night King's puppets fell under his blows. Although for now, this did not make any difference to the outcome of the fight, which already seemed to have chosen its side.
Indeed, as soon as one of them fell, five others hurried to replace him, showing more virulence in their attempts to exterminate those who were still breathing the fresh, winter air blowing along the Wall.
What’s more, the situation worsened when another of his brothers-in-arms died with a cry of agony.
« You damn dead bastards! » Tormund Giantsbane belched.
His eyes shone with a demented madness and seemed to promise a thousand Hells to his assailants.
And to do so, Tormund twirled his dragonglass axe, severing several limbs in whose veins no blood flowed. Whether they were simple bones or had rare scraps of flesh, they all produced the same dull sound as they landed in the white powder.
Tormund quickly realized that he had become the central point of his enemies’ attention when they became hell-bent on converging in his direction.
His right arm was grabbed a first time, and he freed himself as best he could. The next time, the grip was firmer, and the torsion exerted was such that the wildling wondered how long it would be before his bones cracked.
No longer able to bear the increasing pain, he let his axe fall into the snow. Har! What a regrettable mistake he had just made with this careless gesture. The worst part was that he was perfectly aware of it, yet unable to do otherwise.
Unfortunately for Tormund, this time, he couldn't rely on that scarred giant to prevent his final hour from sounding.
Knowing his end was near, Tormund didn’t think of his people, nor of his two daughters who were waiting patiently for him in the camp where his people had found refuge once Jon Snow had made them all cross the tunnel under the Wall at Castle Black, nor of his friend who had been the Commander of the Night’s Watch before becoming the King in the North. No, his thoughts turned once again to that blue-eyed beauty.
Brienne.
Har! Their kids would have been so damn beautiful if they could have had them together. True little giants with red hair. Tormund was willing to bet that things would have turned out that way.
And those children would have melted many hearts. Ah, yes. Just like their dad before them. But, for that, this damsel still would have had to show the same interest that he continually had for her.
Bah, maybe upon discovering the fate that was soon to be his, this Brienne would finally feel a sense of sadness and bitterness for having let her chance slip away. It wasn't every day you crossed paths with someone kissed by fire, Tormund surprised himself by joking.
Oh, it was true that he would still be there. More or less. In a certain way, he could even say. Tormund would simply be a wight, as thousands of other individuals had become before him.
What a grim fate. But, Har, what could he possibly do to counter this dark magic that would soon animate him beyond his own will?
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All of a sudden, and while his situation seemed increasingly desperate, something caught his attention.
It was an orange glow, seeming to swirl in all directions. This vision vaguely reminded him of something, and it took him half a dozen seconds before the light dawned in his mind.
It was the flaming sword. Beric Dondarrion's sword.
So the one-eyed man had survived all this time? Tormund felt a deep sense of gratitude and mentally thanked the Old Gods.
Soon after, Beric himself appeared, his silhouette clearly outlined against the surrounding snow. The man instantly plunged into the fray, ready to fight all the dead.
He did not come alone, however; about fifteen members of his Brotherhood followed closely behind him. They too soon made flames lick the blades of their greatswords.
The wildlings who had survived until then—five had fallen out of Tormund's ten companions—also felt a new sensation grip their hearts. All were reinvigorated and found new strength.
Tormund broke free from the wight that was trying to break his wrist bones, picked up his weapon, and with everyone around him, he repeated his previous actions, throwing himself back into battle.
A few minutes passed then.
The army of the dead was no longer coming. Perhaps they hadn't expected the situation to slip from their grasp. And although the living suffered three additional losses among Beric's men, in the end, seventeen still stood at the end of the fight.
Tormund immediately joined Beric.
« Har! That was a close call, he roared in a booming voice. »
He gave his savior a friendly slap on the back, who did not waver despite all the force Tormund had put into the gesture.
« Indeed, » Dondarrion conceded in a calm voice that contrasted with the wildling's. « However, it's better to postpone celebrations. I reckon other wights might appear any moment now. »
After a brief, ominous silence, Beric added words that made the entire assembly shiver and that Tormund would have preferred not to hear.
« Or worse, White Walkers, » he completed after a fateful silence.
Thus, without lingering to take the necessary time to recover from their ordeal or to tend to their wounds, Tormund and all his people set off again after burning both the remains of those who had fallen in combat and the remains belonging to the wights.
Such an operation aimed at two goals. The first, to prevent their own from becoming puppets serving the Night King, a fate no wildling would have wished to see happen.
The second, to prevent the enemy from continuing to swell its forces and accumulate them with the aim of enslaving the entire continent of Westeros.
In any case, the wildlings were no longer alone now traversing this northern region. Members of the Brotherhood Without Banners were now coming alongside them. And all were now united in a single goal: to reach Castle Black.
There lay their only hope, they who carried terrible news, but which they would nevertheless have to announce to the rest of the world.
And while this entire assembly progressed through the white powder, a few days from their position, the dead were also advancing into the North.
Their movement was nevertheless much slower. The Night King was not in a hurry, confident in his power and the inevitability of the Long Night and the fate he intended for all Westerosis.
For, like a gigantic devastating wave, soon thousands of wights would sweep across all the lands of Westeros, from the North, passing through the lands of the West, and even to the desert of Dorne, no one would be safe as long as this ancient threat persisted.
Chapter 2: The Kingslayer's Exile. (Jaime Lannister)
Summary:
Exiled North, Jaime battles cold and inner demons. His solitude is broken by Bronn's unexpected arrival, confronting him with his past and choices, while revealing Cersei's intentions and Daenerys's threat.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWO: THE KINGSLAYER'S EXILE. (JAIME LANNISTER)
The wind blew strongly, swirling the snow in all directions around him, well before the first light of day had appeared hours earlier.
The flakes were certainly not thick compared to the storms the North was accustomed to, but the visibility was, in his opinion at least, reduced enough for Jaime to curse all the Gods for seeking to harm him in the endeavor he was now undertaking.
Namely, that of reaching the aforementioned region.
The ground, on the bumpy terrain he had been traversing for many miles, disappeared under a white blanket, with the exception of the thin path on which his mount trudged along, and whose constant back-and-forth of people of all ranks had made the ground muddy and slippery.
In a few words to describe it, the path had become as dangerous as it was treacherous. Jaime’s progress in these foreign territories was therefore considerably slowed.
A realization that was all the more bitter as the weather seemed unwilling to change. Worse, it seemed to want to deteriorate with every stride of his horse, Jaime thought to himself.
Since he had left the capital, King's Landing, a few days earlier, Jaime had known only too few moments of respite where he could catch his breath without worrying about whether he could escape this dreadful weather.
Nevertheless, these moments were far too few for his taste, he who was sickened by all this white powder.
Jaime Lannister almost came to suspect some action on the part of these Old Gods—those the Northmen still prayed to, go figure why—and that these deities had gotten wind of his « betrayal » of his sister Cersei and were now exhorting him not to go any further in his solitary wanderings.
Or perhaps they were simply trying to indicate to him that no, his place was not on the edge of these northern territories, that he had absolutely no business being there and, therefore, should turn back immediately.
A disapproving attitude that could be explained by the bad actions he had committed during his last visit to Winterfell, the ancestral seat of the Stark family.
Jaime mentally shook his head, finding himself ridiculous for imagining such a thing from forces that would rise above humanity.
« I don’t fear any God », he stated aloud. « Be they Old or New. »
After a second, he added the following words, as if he were determined to defy these superior idols.
« I am not afraid of you. »
The deities targeted by this assertion seemed to hear him and truly took Jaime’s words as a challenge against them, as a sudden gust of wind narrowly missed knocking him from his steed.
Jaime did not flinch, contenting himself with tightening his travel cloak around him. The red wool fabric embroidered with gold interlacing only vaguely repelled the ambient cold, and the further he progressed, the more Jaime became aware of what awaited him.
That is to say, temperatures that would become much more glacial than what he had already been facing since his departure from the capital.
He hoped, nevertheless, that the snow would stop soon. Indeed, at the rate events were unfolding, he risked being buried from head to foot before he reached any destination that would offer him a roof to gladly take refuge under.
Ah, who would have thought that one day his destiny would lead him back to Winterfell? In any case, he less than anyone would have counted on such an eventuality.
And certainly not under the current conditions, what's more. A man who was forced to flee King's Landing simply because he had decided to honor a vow made some time ago.
However, Jaime Lannister came alone, and not with the armed forces he had promised to place at the North’s disposal to fight against the spectral troops of this Night King.
And an unpleasant feeling consumed him in the moments when he was feeling more down, one that dictated to him that it would be him, and not directly his twin sister Cersei, who would be held accountable for the betrayal orchestrated by her—she who remained cloistered between the solid and thick walls of the Red Keep.
Because after all, wasn't he still seen as the Kingslayer? That moniker that clung inexorably to him, and that he had been enduring for too many years now.
And what to say of all those people, be they of high birth or common folk, who strove to throw it in his face in order to hurt him more surely than the blade of a zweihänder would.
For all, he was and would remain that man whose speeches held him up as being devoid of any sense of honor.
Jaime Lannister felt a deep resentment against this perpetual injustice he couldn't get out of, and which would be his until his demise.
Even History—that told by the maesters of the Citadel—seemed to want to retain only that point when he was mentioned. Worse, it was highly likely that it would be the same for future generations.
« If History will have me at all. »
How could it be otherwise, knowing that even the Book of Brothers of the Kingsguard recounted none of his great deeds. A point that Joffrey himself had not hesitated to emphasize with all the self-sufficiency that so characterized his son.
« My son », he said aloud.
It had all been said in a tone oh so disdainful.
The two men shared only one thing in common, the blood that flowed in their veins. Although, in his lifetime, Joffrey had been unaware of how much that statement applied, he who believed himself to be the offspring of Robert Baratheon.
A look of contempt distorted the features of Jaime's face at the memory of that corpulent king, whom he considered too weak to hold the office that fell to him, and this, while he was at the head of an entire continent.
Be that as it may, nothing more connected him to Joffrey, since in the opinion of many, that runt was one of the most abject beings among those who had sat on the infamous Iron Throne.
He, who had been a witness to many scenes, could readily admit this point. A thought he would, however, be very careful not to voice in the presence of a very protective Cersei whenever it concerned her children, even more so since death had come to claim each of them in turn.
Jaime mentally shook his head to chase away all thoughts concerning Joffrey. Instead, he refocused on himself.
He didn't feel he had failed so much in his duty during these last years. Besides, his actions tended to prove that he was a man faithful to his vows.
After all, hadn’t he allowed Brienne to lead Sansa Stark to the safety she deserved?
Hadn’t he risked everything to save Tyrion from an execution that was hanging over his head?
Was he not acting in the interest of his own, even if it meant sacrificing himself?
Wasn’t that precisely why he was heading North? To face the dead and offer, perhaps, a peaceful future to all the inhabitants of Westeros?
Or...
Did all these actions count for so little?
Could they never erase the slate he dragged behind him?
« The things I do for love. »
That phrase resonated within him without Jaime expecting it. He was nonetheless surprised by the tone used, having the curious sensation that a stranger had just spoken to him. So he stopped for a brief moment to look at the surrounding scenery.
Despite the ongoing storm, he didn't make out a single silhouette whose dark shape stood out. He therefore reckoned he had hallucinated in perceiving the spoken words, verbal vestiges of a distant past.
It also had to be said that, Lannister though he was, he had slept very little during these last few days. His haggard features and visible dark circles indicated this sufficiently.
He nonetheless set back in motion, all the while thinking about those seven words he had proclaimed long ago, just as the circumstances that had compelled him to say them came back to him.
It was to Cersei that Jaime had addressed those terms, while they were in the presence of one of the young Stark children. Jaime no longer remembered the name of that boy, nor could he say what the child might have looked like physically, other than dark hair.
Be that as it may, the boy had surprised them, Cersei and him, while they were both making love. They had hoped to take advantage of the absence of most of the people of Winterfell, but especially that of King Robert Baratheon—Cersei’s husband at the time—to find themselves in an isolated place within the Stark family’s fortress.
« Love », he murmured in echo with a sudden contempt.
To think that the gesture that had followed had been dictated by what he felt for his twin sister, by the fear that the kid might rush to denounce Cersei and him.
Dictated by that anguish: the prospect that he would never again have the chance to share those carnal embraces that he liked so much, those fiery kisses they exchanged, those moments for two where Cersei and he became one in the erotic ecstasy that resulted from their frolics.
This woman oh so perfect, his double who had completed him since their youngest age and who, in his eyes, represented more than he could ever hope to have, more than he could ever possess, more than he was entitled to want.
Today, the situation had evolved in that relationship that united the two of them. Would he have acted this way back then, knowing that now, Cersei was ready to sacrifice him for a « betrayal » he had only committed in her eyes?
Jaime was surprised to conclude that, indeed, he would not have changed his gesture back then, even though he currently felt a certain form of regret.
After all, Jaime still loved his sister. Really? Even after all those horrible actions she had accomplished before and after becoming the queen of an entire continent that hated her profusely?
Recent memories then flooded Jaime's mind. A handful of days earlier, Cersei had nodded her head, signifying her agreement that Gregor Clegane—also known by the nickname « The Mountain »—should execute him with his great and wide claymore, the scabbard of which perpetually girded his hip, beating to the rhythm of his every wide stride.
Long before that, through her schemes to get rid of a flock of her enemies, Cersei had led to the demise of their last child, Tommen. The young sovereign had thrown himself into the void following the oh so tragic disappearance of Margaery Tyrell, this woman he had become so infatuated with that he made her his queen.
Even if, to be fundamentally honest, Jaime didn't doubt for a moment that the latter had used her charms to capture the boy in her insidious nets, in her quest to become the most influential woman in the entire kingdom.
Jaime did not linger further on this part of the story. He refocused his thoughts on his twin instead.
How could he continue to feel such feelings for the one who had been born on the same day as him, only a few minutes apart?
Yet, a part of him felt a deep resentment towards the betrayal she had inflicted on him, without even flinching.
« I’m just an idiot. That’s all. »
That was, at present, a very poor answer to the questions that plagued him. And Jaime knew it consciously.
Be that as it may, and from the moment he closed his eyelids in search of a restorative sleep that refused to come to him, each time his sister's head movement came back to him, accompanied shortly after by the characteristic sound of Clegane’s sword which, in his visions, was fully drawn from its scabbard.
And the dream unfailingly ended at the moment the fatal blow was struck, cutting him in two with a coldness much more glacial than the worst winters the continent had known or would ever know, Jaime would bet.
The simple fact of thinking about it caused a clear increase in his heart rate, and a shiver of dread began to run down his back.
Certainly, in reality, nothing had ultimately come of it. Nevertheless, Jaime couldn't help but wonder how things could have reached such a point of no return.
« All this time, » he began, « I have worked while thinking of her. And I have always gone along with her, even when such a transgression displeased me, » Lannister emphasized. « And this is how she thanks me for all this loyalty I have shown her all these years? »
A deep disgust came to invade his entire being.
At the same time, Jaime perceived the desire to clench his right fist in the face of this feeling of anger and injustice that consumed him simultaneously. Sadly for him, he had only his golden hand, which was not the most practical thing when one expected to indulge in such a fit of temper.
Be that as it may, Jaime was convinced that since his departure from King's Landing, Cersei had not been idle and had dispatched dozens of ravens to all the army captains.
The subject of these missives was easy to guess and therefore had as its theme Jaime’s so-called desertion and the betrayal he had committed towards the crown.
So, the supposed felon wondered whether or not he would still manage to reach the northernmost region of the entire continent.
If the path were to prove strewn with pitfalls, making it impossible for him to reach the chosen destination, what good was it for him to be so stubborn?
However, did he really have any other choice than to go to this territory which was said to be as vast as the six other kingdoms combined?
Jaime knew well that this was not the case. Turning back was out of the question.
Probably, Cersei imagined that he would reappear with his tail between his legs, and play the part of the perfect, docile, and obedient soldier.
However, the risks were great for him to find himself a head shorter. And he could certify that this was not a prospect that delighted him more than that. Thus, this first solution had to be forgotten.
Oh, he could always try to face the Mountain in single combat, for the little that the prospect of suicide might cross his mind.
For, besides the fact that he didn't have the slightest chance against an opponent as monstrous as he was imposing, Jaime himself only wielded the sword with his bad hand, namely his left.
And above all, he risked seeming quite ridiculous and passing away even before he could utter a single word as final words that might have remained for posterity, for the little that a few rhapsodes might have been on the spot at the time of this combat.
« The Handless Man and the Mountain. Now there’s an ode that bards could have fun composing to testify to the foolishness of Ser Jaime Lannister, called the Kingslayer », he hammered out.
The fact that he didn't find his tirade hilarious himself prompted him to concentrate on the other options that might be open to him.
The East? By that, Jaime meant the continent of Essos that he had never gazed upon other than through maps. Might as well forget about it right away.
His current state would make him a simple beggar who, one morning, would be found with his throat slit and thrown into a common grave because he hadn't managed to defend himself due to that damned hand he missed so much since it had been severed.
A limb whose searing burn that had followed the blow struck by that oh so sharp blade he still, even today, sometimes felt.
The West and Casterly Rock? A prospect so ridiculous that he shook his head in spite. Might as well go and surrender directly to Cersei. Somewhere else in Westeros? At least, if one excepted the North.
Surely not.
The Lannisters had never been very appreciated. That was a point all the more true since his sister had gained access to the Iron Throne and now reigned over the entire continent.
Be it in the Reach or even in Dorne, not to mention Oldtown or even Storm's End, if Jaime were to show even the shadow of his person there, he would not survive very long after presenting himself in those distant places.
His future hardly seemed destined to lead him towards joyful tomorrows, Lannister understood. He therefore had only one more or less viable choice, the conclusion of which could depend on many things, so he had to honor as best he could this oath sworn to that bastard Jon Snow, who had for a time become the King in the North, and to that Targaryen whose claims aimed to govern the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms.
Nevertheless, and to do so, Jaime had no intention of reaching the North via the Kingsroad.
Daenerys's armies were following the route in question, and Jaime had gotten close enough to the horse lords, the Dothraki, to know that he preferred to avoid rubbing shoulders with such a brood.
And it didn't matter that Jaime had decided to perpetuate this alliance concluded in the ruins of Dragonstone, for him, the Dothraki would remain the enemies of Westeros, they who belonged to a whole other territory.
« Let them go back there. And let them stay there. »
Such were the words that Jaime flung into the cold, glacial air that surrounded him.
But no answer came, which was hardly surprising. Be that as it may, in the end, he had opted to head northwest. His initial objective was to reach the town of Stoney Sept, where he hoped to then be able to reach Riverrun.
By the time he got there, he would have to stop at an inn or two. All to be able to inquire about information that would provide him with what he needed to know the evolution of events that had occurred across the different regions of the continent.
It was, however, a very long journey before he got to Riverrun. And this journey, he was undertaking alone.
He could certify it right away, the thing was dangerous. And it was not impossible for him to run into bandits without faith or law.
They probably belonged to that Brotherhood Without Banners. Jaime could swear it, they were undoubtedly taking advantage of the profit the snow provided them, to be able to rob the unfortunates who, like himself, risked traversing secondary paths, therefore much less protected by the queen's men or local lords.
Fortunately, Jaime had not met any of these vagabonds until then.
For all that, and this was a phenomenon he had been noting for several days now, he felt followed, even spied on.
However, he was not long in realizing that he was indeed alone when he peered at the surroundings in search of those miscreants he would have gladly let taste his Valyrian steel, a precious metal of which his weapon was made.
Presumably, he was as paranoid as could be about the idea that Cersei might also have dispatched a flock of killers after him.
Launched after him, this pack incited him to come to fear the slightest shadow, to remain on his guard. The slightest creak in the snow could, in his eyes at least, make a determined swordsman emerge who would rush to bring his « traitor's » head to his twin.
As for her, on her part, she would wait patiently to receive her due while she resided in King's Landing where, warm and safe, Cersei riveted her royal behind on the Iron Throne that sat within the walls of the Red Keep.
********************
Raising his head toward the skies completely covered with a layer of grayish clouds, Jaime still hoped the weather would improve. The restless nights he spent sleeping outdoors, with all this snow and cold, were not conditions he could say he was enchanted by.
Jaime certainly could have taken the trouble to stop at some inn. But the risk was far too great that someone might recognize him and betray his presence. After all, and in his own opinion, he was still too close to the capital at that point.
Nevertheless, and by now, his appearance hardly resembled what one might expect of a Lannister. His dirty hair had grown wild and he could always hide it under the hood of his cloak.
It was similar for the beard that was starting to cover his facial features. Even so, the hair was far from representing the golden fleece that so suited his kin.
Thus, and given the deplorable state Jaime was in, he could in no way testify to his belonging to that illustrious family which had left its indelible mark on the History of all Westeros, and this, over the many centuries that had passed since the distant age of the Heroes.
In conclusion, Jaime figured that only his golden hand could betray him for what he truly was. However, that was not in itself a real obstacle to overcome. After all, he only had to wear his leather gloves.
Certainly, that didn't exclude the possibility that someone could still identify him if he happened to meet the gaze of a known face.
Undoubtedly, Jaime admitted that he greatly needed a comfortable, soft bed. Just as he longed to hear news from the world.
A thing all the more important if the North had gotten wind, one way or another, of Cersei’s betrayal, and most certainly through that Varys whom he so abhorred with his syrupy manners.
Jaime would then quickly know whether or not it was better for him to continue on his way, while this disloyalty to the Northmen and all the peoples of Westeros over whom Daenerys Targaryen aspired to reign one day could also be attributed to him.
********************
Two hours had just passed after his final thoughts that had crossed his mind. They proved to be as deadly boring as the previous ones.
The snow was no longer falling except in scattered flakes, but the cold had intensified, biting him like sharp fangs. Fangs like those of the Starks’ direwolves.
« By the seven Hells », Jaime grumbled, « how do the Northmen bear all this? »
No answer reached him.
In fact, he had no choice but to continue onward, progressing as best he could on this poorly maintained path. The wars that had shaken the entire continent had left little time for the roads that ran across the kingdom to be renovated, which would have been welcome for travelers such as him.
At any rate, the evocation of this conflict led him to think of his father. If the great Tywin Lannister had stood by his side — which no force could have brought about — the lord of Casterly Rock would have undoubtedly protested at being a witness to the downfall of this son whom he loved so much.
With a smile on his lips, which greatly surprised him, Jaime struggled to picture him there, traveling and riding in concert with him, a scowl deforming his face where no smirk had ever been since his wife Joanna had lost her life giving birth to Tyrion.
Whatever the case with the Great Lord Tywin, Jaime was surprised by the decidedly sarcastic tone he had just used; the person in question would have undoubtedly retorted that the Starks, their bannermen and other loyal partisans, were all used to having to deal with such climatic conditions because they were savages.
« That, or a speech of the same ilk », Jaime concluded under his breath.
A term that was best not used in the presence of these people, Lannister sagaciously surmised.
And while this conclusion was forced upon him, he nevertheless continued his wanderings, still moving straight ahead, straight toward the North and Winterfell.
********************
The daylight was now fading fast. As for the prospect of another night under the stars, there was nothing to rejoice about.
However, after the road he was traveling led him straight to the top of a small rise, he could make out in the distance the faint lights of a small town.
Stopping for a few moments to survey the sight, Jaime made a quick calculation to determine where he might be right now within the wild lands of Westeros.
A conclusion was quick to finally impose itself upon Jaime Lannister’s mind, and he voiced it aloud, thereby disturbing the impressive silence that had surrounded him until then.
« Stoney Sept. »
This town had its own history, and it was known throughout Westeros. At least for those who, like Tyrion, took a close interest in it.
It was here that Robert Baratheon, then in open rebellion against the sovereign of the time, Aerys Targaryen, called the Mad King, had hidden for a few days.
There, the person in question managed to escape a strong army that had come to invade the area with the goal of unearthing him, and whose troops present were led by the King's Hand of the time, Jon Connington.
Robert had escaped them, only the Gods could say by what miracle that was the case, and when the help he had so longed for—the joint armies of the Stark, Tully, and Arryn forces—arrived, it was enough for Robert to come out of his hiding place, weapon in hand, and undertake to fight with unparalleled valor.
Jaime eyed the town before him with his green eyes. Despite the ever-increasing darkness, he could make out and confirm that nothing remained of the glorious past of which Stoney Sept was so proud.
On the contrary, the gaping wounds that could be seen here and there among the buildings testified that more recent battles had been fought there.
Jaime recognized his father's work there. In the struggle he had waged against Robb Stark, Tywin Lannister had hardly been subtle, indulging in a scorched-earth policy to weaken his adversaries who could not, therefore, find the necessary resources to wage a long-term fight.
Nevertheless, Jaime had to admit that he couldn't figure out why Stoney Sept had suffered such a fate.
Whatever the exact case may have been, the inhabitants were still present. At the same time, Jaime could note the slow reconstruction of the hamlet. It would nevertheless take time for the ultimate scars to disappear, if they all even survived the Winter that had also settled in the region.
********************
Finally, Jaime set off again and arrived shortly after in front of a kind of crude wooden palisade. It was undeniable that this protection had been erected in a hurry to ensure a meager defense should any threat ever rear its head around here again.
Jaime mentally shook his head. As if this could be enough in the event of an attack perpetrated by a powerful army. What's more, if the dead managed to get this far, then the residents of Stoney Sept wouldn’t have a fighting chance of escaping.
Should he, however, warn them about the existence of this supernatural threat that loomed over all the inhabitants of Westeros?
« No », Jaime finally decided. « It's better for me to keep a low profile until I have news about what's happening elsewhere in the kingdom. »
And besides, why should anyone give him any credit for blurting out what everyone took for stories from old northern legends?
As the distance between him and the town grew ever shorter, Jaime finally noticed the presence of two guards who simultaneously emerged from a postern adjacent to the main entrance.
The worn armor each of them wore didn't offer any protection worthy of the name, the member of the Kingsguard estimated. That said, it hardly penalized them in their intentions and they blocked his path with their vulgar pikes whose iron tips showed more rust than anything else.
« If they can’t slice my throat with it », Jaime began mentally, « at least they can kill me with the infection that would result from the wound. »
Obviously, that was the last thing he wanted to happen.
Be that as it may, the nasal voice of one of them forced him to direct his full attention to these wretches who gave off the stench of cheap swill.
« Halt », barked the sturdier of the two, « who goes there? »
— Just a traveler », Jaime heard himself reply. « I'm not looking for any trouble. Just a simple shelter for the night would be more than enough for me. »
All Lannister though he was, he hoped this answer would be enough to silence any questions these men might want to ask.
However, though remaining silent for the seconds that followed, the two ruffians circled his mount and inspected it with great care.
Since his journey had begun, Jaime had to admit that he had not groomed the beast as much as it deserved for having carried him for many leagues. Thus, the animal did not look shiny. Would that still be enough to get through the net?
With the inspection finished, the two guards resumed their little act, now concentrating on Jaime Lannister. He preferred to lower his head, sporting a crestfallen look, or at least he hoped so. And without even trying to plead his case, he waited.
« That's a fine horse you've got there », slipped in the one who had spoken earlier. « How did a wretch like you manage to get one like that? »
Jaime started to think at top speed. Which wasn't his strongest point, unlike his brother Tyrion, whose sense of repartee would have gotten him out of this trap long before he'd plunged both feet into it.
Whatever the case, Jaime had to find an adequate response. Otherwise, the situation could very quickly turn sour. And if he revealed himself then, he would almost certainly be identified. That was something he wanted to avoid at any cost.
A solution imposed itself upon his mind, one that the old Jaime from the time of his splendor, from the time when he still had both hands, would have taken. He could kill these two men and flee. He doubted they were a match for him.
And too bad if, to do so, he had to give up sleeping in a bed as cozy as the town's inn could have offered him.
A bigger problem remained. Such an action would mean finding himself confronted with the entire garrison that might be present within Stoney Sept itself. The latter would be quick to set off in pursuit.
Now, that was a vexing point. Being hunted for all those dozens of leagues that separated him from his final destination, no thank you.
Moreover, in the event of a direct confrontation with this whole clique, and for all the good fighter he may have been in the past, his glory of yesteryear having long since faded, Jaime Lannister felt too weary to put up a resistance that was valiant enough to incite a few rhymers to compose verses about it.
It was even more than likely that he would end his days in the most complete general indifference and that no one, not even Cersei, would suspect that he had fallen where no one would ever mourn him for the sad fate that would soon be his.
So focused was he on the silent thoughts that were jostling around in his dirty-haired head that Jaime didn't notice that a second horseman had just approached to join the fray.
The person in question therefore came up behind him, hailing the two individuals.
« That's my squire you're annoying there », the stranger who wasn't really a stranger retorted. « He went on ahead so that I could get here in the best conditions and find some good food and something to warm my carcass. »
After a silence, the newcomer concluded.
« Clearly, I can see that was already too much to ask of him. »
Jaime closed his eyes after identifying his companion just by the sound of his voice.
« And who are you, » retorted the disdainful guard.
— Lord Bronn of the Blackwater », the person in question blurted out. « And I demand that you show me at once where I can find the best inn in your dump. »
A short silence settled.
How much time had passed then? Jaime never knew.
Be that as it may, the two foot soldiers resumed their inspection, not daring, however, to approach Bronn who had placed his hand on the hilt of his greatsword.
At least they both had enough sense to realize that it would cost them to confront such an individual, a nobleman no less.
« A lord », stupidly repeated the one who was speaking for the two guards at the main gate. « Here », he stupidly added without believing what he was seeing. « What would a lord come to do in our place? »
The question certainly revealed that he was quite taken aback, but Jaime also noted the timbre of defiance.
And while Bronn answered in his usual cavalier way, Jaime Lannister still couldn't believe that the other was right here, by his side.
His companion's nonchalance seemed to convince the sentinels on duty, as they stepped aside to grant them passage.
« Ah, it must be nice to be highborn », the former mercenary declared with obvious contentment.
Except he was no longer anything of what he claimed to be, possessing only the title of Ser and not Lord. Surely, Cersei had hastened to strip him of that privilege despite his exploits during the Battle of the Blackwater.
However, there was no reason for Jaime to remind him of this point when Bronn had just saved his ass. Instead, the queen's twin focused on another point.
« You followed me », he asked in a question that wasn't really a question.
His bearded face expressed the irritation that resulted from such a realization. In any case, it explained why he had that constant feeling that someone was coming after him.
Except that if Bronn had really been accompanying him until then, why hadn't he shown himself sooner? A sudden suspicion took hold of Jaime Lannister.
What if his sister had dispatched him to his side so that, when the time came, Bronn would decide to plunge a dagger straight into his heart.
After all, he was not a man who would refuse such a service, provided that the client offered him a price that he deemed worthwhile. Whether this reward turned out to be gold, or even a castle and the associated lands. Jaime was well-placed to know Bronn's luxurious tastes, who had enjoyed demanding astronomical prizes from him for a long time.
For a time, Jaime had satisfied his request. Bronn having lost the territories given, having lost his fiancée, whom he had never truly loved, and having lost his fortune when Daenerys Targaryen and her Dothraki had launched an assault against the Lannister troops and those of their Tarly allies, Jaime knew that his slate was still not wiped clean.
« I was afraid you'd get lost along the way », Bronn simply claimed nonchalantly.
With a wide grin, he came to complete his long tirade.
« And besides, in these times, it's not very safe to travel secondary paths. Who knows what bad encounters we might have there? Bandits, rabble… »
And to add after a calculated silence, his eyes shining.
« Or cripples with golden fingers. I hear they're the worst. And that they are both deceitful and traitors. »
Jaime preferred not to rise to the jibe.
Bronn's sentence was implicit enough to understand that the other knew what had happened with Cersei. The latter had therefore wasted no time and had indeed spread the rumor about his « betrayal. »
His flight having followed, Jaime guessed that in everyone's eyes, it proved his guilt well enough.
And for Jaime, the situation could not be worse.
The two men nevertheless continued to tread the spongy ground between the more or less cleared paths of Stoney Sept.
There, they finally reached the inn indicated by the guard and which was named The Peach. Bronn was delighted when he understood that the place also served as a brothel.
As for himself, Jaime did not share the same enthusiasm as his companion. In fact, he hesitated to enter the premises, concealing his features under the gloom of his hood.
Finally, and after a moment's reflection, he chose to go without it. Such an attitude would attract more curiosity from the customers and passing travelers.
Once inside the building, Jaime and Bronn savored the warmth that was spreading there from the various fireplaces.
For the first time in days, the quilted doublet in which he was encased, and which had protected him as best as possible from the icy winds that regularly blew, seemed too much for him as he felt like he was cooking between the walls of this dump.
There, the landlady came to receive them. She was a woman of unparalleled build and with an incredible mane of red hair. As Jaime was to learn later, her name was Hemp-Hair.
The person in question granted them, for a few silver coins, it goes without saying, a room with two separate beds. And while Jaime inspected the possibilities of getting a good hot meal, Bronn approached the matter from a completely different angle and preferred to flirt with the landlady.
Far from being flustered, the other quickly got to the point.
« If it's ass and tits you want, my lord, I have girls for that », the innkeeper stressed.
After that, this Hemp-Hair led them to the common room where a few customers were occupying seats around round tables, a mug of beer in hand and a steaming bowl placed in front of them.
Jaime and his traveling companion chose to sit a little apart from this gathering. Lannister carefully avoided the glances that were not failing to land on them.
As usual, Bronn showed complete indifference and without worrying about what « they would say », he placed his feet on the table. This simple gesture had the effect of irritating Jaime Lannister.
« Have some decorum », Jaime snapped. « Otherwise, we risk being thrown out of here before we even have time to swallow anything. »
Ah, how he hated moments when Bronn behaved like that. Despite everything, the person in question did not seem to be moved by this warning from the fugitive.
« Let them try », Bronn retorted defiantly. « I'm not sure anyone in this rotten dump really knows how to handle a sword. »
Jaime sighed mentally, aware that he couldn't expect wisdom from his companion. Nevertheless, it was time for him to get answers about the latter's motivations.
« Why did you follow me here? »
With a sweeping gesture of his hand, he didn't just point to the establishment in which they were both taking shelter, but this corner of Westeros to which his flight had led him.
At the same time, he saw Bronn eye him for a short while. After that, and with his incredibly infuriating sardonic air, the latter hastened to enlighten him.
« For your handsome Lannister eyes », the knight asserted.
Jaime remained perfectly stoic in the face of this remark made in a mocking tone. Jaime was really not in the mood for jokes. The sellsword that Bronn had been for a large part of his existence understood perfectly, as he suddenly became much more serious.
« I never believed your sister when she spoke of your treachery. And since you had already left, I understood that it was high time for me to do the same.
Your sister knows we're close and that I'm not loyal to her in any way. So I wanted to avoid having to lose my own head if she ever got the idea to send her pet that follows her everywhere like a good little dog. »
It was undeniable that this description concerned Gregor Clegane, called the Mountain.
However, Bronn added the following words, not without a sardonic smile deforming his facial features.
« And besides, I have a feeling that you're going to be worth a big pile of pretty gold coins to me. »
And there it was, he thought darkly, without real surprise. Bronn and his insatiable appetite for gold, as well as an ever-growing interest in grand things, like owning his own domain for example.
Jaime had promised him a new one, as well as a much more advantageous match with a wife from a more noble and great family than the woman who had preceded her.
Bronn had given that up once before to follow him to the lands of Dorne. Since then, he had revised his demands upwards. And Jaime had still not been able to get what the other wanted so much. It was not easy to dispose of castles or other lesser strongholds at will.
Besides, Bronn never missed an opportunity to remind him. Even so, the latter's words were not at all to his liking.
« So do you intend to sell me to Cersei and hope in return to get the advantages and favors that you couldn't get through me? »
— Oh no, I don't intend to go back to King's Landing », Bronn replied. « I was more thinking of selling you to that other queen », he continued. « The one who came straight from Essos. »
All this had been said with such a casualness that, for a second, Jaime was tempted to laugh.
Nevertheless, he refrained from it, astonished by such a decision on the part of his sidekick. Although on second thought, he should have expected such a thing, given the personality of his companion who would not hesitate to sell his father and mother if it allowed him to pocket a well-stocked purse.
Jaime stared at him for a long time, waiting for an explanation that did not seem to want to come. This annoyed him to the highest degree. Although in this case, Jaime showed nothing, remaining impassive. In appearance at least.
He therefore urged Bronn to reveal more with a gesture of his golden hand that he kept hidden under his thick black leather glove.
At the same time, they were brought a round loaf of warm bread, as well as a bowl containing chicken swimming in beet juice, pieces of the vegetable in question, and which was accompanied by thin slices of parsleyed potatoes whose taste Jaime soon came to savor.
Well before coming to such a culinary conclusion, the two men broke the crust together, extracting the crumb from the bread to make a trencher.
« You murdered her father », Bronn suddenly reminded him. « With a good sword thrust in the back from what they say.
And she knows that, », he continued as he started to chew. « I'm sure that for that gesture alone, she would give me a nice reward, even if I only brought her your damned Kingslayer head.
What's more, if she comes to learn that Cersei doesn't intend to bring her the promised help against those damned dead, there's no doubt that she'll be happy to get justice by eliminating some Lannister.
Oh, note that she likes your brother. So she'll take the first one from your family that falls into her hands. And I suppose she'll do what she did over there with the Tarlys », he said, pointing to a random spot to the south.
« They say you can still smell them, where she took care of roasting them with her dragon's fire.
Whatever the case, she'll get you, and that's thanks to my very valuable help, to the point that she'll thank me for it as she should. »
Jaime eyed him with a smile, and a furious desire to slap his face came to itch the fingers of his single existing hand.
However, he realized that he felt a certain fear at the words emanating from his companion. Although he had not personally witnessed the killing of Randyll Tarly and his son and heir Dickon, Jaime had nevertheless heard of what had happened.
And the possibility of also ending up that way, burned alive under the breath of one of those monstrous winged creatures, did not please him at all and a grimace that he could hardly hide escaped him.
Bronn didn't miss this facial expression. But he did not seem to be moved by it. Nor did he mind the prospect of having to turn his coat to hand over to the queen of dragons the man with whom he had fought many battles.
Besides, Jaime noted that his right-hand man on the battlefield was not quite finished with his monologue, as he spoke again once he had drained his mug of beer in one go and had ordered a second one by waving the empty container.
« And that's not all », said Bronn as if he hadn't paused for a moment. « Given your history with the Northerners, I think you'd better not go there with a flower on the tip of your sword.
Anyway, I say that, except that I'd happily lead you there with a kick in the ass if those damned Northerners knew how to pay in good gold. Unfortunately… »
He shrugged.
Jaime certainly could have followed this wise warning. Nevertheless, he knew full well that he would not. Jaime had made an oath and he fully intended to keep it no matter what.
And even if he feared the Starks as much as their many taciturn-faced bannermen, he had still helped Sansa Stark by leaving her in the powerful hands of Brienne of Tarth.
Moreover, Jaime was aware that the person in question had become the young woman's protector and could, potentially, represent a key witness to Jaime Lannister's noble intentions.
« If she became the Lady of Winterfell, it's thanks to me », he told himself mentally.
That was certainly not the entire truth, but it nevertheless proved that he was not that deceitful and dishonorable man that everyone saw in him.
If he truly possessed no sense of duty, as some would shout from the rooftops, then Jaime would not have worked in this way while, at the same time, his family was at open war with the Starks and the few loyal lords who supported them.
« Let's say that, as stubborn as you are, you still go there », Bronn said. « What exactly do you intend to do », he asked him. « You don't have an army.
And your poor fighting skills won't make any difference if they accept your help in case a battle has to be fought against those specters. »
Despite the threat of the dead and the chaos they could bring to the entire continent, this last remark was nevertheless made in an amused tone.
He was forced to admit that it was no less the strict truth. With his left hand, Jaime was good for nothing. Although he had trained regularly, especially in the company of the individual who was currently facing him, he was nevertheless fully aware that he could never face an accomplished soldier.
Memories of a relatively recent battle came back to him. During the attack against the Dothraki, Jaime could have easily died there. No, he should have died there. He owed his salvation only to the unforeseen intervention of Dickon Tarly.
That didn't mean, however, that Jaime should admit defeat. After all the trials he had gone through, he intended to do the same thing again. And if possible, succeed in gathering enough men so that when he finally reached Winterfell, he would not have to blush at the perfidy of his sister Cersei.
« I have an army », he asserted.
However, Jaime hoped that would indeed be the case. Otherwise, he would indeed do better to forget this promise and leave the continent of Westeros while he still had the chance.
Far from these lands, far from the living, far from the dead.
Far from Cersei.
Bronn stared at him without blinking. The soldier of fortune did not seem to be fooled for a second.
« An army », he repeated to him. « And where are you going to get this pretty army from? From between the thighs of your dear twin? »
Normally, Jaime Lannister would have straightened up sharply to make Bronn pay for his imprudence.
Today, however, he settled for a long silence, surprising himself by trying in vain to picture such a scene. Failing to do so, Jaime returned to the main subject of their discussion.
« I left a strong garrison at Riverrun », he maintained. « These men are loyal to me and they will accompany me to the North if I give them the order. »
He kept his lips closed for half a dozen seconds before mentioning what he believed to be the most grotesque part of his plan.
« I also intend to ask Lord Edmure Tully for his help. »
This was information that left his interlocutor dubious. Even so, and after a minute without a sound and after having swallowed half of the potatoes he had left, Bronn finally spoke.
« I hope you know what you're doing », the knight whispered. « I suppose I don't need to remind you of the number of people who don't hold you in their hearts and who feel nothing but contempt as soon as Ser Jaime Lannister is mentioned. »
The person in question took on a disillusioned tone when it was his turn to respond to this assertion.
« I imagine all of this could apply to all the inhabitants of Westeros. »
Though he feigned indifference, the fact remained that this truth was all the more sad for him, who, when he was younger, had hoped that the world would remember his chivalrous deeds.
« Except for your sister », Bronn retorted, his eyes laughing. « Even the Gods know how much she loved to offer you her cunt. »
This impertinence. Again. Bronn must have really known he was at rock bottom to be so intent on belittling him without feeling the slightest bit of guilt.
« Well », Jaime articulated as he stood up, « if I were to truly fail in my mission, I presume I'll have no other choice but to have you bring my head to my dear twin. From then on, I'm sure that after that, it's to you she'll open her thighs. »
After that, and thoroughly furious with his companion, Jaime strode away, leaving the room under the sardonic gaze of Bronn.
Chapter 3: The arrival at White Harbor. (Jon Snow)
Summary:
Jon Snow confronts doubts and his past with Ygritte. Arriving at White Harbor with Daenerys, he pledges loyalty to the Dragon Queen, but faces Lord Manderly's and Northmen's reluctance, highlighting the difficult alliance ahead.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THREE: THE ARRIVAL AT WHITE HARBOR. (JON SNOW)
The air all around him smelled of salty sea spray, as it had for many days, while the ship, on which Jon Snow stood at the prow, sailed in the Bite.
The marine fragrances were not the only ones permeating the atmosphere, as winter notes also pierced through, demonstrating that this terrible season, prophesied in its time by his father Lord Eddard Stark, was indeed present across the entire continent.
But more than anything, it was her scent that seemed to fill his dilated nostrils. Even though the main person concerned by this assertion was not nearby.
Still, for Jon, she was in a way. With eyelids closed, he could even visualize her as he perceived the sweet perfume emanating from her radiant, long blonde hair, almost white, as well as the very particular aroma of her skin and the softness of every part of her body.
His eyes still veiled, Snow wore a slight smile, one that would surprise many members of his entourage to see him react this way, while in his mind, memories of the night he had spent with Daenerys resurfaced, as both had finally succumbed to the powerful sexual attraction they felt for each other.
Jon thus savored his reminiscences for the necessary time.
And if it had to come to that, the fact of reliving everything through thought, it was for a very simple reason. Indeed, since then, there had been no more carnal embraces between the two young people.
It was certainly not for lack of ardent desire, proof of which were his waking dreams, as well as his feverish demeanor when he stood alone in her presence.
Simply, Jon preferred to remain cautious. Fortunately, Daenerys, of House Targaryen, seemed to have understood this. At least, that's what Jon Snow liked to believe.
After all, it was important to prevent the other passengers aboard the ship from learning about their nascent relationship.
Taking advantage of this moment of respite offered to him, Jon nevertheless questioned himself about her. If he truly decided to take the plunge and openly commit to Daenerys, where would that lead him?
He had chosen to bend the knee some time ago, following the dangerous mission he had undertaken beyond the Wall, in northern regions, thus making Daenerys his queen while he himself was already the King in the North.
His own title no longer being relevant, Jon knew that there was still one thing that made any relationship with the young woman from Essos impossible: his bastard status.
And Eddard Stark's son strongly suspected that for Daenerys, being noble by birth, it would simply be inconceivable for a sovereign like her to marry someone of his ilk, even if their mutual feelings were the most sincere.
Snow could well be the illegitimate son of one of Westeros' greatest lords, now deceased, that changed nothing of this bitter reality.
Nor did highlighting the fact that for a time, he was the monarch chosen by the Stark bannermen shortly after what everyone now called the Battle of the Bastards.
If inevitably something were to happen between her and him—not a long story—then Jon imagined that the term that would best describe it and correspond to the reality of things would be that of a fleeting romance.
Certainly, it would only be a fleeting episode in his existence, given that Daenerys would eventually marry a good match, although Jon wondered if there were still powerful enough families in Westeros to offer a husband worthy of the Dragon Queen.
Whatever, deep down. Jon had no choice but to accept that he would not be the one to share the rest of his days with the beautiful Daenerys Targaryen.
********************
Returning to the present moment, Jon Snow glanced over his right shoulder. He wanted to make sure that the person he was thinking of was not nearby.
If Dany, or rather Queen Daenerys, he mentally corrected himself, intended to choose the path of folly and reveal their newly blossoming story—something she was careful not to share with him regarding her intentions—then Jon knew he would have to put an end to it.
And to officially confirm this difficult choice, he would have to find an opportunity for a private tête-à-tête with the young woman.
His nascent feelings for Daenerys had scared him from the beginning, he who had never believed he would again feel anything for anyone. Not after Ygritte, the wildling woman from beyond the Wall.
But still, Jon had to stick to the decision he had made, even if he loathed himself for this choice imposed by reason. Daenerys certainly deserved to be loved.
Nevertheless, she deserved far better than a mere Northern bastard. Moreover, his hesitations also stemmed from the ghosts of his past.
Ygritte had been the first woman he had loved. Truly loved. Not like what he imagined he felt for those young maidens back when he was just an adolescent in Winterfell.
Ygritte, with whom he had his first experience within the damp and warm walls of that cave, and where both would have ultimately been better off staying if they had known all the terrible trials fate would force them to endure.
« You know nothing, Jon Snow. »
Just by closing his eyelids once more, Jon Snow could hear her voice again, see her face and that smile that had made him melt, able to redraw the curves of her body as she revealed herself to him in her simplest attire. Jon also saw her flaming mane, « kissed by fire » as the wildlings so well put it.
Their happiness, however, had been short-lived. Indeed, Ygritte was dead. In his arms. An arrow, shot by young Olly, had pierced her from behind and perforated her heart.
A memory still as painful, causing a shiver that had nothing to do with the surrounding cold. Even after all this time, the scene remained strikingly clear in his mind.
The moment before, Ygritte had drawn her bowstring, her arrow pointed in Jon's direction. The next moment she extinguished forever while he held her in his arms, not without the wildling having uttered to him one last time those familiar words that still resonated within him.
Yes, Jon knew nothing. In that, Ygritte was entirely right. He loved another woman today, had loved another and whose events had stolen Ygritte from him.
And yet, he still didn't know how to deal with his own feelings. Nor did he know if he had the right to desire this happiness, or even to claim it for himself.
********************
Suddenly, a voice resonated behind him, pulling him from his thoughts and momentarily chasing away both the ghosts of his past and those of his present.
« According to the captain, we'll soon reach White Harbor. »
The tone left no doubt as to the identity of his interlocutor. In this case, it was Tyrion Lannister. A friend of Jon and also Queen Daenerys Targaryen's Hand.
The Dwarf of Casterly Rock joined him on the deck, glancing over the railing. His small stature barely allowed him to distinguish what was happening beyond, as he just cleared the four-foot high wooden railing.
Nevertheless, Tyrion was far from bothered by such details and had superbly ignored the sailors who had not hesitated to mock him during the long crossing aimed at bringing them to their final destination.
Whatever the case, Tyrion's statement was utterly useless as the coast was already looming in the distance, a thin line barely visible on the horizon. Tywin Lannister's youngest child was not quite finished, as he immediately declared:
« We should arrive in the early hours of the night. The captain, however, regrets the lack of wind to speed things up. I fear he's eager to see us disembark and get back to sea quickly, without having to fear the dragons flying over us whenever we hug the coast. »
Jon nodded.
Certainly, he himself was eager to reach the North as quickly as possible, though he also dreaded it. After all, he had been chosen as king and had left his lands as sovereign of all Northmen, and that, when he had decided to meet the Dragon Queen.
A pondered and enacted decision, for Jon had seen it as an opportunity to forge a powerful alliance. Moreover, Dragonstone, the ancestral Targaryen stronghold, was overflowing with dragonglass that would prove necessary in the fight against the dead.
But Jon was no longer king now and was returning as a mere lord. No, as a mere bastard, having no real claim to such a title due to his bastardy known through his surname Snow.
Yet, Daenerys had indeed offered to proclaim him the new Warden of the North. However, Jon had refused this offer and felt unworthy of such power.
An assertion all the truer as his people were about to discover that he had bent the knee. He would therefore entrust this responsibility to his sister Sansa. Besides the fact that she was a true Stark, she was well-liked by all, and as far as he could tell, she would be capable of serving in that role.
Moreover, the Stark bannermen and other loyal allies might be more inclined to turn to one of Eddard Stark's legitimate children rather than a mere bastard whose mother was unknown to all and had probably been a woman of low birth in her lifetime.
Thus, it was neither as a lord nor as a king that he was about to set foot on the cold lands of the North. And his first mission would be to make the Stark bannermen accept the decision he had made.
Then, it would be their turn to be convinced of the merits of his decision and to follow his example for having chosen Daenerys as their legitimate sovereign.
Nevertheless, there was one thing Jon knew, regardless of what Ygritte might have said on the matter. Indeed, Northmen were proud, stubborn people known for not easily bending the knee.
After all, as it was well said in that part of the continent of Westeros, the North remembers. And surely, everyone remembered the fatal outcome that awaited Lord Rickard Stark and Brandon Stark, respectively his own father Eddard's father and elder brother.
Tyrion Lannister, still standing to his left, turned his eyes towards him. He seemed to notice that trouble inhabited him, and appeared able to determine exactly what preoccupied him.
« I know how arduous the task awaiting you will be, Jon. If I can do anything to help you, tell me. »
Jon stared at his friend. Half a dozen seconds passed, before he spoke.
« There's nothing you can do. I made this decision in good conscience, because it seemed to me to be the best thing to do for the North, for my people. »
It was tacit that Jon was referring to having given up his crown. Tyrion was not fooled, understanding very well the subject of the discussion taking place between them.
Seeing that the Lannister dwarf was opening his mouth, Jon quickly preempted him by continuing his momentum.
« I don't regret it. However, I must prepare myself to face the consequences this implies for my people.
Unfortunately, I fear it will be difficult to convince them of the merits of my choices and to bring them to accept Daenerys Targaryen as their legitimate sovereign. »
The two men then gazed at the horizon, where the coasts of the North were barely visible, their outlines remaining indistinct due to the distance that still separated them from these emerging lands.
Finally, Tyrion Lannister opened up to Snow and inquired of him.
« And will they eventually do it? »
Jon thought for a few moments before formulating an answer, a word that didn't fully satisfy him.
« With difficulty. »
To tell the truth, Jon wasn't entirely sure that anyone in the North would accept bending the knee, even if a period of adaptation would prove necessary for them to get to know Daenerys Targaryen better.
Here, her family had been hated ever since King Aerys, the second of his name, had condemned Lord Rickard Stark to be roasted alive, while his son Brandon was inexorably strangled by the rope around his neck, as he desperately struggled to help his father.
Daenerys could well prove different from the Mad King. From what Jon knew, the young woman's actions proved well enough that she differed from the former sovereign.
Nevertheless, she was about to land in the North, accompanied by two enormous dragons as well as powerful armies from beyond the Narrow Sea, which were now coming up the Kingsroad.
Yet, Jon Snow was fully aware of the importance of having such forces by their side when their true enemy, the Night King, would appear.
Indeed, he commanded the largest concentration of troops that any kingdom would ever possess. Only the unity of the great houses of Westeros, as well as the smaller ones, would give the living hope of survival against the dead.
Simply, and to achieve this, the North would have to put aside its resentment and agree to accept Daenerys as their legitimate queen.
« They will, » Tyrion affirmed calmly.
Everything in the tone used, as well as in the adopted attitude, testified to the conviction he brought to his assertion and which resulted from the faith he felt towards the young woman.
« They'll eventually love her, » Lannister maintained. « Just as you do yourself, Jon Snow. »
The bastard of Winterfell tried to remain stoic. Yet, his discomfort seemed more than obvious. A conclusion that struck him when he heard the dwarf burst out laughing, though it was done without a hint of malice.
« You honestly thought no one on this ship had noticed anything? Ah Jon, you really know nothing. »
Disturbed by such words emanating directly from Tyrion, Jon Snow found himself unable to formulate any response to this remark.
Thus, Eddard's son simply watched his counterpart, who was already walking away on the deck, while on the horizon, the coasts continued to slowly approach, but inexorably.
********************
Night had fallen a few minutes ago, revealing skies dotted with stars and a three-quarter moon.
Meanwhile, a half-dozen sailors were busy on the ship. They moored the galleon to the dock that lay just a few steps away.
All the passengers had taken the opportunity to gather on the deck, preparing to disembark on dry land.
« Fucking hell, it’s about time. »
Sandor Clegane’s voice reached him—but Jon didn’t care to dwell on the feelings of the burned-faced giant, who never minced words to speak his mind.
For his part, Snow deliberately stood apart from Daenerys and the captivating scent that emanated from her. If everyone on the ship truly knew what had happened between the queen and him, it was a safe bet the Northmen would eventually get wind of it, should the news spread by word of mouth.
That was a prospect that did not please him at all. Thus, his decision was already made. He had to maintain the decision he had previously made regarding his relationship with Daenerys.
And the sooner he resigned himself to it, the better things would go for the future, Jon was convinced.
In the end, and after five more interminable minutes had passed, Jon and the rest of the company were all able to step ashore.
Before them, a small group of about twenty individuals had come to greet them. One of them, a stout man with a ruddy face, white hair, and a beard of the same color, stepped forward to meet them before kneeling. These people readily imitated him.
Inwardly, and at first, Jon felt both a sense of satisfaction and relief. If one of the powerful lords of the North, namely Manderly, immediately accepted Daenerys as their sovereign, then perhaps there were some signs that the same would apply to the other Stark bannermen.
Nevertheless, his hopes were quickly dashed when he realized that this gesture of fealty was addressed to himself, and not to the Dragon Queen.
« My King, » Lord Manderly ceremoniously declared. « I hope your journey was good and uneventful. »
Jon felt a deep sense of unease and could not help but watch Daenerys's reaction.
Curiously, she showed no gesture that proved she had detected an offense against her person. Only Jorah Mormont, a Northman by birth but Daenerys's loyal companion, showed clear irritation at this scene, though he held his tongue.
Jon knew what he had to do. So he set about it without delay.
« I am no longer your sovereign, » he protested.
He had addressed Manderly in a tone loud enough for his words to reach each of the individuals also present. Jon was like that, he could not lie about such a serious matter.
After that, with his right hand, he pointed to the young blonde-haired woman.
The main person concerned then took a step forward, and the light from the braziers, placed here and there to illuminate not only the port but the city as well, radiated onto the face of the one who had crossed the Narrow Sea several weeks earlier with the aim of claiming what was hers by birthright.
« From this day forward, » the bastard of Winterfell began, « your legitimate queen is Daenerys, of House Targaryen. »
Seeing the stupefaction that spread across the face of the Stark family's loyal servant, Jon realized that the man felt a certain form of betrayal from the one he had called his « king » for what Jon's words implied.
Moreover, Lord Manderly made no attempt to contradict this, as he stammered in response.
« You… Are you telling us that you have bent the knee? But… Sire… I just… »
Unable to continue, Manderly decided it was better to be silent than to stammer disconnected words. Nevertheless, he straightened up to his full height, puffed out his imposing chest, and stared Daenerys directly in the eyes.
For a long time.
As if openly defying her, Snow noted.
As for the latter, he glanced at each of the men belonging to the city of White Harbor.
« I understand that my choice may seem inconsequential to you, » he began. « And I know your reluctance to trust the Targaryen family, as well as the harm they may have caused in ancient times.
However, I beg you to believe that I am acting in the interest of the North by doing so. From this day, you should see me only as a simple lord and no longer the monarch you chose several moons ago. »
Just like Manderly, who had stood up, his subjects followed his example. The local lord stared at Jon, an expression of clear hostility gaining ground.
« Are we then obliged to bend the knee as you were quick to do? » he questioned.
Even if he tried in vain to show respect in the tone he used, in Snow's ears, there was no doubt that the other now saw him only as the bastard of Winterfell.
In which he was mistaken, although he could not know it, Manderly's behavior being dictated primarily by the shock received from Jon's speech earlier.
« I must admit, » the local lord continued, « that it will not be as easy for me to resign myself to it. After all, we all know how unworthy the Targaryens are of ruling Westeros and its seven kingdoms, not to mention the trouble we had dislodging them from the Iron Throne. »
This time, Jon understood that their host had gone too far in the affront made against Daenerys and her ancestors, without however doing so directly to the person concerned, when he noticed that Jorah had just drawn his sword.
Mormont was not the only one to do so, as he was immediately imitated by Wyman Manderly's personal guard. The situation was clearly about to escalate, and Jon dreaded seeing blood spilled. Something he disapproved of, because every man who fell would be one less fighter to oppose the Night King's forces.
However, and before the blades came into action, Daenerys stepped forward and spoke.
« Peace, Jorah, » she commanded. « We did not come to the North to spill the blood of its inhabitants. »
Jon mentally approved these words, which were close to his own thoughts. Words that proved that the queen had come to this place with noble intentions towards the Northmen. It only remained to hope that they would similarly understand her words.
Unfortunately, it quickly became apparent that Mormont, being the good Northman he was, proved stubborn and would not yield regarding the affront his sovereign had just suffered.
And although Jeor's son was clearly outnumbered, Jorah seemed ready to fight to the end to defend Daenerys's honor.
Jon noticed that Tyrion Lannister was glaring at Jorah, seemingly flashing lightning while addressing him at the same time.
« Do as your queen commands, Mormont. »
The hand, however, remained gripped to the pommel of his greatsword. Time around the group then seemed to suspend its course, everyone waiting to see how things would unfold.
It was not, however, until two more minutes had passed, heavy with a tension more than palpable for all the protagonists, that Jorah Mormont finally obeyed, though he maintained a taciturn expression.
Jon let out a sigh of relief, promising himself that when they arrived at Winterfell, he would act with more circumspection so as not to repeat such a situation.
In the end, Jon, as well as all those who accompanied him, saw Lord Manderly bow, without, however, kneeling.
« As you wish, Sire. »
And he added immediately, turning this time towards the young woman.
« Your Grace. »
Jon had always known the Manderlys to be a family loyal to the Starks, having been driven from the Reach and settled where the mighty city of White Harbor now stands. And the fact that the lord did not seem inclined to reject this centuries-old allegiance following Jon's decision to bend the knee, Snow was relieved.
The defection of the Stark bannermen was indeed a point he would avoid seeing happen, as division could only benefit the Night King and his terrible legions of wights.
In any case, Wyman Manderly imperiously gestured to his guards to step aside and clear the way for their distinguished guests. After that, Jon and Daenerys's entire group was led to the castle of the master of the place.
Along the way, Jon noticed that many inhabitants were watching them pass, mumbling words he could not distinguish. Despite the late hour, it appeared that every resident of the hamlet expected to catch a glimpse of the queen.
The most curious among them, or the most worried, depending on the individual, even looked up at the sky, searching for those famous dragons whose rumors of their existence had circulated.
However, that was not the only thing Jon noticed by the light of the torches placed here and there on the walls of the buildings, fixed in their sconces, as well as the braziers that were lit on the ramparts of White Harbor.
Here and there, as Jon could see, improvements had been made to enhance the defense of the port city.
Whether it was the height of the dikes or the towers that had been erected, whether it was the wall, admittedly quite modest in size, but now thick enough to contain hypothetical enemies coming from the land, Jon declared himself satisfied with the result.
Moreover, he also judged that this could prove more than necessary in the event that the dead came this far. Fortunately, and for the moment, the Ice Wall still held, preventing tens of thousands of wights from pouring into Westeros.
« I appreciate the care you've taken in protecting White Harbor, » he murmured to his host.
Manderly bowed deferentially before formulating a response.
« It's better for us to remain cautious these days. Our enemies are everywhere, Sire. »
It was evident that their host had no intention of ceasing to address Jon in this manner to make it clear that he recognized only one king in this world and that no so-called queen was capable of boasting about changing anything.
No matter, Snow was aware that there was far more urgent business than raising this defiant attitude. Like getting to Winterfell, and that, as quickly as possible.
Nevertheless, he remained quite lucid about this very unpleasant truth to hear: the journey he intended to undertake would not take place for two days, enough time for everything to be ready and for Daenerys's forces to have reached White Harbor.
********************
For now, only the path taken within the town's main street continued. The path stretched before Daenerys's company and the escort granted to her. It now climbed a slight incline. The damp cobblestones testified to recent snow, but now melted.
In the distance, and at the same time, the silhouette of the master's castle emerged, continuously growing larger as they approached.
And although Lord Manderly proved as courteous as possible throughout their journey, his foot soldiers made no secret of their defiance, encircling the entire committee too closely, while keeping an eye on Daenerys, Tyrion, Jorah, as well as the few Unsullied soldiers present.
For his part, Jorah Mormont kept his hand prominently on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw it from its scabbard if events were to turn sour. A strong tension still existed, and only four individuals seemed oblivious to it all.
Lord Davos was talking with Brienne of Tarth. Whatever these two people were saying, Jon heard not a single word. As for Sandor Clegane, better known by the moniker the Hound, he stood back, sporting an expression mixed with indifference and contempt. No one seemed to want to pick a quarrel with him.
And lastly came Varys, the Spider. There too, no one dared approach him. In fact, the city's residents seemed wary of him. At the same time, the man himself kept casting his inquisitive eyes on everything around him. He was certainly soaking up every piece of information that reached him, even that which would escape anyone else. He would undoubtedly seek to profit from it.
Whatever the case, Jon therefore had to play the conciliator to prevent any spark from igniting a powder keg and causing blood to be shed.
As for the master of the house, his concern was not solely about Daenerys Targaryen and the armies she brought in her wake, though still far from White Harbor.
This source of trouble also centered on the question of the dragons, judging by the incessant glances he cast from time to time towards the darkened skies.
It was a winter night, quite dark, despite the presence of the moon. Apart from the city lights, no one could see where they were stepping.
As for this lack of cloud cover, at least above this old city—for from the North, the sky was slowly beginning to darken—it allowed the enormous flying creatures, which must have been spreading their wings over a thousand feet high, to be distinguished.
Nevertheless, they remained impressive to observe.
Daenerys herself seemed to have also noticed the distress that inhabited Manderly.
« There's no need to fret about my dragons, my lord. I assure you that your city, your subjects, and you yourself have nothing to fear from them or from me. I am here to offer my help to Jon, as well as to all the inhabitants of the North against our true enemy, the one who sits beyond the Wall.
— Let's hope your actions are as sincere as your words, » the other retorted without looking at her. « I am ready to offer you my help if my king commands it. However, do not expect me to call you « My Queen, » or « Your Grace. » »
Jon saw that this time, Daenerys was about to retort.
Not knowing for certain if the young woman would consider the lord's words an affront, or even an act of treason regarding her legitimate sovereignty, Jon sent her a silent message through a nod of his head.
A simple gesture, signifying that no, it was not the time for an argument that would only make Manderly—and by extension future Northern lords—resistant to the authority she hoped to embody.
Chapter 4: The Dragon's Blood. (Jon Snow)
Summary:
In the cold lands of the North, Jon discovers his connection to dragons. And while his origins may be called into question, time is running out, and it's time to move the pieces in the chess game against the Night King.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR: THE DRAGON’S BLOOD. (JON SNOW)
Without quite knowing exactly how or why such a thing came to be, his steps progressively guided him into an open area not far from a small wood whose branches had been stripped of all their leaves for some time already.
And whether he wanted to or not, Jon was now heading in that direction as if it were not his own will dictating his current behavior.
Nonetheless, Jon had just left White Harbor castle, followed shortly after by the very ramparts surrounding the entire city, with the exception, of course, of the segment near the port and the salty sea.
The reception given by their host Manderly, in honor of Daenerys — at least according to the official version served by the local lord — was not something Jon relished.
To be honest, he much preferred a moment of solitude to find himself and be able to think without the wine, freely served by their host, interfering with his silent reflections.
However, if the goal was indeed to isolate himself, he had rather imagined it taking place within the castle apartments that had been assigned to him.
Yet, it was not so. And Jon Snow was now progressing across the terrain that lay before his boots, bundled in his thick black fur. It seemed that since their arrival in this town, Winter had decided to show itself much more biting, as if to remind them that it was high time for them to reach Winterfell.
Indeed, a week had passed since their arrival in White Harbor, a much longer time than Jon had initially anticipated. That is why, after turning to Daenerys to obtain her approval, it had been decreed that this night would be their last in Manderly’s stronghold.
Hence the banquet that was currently taking place and which, despite the increasing distance separating him from the city, carried the notes of music from the instruments the troubadours played to entertain the guests and the lord of the castle.
But for Jon Snow, too much time had been lost lingering here. Especially since, at the same time, Daenerys Targaryen’s armed forces had continued their slow progression north, bifurcating towards Winterfell, contrary to the initial plan, after a raven had been sent to the Unsullied commander to inform them of this decision.
Moreover, concerning those present in White Harbor, they would eventually have to rejoin the armies. And according to the estimations Eddard Stark’s bastard could make, he believed this junction could occur near Moat Cailin.
Finally, it was to be hoped that they would all have broken camp by then. So yes, Tyrion knew the torments that assailed the bastard of Winterfell. However, the dwarf did not appear as worried as the situation demanded, given that, on the horizon, loomed the great war that the living would wage against the hordes of dead progressing in the wake of their creator.
In Tyrion’s own opinion, it would take time for the Unsullied and Dothraki to reach the ruins of Moat Cailin together. Which was not detrimental in itself, given that, as the dwarf had judiciously pointed out, the wights were not about to cross the Wall and therefore all was well.
The only thing that truly mattered, in the Lannister’s opinion, was to convince the Northmen of the wisdom of choosing Daenerys as queen.
Yet, even if Tyrion’s words reminded him that indeed an ice barrier separated the threat from the northern lands of the continent, he couldn’t help but feel overcome by a sense of urgency, though he couldn’t explain it.
Was it because, of everyone, he was the only one who truly knew the extent of what awaited them? And would the Wall protect them forever? From what Jon was able to specify on the subject, no magic could allow the Night King and his minions to pass further south into Westeros.
But was that truly the case? And if the dead believed the time had come and they had waited long enough, would they launch into climbing the icy walls as Jon himself had done in his time?
Unable to answer these questions that tormented him so, Jon preferred to momentarily push them from his mind.
********************
Regardless of the torments, Jon’s walk was not yet over, his strides continuing to crunch the snow.
At the same time, he distractedly noted that he hadn’t warned anyone about his defection. And even if the guards had seen him take a particular direction, and seemed therefore capable of determining where Snow’s steps were leading him, he had to conclude that, should a problem arise, he would be left to himself and therefore feared that misfortune might occur.
« They know me, » he pleaded with certainly relative conviction. « They will never harm me. »
Ah, how he would have loved for that assertion to bring him all the necessary bravery. Nevertheless, and as if to show him that his action was pure folly, words repeated a thousand times and spoken by another’s voice, once again echoed in his skull:
« You know nothing, Jon Snow. »
And while the echo of Ygritte’s words resonated all around him, Jon suddenly perceived another sound. Louder, more terrifying. A roar that seemed to make the very air tremble.
Jon was still glad to be far from White Harbor, but couldn’t help but wonder about the fear the townspeople must experience every time they perceived the presence of the dragons near the town, whether by their cries or by their large and terrifying silhouettes that could be glimpsed as they traversed the northern skies.
His own person, whatever he might declare on the matter, always felt a sense of unease when he stood within these creatures’ range of action.
Yet, to his great astonishment, a part of him had come to feel a certain attraction to these majestic dragons. From where could such an opinion originate regarding these beings capable of roasting him in the blink of an eye should the urge take them to do such things?
As Ygritte with her mischievous tone could very well have told him, he knew nothing.
So Jon decided to delve deeper into this mystery. Upon reflection, the beginnings of this attraction had started, albeit imperceptibly, when he had contact with Drogon, Daenerys’s largest dragon. As if a part of Jon Snow suddenly felt connected to the creature and the reverse was also true.
Naturally, it made no sense whatsoever. He was a Stark, and the Starks had been linked to direwolves and wolves since... Forever, in fact. And in no way were they linked to these flying monsters.
So why, in the dead of night, when he was asleep, did he find himself dreaming that he was riding one of them and savoring the fresh wind whipping his face as together, united as he had never been with his direwolf Ghost, Jon and the dragon flew higher and higher while the world shrank further with each beat of its wings?
Jon mentally shook his head. All these questions were futile. He shouldn’t get so distracted and needed to keep all his thoughts on the Night King, and on the best way to protect the continent of Westeros.
At the same time, he also needed to discover the perfect way to end the existence of these unnatural beings that were the White Walkers and the wights, whether they were once human or wild animals reanimated by the Night King’s magic.
Not to mention the Night King himself.
********************
Five good minutes then passed, when Jon finally reached a fallow field that awaited the return of spring for its next harvests.
And even if the ground was clear, due to the heat of the two dragons that spent most of their time there, snow reigned supreme all around. The earth, for its part, appeared muddy because of the melting that had occurred where the creatures dominated the territory they had been confined to.
Jon then noticed the presence of one of them. The other had probably gone hunting for game. At all hazards, Jon scanned the skies to make sure he wasn’t the prey. When he was certain that Drogon couldn’t appear unexpectedly, he focused on his brother.
There, Rhaegal rested. The creature seemed half-asleep, and the carcasses of several bovines testified that he had eaten more than enough. Had Drogon, his brother, also participated in this feast? Probably, but he needed more to fill his stomach, Jon realized.
For the second time, Snow contemplated the blanket of darkness above him. The moon gleamed in the sky, lighting it enough for Jon to distinguish Drogon’s form if he were to reveal himself openly.
However, the stars revealed nothing of the dragon, who had undoubtedly gone in search of his share of meat, or perhaps to explore this completely unfamiliar territory.
In any case, even if the moon didn't allow him to distinguish Drogon's presence or absence — and even if it had allowed Jon to move there without too much trouble — he still would have appreciated the blazing glow of a torch.
Indeed, it would have allowed him to better distinguish Rhaegal's silhouette, and especially to anticipate any movement of the beast, in case it decided to make him its next meal.
The dragon then suddenly raised its wide scaly maw and stared at him unblinkingly. Jon froze in return and did not avert his own eyes.
The other seemed to gauge him for long seconds before suddenly spewing a jet of flames onto the carcasses, which caught fire. The blaze then gave Jon the light he had just mentally begged for.
Troubled, Jon stared at Rhaegal. Could it be that, in one way or another, the other had perceived Snow's expectations?
« I doubt a dragon thinks like a man, » he chastised himself. « He can't know I need light and decide to provide it to me through his own flames. »
Still, he took another step towards the dragon. The dragon was still gazing at him intently, without blinking its large reptilian eyelids once.
Its large wings were folded along its body, so it seemed that it had no intention of taking flight in the immediate future. Jon even had the distinct impression that the other had been expecting such a visit from him.
All of a sudden, Jon removed one of his gloves, the one on his right hand, eager to repeat the experience of touching one of these impressive and majestic creatures.
He had already succeeded with Drogon. So why couldn't it be the same with Rhaegal? What's more, the beast was much smaller than its brother, Jon Snow reflected, in order to give himself a little more courage for his approach.
Jon knew he was lying to himself. No matter the size of a dragon, one had to be mad to think it was possible to approach them without feeling any fear, unlike the fear that was currently flowing through every vein in his body.
Despite their majestic appearance, dragons still represented an unparalleled threat in Westeros. Well, if Jon excepted the Night King, of course.
Nevertheless, minutes ticked by, and his hesitation still made him waver, wondering whether he should establish direct contact between his cold skin and Rhaegal’s warm scales.
In the end, it was Rhaegal who began to move, approaching Jon Snow heavily. Its wings still folded along its body, it extended its neck to reduce the distance separating it from the human.
There, the dragon let out a soft growl, without, however, seeming hostile towards its nocturnal visitor.
Nonetheless, there was no way he would take his eyes off Rhaegal, not for a fraction of a second. If he did, Jon feared he would end up carbonized under the burning jet of flames the other would undoubtedly spit at him without further ado.
A part of Jon realized that it wasn't so much the prospect of his own demise that disturbed him by acting this way, unconsciously, without anyone else knowing of his presence in this remote place.
No, what he feared more were the consequences that would result.
Indeed, if he were to perish here and now, and the Northmen learned how it happened, the people of the North would surely attribute this responsibility to Daenerys and the alliance Jon wished to establish between the inhabitants of the southern lands of Westeros and the last representative of House Targaryen would never happen.
Men would then be more divided than ever, and when the army of thousands of dead soldiers arrived, nothing and no one would be able to counter this threat due to these dissensions that would have gone against the unity he valued so much.
Whatever happened, it was also highly probable that none of this dark prophecy uttered by Snow about his demise by dragonfire would come to pass.
After all, the last time he had found himself in a similar situation, standing before Drogon, Jon recalled the sequence of events that had occurred then.
Certainly, the creature had, at first, revealed its disproportionately large fangs — especially if Jon were to compare them to Ghost’s teeth — but in the end, the dragon had shown a certain contentment when Jon had stroked its snout.
At least, if such a thing was even possible for that type of fantastic monster.
Quickly, he seemed to take it for granted that the course of present events would be similar this time too. Assuredly, Jon could testify that Rhaegal offered no refusal when contact was made with the cold palm of his right hand. The animal even seemed to seek to prolong this strange communion that linked them both.
Curiously, and for only a fraction of a second, Jon had the foolish vision of a gigantic cat, albeit with equally immense wings, that suddenly began to purr. Jon mentally forced himself to shake his head to avoid being swayed by such stupid ideas.
And suddenly, the dragon shook itself, before unfolding its left wing, then folding it back, so that it seemed to Jon that it was an invitation to take a seat on its scaly back.
Jon couldn't hide his astonishment at such an action from his counterpart.
« I can’t ride you, » he justified reluctantly. « I am not a Targaryen. »
No, he declared to himself, he was just a bastard, the illegitimate son of Eddard Stark.
As for his mother, Jon knew nothing. Neither her name, nor what she had looked like when she had been alive. Only his father would have been able to describe this mysterious woman precisely to him.
But he could be convinced of one thing: Jon would not have seen Eddard betray his wife, Lady Catelyn, with a Targaryen, while at the same time actively participating in the open rebellion against that ancient family originating from Valyria.
Nonetheless, Jon noted that the dragon did not seem inclined to be satisfied with the justification Snow had provided for not riding him. Indeed, the beast flapped its wing, but with a little more urgency.
Jon still hesitated, tormented by his own feelings. He certainly possessed an ardent desire to take a seat on the creature’s back. However, he feared what would happen once he launched into the air and the glacial cold that must hover high above the treetops.
Ygritte might well mock him, but Jon still knew absolutely nothing about navigating a dragon. And the only one who could have enlightened him on the matter was Daenerys.
However, Jon found it hard to imagine going to find the young woman to urge her to clarify how he should properly maneuver Rhaegal.
« These are her dragons, her children. They do not belong to me. I have no right to ride them. »
The words were spoken aloud and his breath steamed in the milky moonlight, and under the orange aura of the flames still consuming the bovine carcasses.
Rhaegal emitted a growl, as if in response to the uttered words. Jon looked at him.
« No, I cannot, » he affirmed in a firmer tone.
He wouldn't do it. And if, for appearances, he had to give in to this sudden impulse that had seized him, and if someone were to notice his little aerial stunt, it would surely raise a host of questions.
Would his allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen prevail over the one he owed to his own, meaning both the Starks and the people of the North?
This was indeed a question Jon feared would cross the lips of the Northmen. He was certainly a Stark, but he nevertheless had a duty to unite with House Targaryen to fight the Night King.
« But not like this. Not by rising on a dragon's back. »
He had just turned halfway around to return to White Harbor, and in the process had taken three deliberate strides to stick to his resolutions, when Jon received a blow to the back. It wasn't a strong blow, but it was enough to make him fall to the ground, where he sprawled out.
Instantly, Jon Snow reached for the hilt of Longclaw, his Valyrian steel bastard sword. He was already ready to draw it, when he realized what it was.
It was Rhaegal who, with his snout, had pushed him. The gesture had not been made with the intention of hurting him, the former King in the North realized, but rather to tell him that no, he had no excuse not to accept climbing that wide reptilian wing and taking a seat on the green-scaled back.
Jon got up slowly and with difficulty, feeling somewhat humiliated by the current situation. After clearing the dirt and white powder clinging to the black fur of his garment, Jon stood facing the dragon, whom he stared at darkly.
Far from being moved, the other flapped its imposing wing once more.
« Very well, » Snow conceded grudgingly.
He loosened his grip on his sword and carefully placed his foot on a scale, assessing if he could put his full weight on it without risking hurting the dragon. The dragon did not seem to mind in the slightest what must have amounted to a fly. Rhaegal simply waited without making a sound.
Slightly emboldened, Jon resumed his movements. A part of him felt that, from the beginning, it was the dragon that dictated each of his decisions, rather than him having made them himself, consciously.
Jon barely had time to sit in a posture he considered to be the most comfortable possible—the dragon had no saddle adapted to its disproportionate rump—when Rhaegal shook itself, unfurled its wings, as voluminous as the sails of a warship, and then took off to reach the cold winter atmosphere.
Never had Jon believed he would feel such a thrill. The glacial air had nothing to do with the sensation that overwhelmed him entirely with each beat of his gargantuan mount.
Jon felt exhilarated by the speed with which he moved through the skies, and was even more astonished to realize that he felt no trace of any fear.
Several minutes passed thus, while Rhaegal soared so high in the sky that Jon could only distinguish a blurred patch on the ground.
« Easy, easy, » he tried to articulate, his teeth chattering.
By the Old Gods, how did Daenerys endure such extreme temperatures? Even wearing fur, Jon felt completely naked.
The problem was that the dragon continued its ascent without for a moment showing any desire to reverse the trend. Jon wondered if he should use his heels to prod the creature's flanks, and thus dictate its behavior, or if Rhaegal obeyed vocal commands, simple words that would serve as injunctions to go right, left, up, down.
From the little he knew, which was damn little, dragons understood Valyrian, an ancient language Daenerys had used when Jon stood beside her on Dragonstone.
However, he was unable to recall any word she might have used in his presence.
Concentrating to recall his memories, an echo of words resonated in his old head. However, he refrained from speaking them aloud.
Eddard’s son did not believe he could repeat them perfectly, and feared that the dragon would misunderstand his intentions and execute the exact opposite of what Jon expected of him.
So, at all hazards, the young man judged it appropriate to use nothing more nor less than the Common Tongue.
« Descend, » he ordered in a tone he intended to be firm.
But the chattering of his teeth made the word incomprehensible to his own ears.
It did not seem to be the same for his mount, and Jon felt his stomach lurch when the dragon suddenly plunged downwards. This sensation disappeared almost immediately, and instead of fear, Jon felt exhilarated as no wine ever could have made him feel.
For the first time in a long time, Jon let out a burst of laughter. A reaction that surprised even himself.
As if Rhaegal came to share a similar joy, the dragon began to spin, thereby prompting Jon Snow to cling tightly so as not to fall in what would surely be a fatal plunge, despite the white powder that could have served as a mattress if the layer had not been thinner than the snowdrifts one could find much further north of here.
And where Jon would have been justified in feeling pure panic in the face of the creature's dizzying speed, he realized that his exhilaration was intensifying. And to think that a few minutes earlier, Jon dreaded this prospect at the idea of embarking on this brand new adventure.
Several seconds then passed, before finally, Jon Snow decided to guide his mount towards the lands stretching below. Rhaegal landed heavily before bending its wing as a stepping stone. Jon felt his legs tremble somewhat when his boots trod on the soggy ground where the snow had melted.
By the Old Gods, his thoughts began, he had never felt so good. He finally understood why Daenerys so enjoyed her escapades alongside Drogon.
All of a sudden, and just as he had come to stroke Rhaegal’s neck, a voice rose, pulling him out of his thoughts that were rushing through his head.
In the cold, wintry night, Eddard Stark’s bastard recognized astonishment in the tone of the voice.
« Jon? »
********************
His name still seemed to resonate in the cold air surrounding him. Jon then closed his eyes.
It was her.
Daenerys.
Jon had recognized her instantly. And as he turned around, he had confirmation that it was indeed the Queen of Dragons.
She was perched atop her own mount, gazing down at Eddard’s illegitimate son as though she couldn’t believe what she had just witnessed.
Jon suddenly realized that there was a good chance Daenerys had been present from the beginning. She had probably been there since he arrived in the clearing and, too focused on Rhaegal, he hadn’t bothered to scan the ground level properly. He had wrongly assumed Drogon was somewhere in the skies, alone.
Jon could have felt a pang of guilt at being caught red-handed, taking off on Rhaegal’s back. Yet, to his own surprise, he felt nothing of the sort.
It was as if he acknowledged that a bond had just been formed between this creature and himself. And every part of his reason told him this truth: he was meant to ride a dragon.
As for Daenerys, the young woman gracefully leapt down from Drogon’s back, and the beast didn’t waste a second before soaring back into the sky, soon followed by his little brother.
The two humans watched them perform their airborne dance for nearly a minute—a choreography known only to them—before finally turning their attention back to one another.
Jon stared at Daenerys, waiting with apprehension for her to share her thoughts.
« It’s very strange, » she said in a voice barely audible. « I’ve never seen my dragons behave this way with anyone. Drogon allowing you to touch him. And now Rhaegal letting you ride him.
It is, I must say, it’s simply...
— Incredible, » Jon Snow finished.
Daenerys watched him as if she were trying to search the deepest secrets hidden within his soul. Jon decided to hold her gaze as best he could.
As if a connection had just been made between the two of them, he suddenly felt he had an idea of what she might be wondering but dared not speak aloud.
Could he be a Targaryen? After all, only members of that illustrious family had ever been able to ride a dragon. But Jon knew the answer.
No, it was simply impossible that he could be one. And nothing could contradict that certainty by proving otherwise—even if he did feel a special connection with the dragon Rhaegal.
« Your mother, » Daenerys finally began in a barely audible whisper.
Without managing to finish her sentence.
Jon could see just how deeply shaken the would-be Queen of the Iron Throne was by everything she had just witnessed. He so wished he could share with her the joy of what he had just experienced.
To share that overwhelming sensation—that of soaring above the world. To do so at a speed far beyond any mount ever tamed by man since the dawn of time.
But seeing Jon on a dragon obviously raised many questions, and answers were expected to illuminate the mystery.
So, the bastard of Eddard Stark slowly stepped toward the young woman, each movement deliberate. He then reached out, ready to take her left hand in his.
However, a wound opened within him as he noticed Daenerys was trying to avoid any physical contact.
« I don’t know why your dragon reacted that way, » he began awkwardly.
Daenerys Targaryen didn’t seem willing to hear anything he might want to tell her.
Instead, she simply lifted her blue eyes toward the sky, following the aerial wanderings of Drogon and Rhaegal.
« How long have you known you could approach them like that? » she inquired.
The neutral tone, carefully employed, was meant to mask as best as possible the turmoil troubling Daenerys, Jon was sure of it.
Still, he knew what Eddard Stark would have done in such circumstances, and he chose the truth. He claimed not to know. Did she believe him? On that, Jon could not judge with absolute certainty.
Nevertheless, he realized how much all of this could upset the young woman. He would have liked to comfort her, if he himself weren't experiencing conflicting feelings that assailed him just as surely as the daggers of the Night's Watch brothers who had betrayed him without a moment's hesitation.
To be honest, Jon could feel the love he felt for the woman standing before him. However, he couldn’t give in to the impulse to take her in his arms.
Aside from the dragons, a part of Jon—the most pragmatic—told him that the dreaded moment had finally come. He was finally alone with Daenerys, and he still had a decision to make about the relationship concerning them both.
« Daenerys, » he began awkwardly. « My queen, » he continued, trying to catch her gaze.
Seeing he could not, the woman was still staring at the dark skies; he waited silently for the last representative of House Targaryen to deign to give him any attention.
« My dragons sensed the affection I bear you, » Daenerys affirmed with certainty. « I presume they understood how dear you are to me. How dear you are to me. »
Jon hid the unease caused by the use of the informal « you ». Daenerys did not notice and continued with her head still raised.
« That is why, for them, it was obvious that you had the right to approach them without the slightest risk. They know they can trust you because they are aware that I do myself. »
Was that truly the explanation for why he had managed to approach the winged creatures and even ride one?
Apparently, Jon was not fully satisfied with this and appreciated the idea of digging deeper into this enigma. After all, he thought that was a theory far too simplistic to be true.
But what other hypotheses could he cling to in order to clarify this mystery? Jon had no clue and judged that this must suffice.
At least, in the future, it might be wiser for him not to get too close to those Daenerys considered her children.
« I have to speak to you about a far more urgent matter, Daenerys, » Snow resumed.
The woman in question was still watching her two dragons growing smaller and smaller as they reached dizzying heights and the night swallowed them in its nearly unfathomable darkness.
Finally, Daenerys turned to him. Her eyebrows were slightly raised, and she was curious to hear what urgent news he had for her.
For Jon, the task proved to be far more difficult than he had anticipated. The blue eyes that scrutinized him didn’t waver, and Jon struggled to find his voice.
« Our relationship is impossible, » he blurted out.
The words were now out. Jon had preferred to go straight to the point, without needing to hesitate more than reason required.
Daenerys fully focused on him, while, far above them, a roar could be heard. Despite the distance, Jon shivered.
As for his interlocutor, it was clear she hoped for a follow-up.
Jon found himself hoping to access the young woman’s thoughts to understand her line of reasoning. Was she thinking their story really was impossible?
That, as the legitimate Queen of Westeros, she could not compromise by being seen with a man of Jon’s stature, whose mere name testified alone to his status as a bastard?
Or did she rather wish to claim that none of this could matter, and that protocol aside, she loved him above all and felt ready to throw conventions to the wind?
Jon could not say exactly what she thought. Indeed, Daenerys’s eyes reflected nothing of what might cross her mind while the cold reigned around them, a cold linked to the Winter that had come to settle on the continent of Westeros.
And the silence that had just settled seemed determined to last.
« I am a bastard, » he finally said insistently. « While you, you are of noble birth. You have royal blood in your veins, and you know perfectly well that by claiming the Iron Throne, it will be impossible for you to consort with someone of my kind. »
Jon spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, as if ashamed of his origins and of admitting them to the woman he loved.
At the same time, and for a fraction of a second, Jon saw a flash in Daenerys’s eyes. Undoubtedly, his words had hurt her.
Yet, the woman remained silent, her gaze fixed on his. And if a pain stirred within her, she kept it well hidden.
« Is that really what you want me to do, Jon Snow? »
The formal vous was back, along with a chasm that seemed to want to widen between them.
« That is not what I want that matters, Your Majesty. But what must be done for the good of the realm. And that, no matter the nature of whatever feelings I may have for you. »
Jon did not pursue this declaration any further. He knew he had said far too much already. Had he declared, « I am in love with you, » it would have made no difference.
« If that is your choice, » the queen retorted in a voice as icy as the temperatures found beyond the Wall.
No, it was not his choice, Jon wanted to object. Yet, he simply did what was fairest, what his name of Snow had taught him long ago—he could not, nor did he have the possibility, to establish a relationship with anyone.
He forbade himself, moreover, because he suffered at the thought that his future children would not be able to enjoy the opportunities that had been denied to him due to that bastard name that clung to him like a second skin.
If Jon had been able to do things differently, then he had no doubt he would have rushed headlong and drawn Daenerys into his arms to tell her he loved her above all else.
But he could not.
He even refused himself.
And only the Old Gods could attest to how painful this situation was for him to endure. In any case, it wasn’t the first time he had chosen to listen to the voice of reason rather than the voice of his heart.
And Jon had a deep conviction that this was a pattern that was always going to repeat itself.
********************
Jon Snow had loved Ygritte with a burning passion that still seemed unreal to him even today.
It was one of those love stories one would have expected to find only within tales populated by valiant knights, like all those stories Sansa had loved when she was a child.
Yes, Jon had been madly in love with the wildling with the fiery hair. He could even have given everything up for her, fled far away from everything and the rest of the world, far from the oaths he had sworn before a heart tree.
And together, they would have hidden in one of those many caverns that could be found beyond the Wall of ice, where the hot springs would have shielded them from the cold reigning outside those caves.
If Jon had truly made such a decision, what would he be like now? He knew only one thing: he probably would not be here, standing in front of Daenerys.
As for Ygritte...
Well, Jon would still know her alive, while she herself would be teasing him about his lack of knowledge about what he knew or thought he knew. And Jon would enjoy those moments, just as he would savor the mischief he would see shining in the wildling’s eyes.
owever, events had decided otherwise regarding their fate, which had intertwined for a few moons. Faithful to his vows that bound him to the Night’s Watch, Jon had, in the end, returned to that ancient order by going back to Castle Black.
It was there that, not long after, Ygritte was to join him and meet her grim fate. A destiny that awaited her when, during a battle that saw the Night’s Watch brothers clash with the wildlings and the giants, an arrow had flown through the cold night air to pierce her heart moments after leaving the bowstring held by Olly.
Since then, much time had passed and many things had happened. Jon was no longer a sworn brother of the Watch, no longer its Commander, nor the King in the North.
He was but a bastard who had to face the reality of his state and had to accept that his destiny was to fight the Night King and his armies of wights, then to renounce everything else, even his own feelings toward Daenerys Targaryen who, impassive, simply fixed him with her sapphire eyes.
Jon hoped greatly that Daenerys would understand the weight of his decision. If she considered it, then she would realize that it was the best for both of them.
Many would not respect it and would see her as a fragile woman who let her heart speak before putting the interests of the realm first.
Nevertheless, from his own opinion of her, Jon knew she was capable of ruling. Moreover, he felt deep inside that Daenerys was destined to do great things for Westeros and all its inhabitants.
He would not take part and would keep his distance, out of her way. At least, if they all were to survive the Great War.
« You are right, » she conceded to his great relief. « It is better that things remain as they are. I suppose the Northerners would not have accepted to see you arrive in your country in the arms of a Targaryen either. »
It was true. Jon was aware of it. Nevertheless, for the moment, the fact that the young queen had accepted was more than enough for him. Although it was still true to say that a part of him felt a deep sorrow. By the Old Gods, how painful it all was.
However, he quickly realized that Daenerys seemed mainly ready to approve this decision because, for now, and as far as she was concerned, it was the sight of Jon perched on one of her dragons that gave her more to think about.
Jon decided not to dwell further on the matter. Perhaps he would talk about it another day.
When things would be simpler.
At least, if they ever could be in the future, which he doubted. And just as the sovereign he had chosen began to do again, Jon started to gaze at the winged creatures. All of this in the utmost silence.
********************
They had just returned to the outskirts of White Harbor when one of the city’s guards approached them.
« Lord Manderly wishes to receive you in the audience chamber, my lord. »
The man completely ignored Daenerys, much to Jon’s dismay. Still, this was no time for discussion. The fact that Manderly sought to see them at such an unseemly hour testified to a certain urgency.
Exchanging a worried glance with the young woman accompanying him, Jon Snow nodded to signal to the footman that he had acknowledged the request. The man promptly led them to their destination, which they reached a few minutes later.
Jon quickly realized that the lord was not alone in the room. Tyrion Lannister was waiting there, as well as Davos Seaworth. Only Varys seemed not to have been invited to what was the close entourage of the claimant to the Iron Throne.
As for the chamber itself, it was not very large and was located at the back of the main hall used for great feasts and the audiences Manderly held regarding the grievances of White Harbor’s inhabitants.
Jon also noticed that the feast held there a few hours earlier had finally ended and that the music played by the regional troubadours had definitively fallen silent.
He further noted that Wyman’s stoutness made the space feel even more cramped.
« My lord, » began the main interested party as soon as he saw him, « I apologize for summoning you at such an hour. I would not have done so if strange news had not reached me in such a catastrophic manner. »
— What news is that? » asked Daenerys.
The hint of coldness Jon detected in the sovereign’s voice showed that she did not appreciate the denial their host granted her, and the use of « My lord » did nothing to help establish a cordial relationship.
Far from taking offense, Manderly indicated the available seats, inviting each of the individuals to take a place. Once all had complied, Jon observed his companions.
Tyrion and Davos did not seem to have been roused from their sleep, which did not surprise the bastard son of Eddard Stark.
Surely, the dwarf was known for his love of reading once evening fell. Jon had witnessed this phenomenon when they were on their way to the Wall, and he himself was just a teenager aspiring to become a ranger within the Night’s Watch.
As for Davos, he enjoyed long walks to clear his mind. A cough sounded to his right, coming from Manderly, prompting him to focus on the latter.
« The maester came to find me less than an hour ago. Greyjoy ships have been sighted sailing east of here. »
Jon was mentally surprised. How was that possible? Could it be Theon coming to the North with the few Ironborn he had under his command?
If that were the case, none of it made the slightest sense. Theon intended to save his sister, Yara, if Jon remembered her name correctly. For what other reason would Theon have decided to change his mind and sail north?
Jon heard Tyrion question Manderly, whom he was eyeing with keen interest.
« Are you absolutely sure of this?
— Fishermen reportedly spotted them sailing for many days. The operation seemed to leave no doubt about their intentions. By skimming the seas far from the coasts, the sailors aimed to avoid being spotted. »
Daenerys decided to intervene, trying to learn more about the matter.
« Could Theon have planned something on his own? »
Her question was addressed directly to Jon Snow. How could he possibly know for sure? Jon, however, doubted that Theon was behind the movements of the Greyjoy fleet.
That left only one other possibility. Yet even that, to Jon, seemed just as inconceivable as the first.
Still, he kept his lips sealed.
Which wasn’t the case for Davos Seaworth. The former smuggler didn’t hesitate to share his own assessment.
« I’d wager it could be that Euron.
— Wasn’t he supposed to return to the Iron Islands? » Daenerys asked, surprised. « And unless I’m mistaken, those lie on the other side of the continent.
— Unless the whole thing was nothing but a ruse concocted by my sister to make us believe that was Euron’s true intent, » Tyrion replied. « And knowing her as I do, she would be more than capable of that.
— Are we to expect a betrayal on her part? » Daenerys asked coldly, though it wasn’t truly a question, more a declaration.
« I might have thought so before my private conversation in her chambers. Now… I doubt it.
No matter what I just claimed moments ago.
She’s expecting a child, » he informed them all. « She’s always tried to protect her children. She never succeeded. But now, Cersei will do anything to protect the one she’s carrying from the threat of the dead.
If the ships do belong to Euron Greyjoy — and I have no reason to doubt your witnesses — then it stands to reason that he’s acting on his own now.
— And what does he stand to gain from such a move?
— Cutting off our route, » Jon Snow predicted. « He means to trap us here on the continent and leave us at the mercy of the army of the dead. He’ll likely try to seize power once Winter ends.
— Assuming it ever ends, » Davos replied. « If the Night King manages to defeat us, Euron will have nothing to gain from a continent overrun by the dead.
— My own fleet could never match his, » Manderly informed them in a somber tone. « They’re too many for us to try forcing a path through. What’s more, the Ironborn are the best sailors there are.
Something no other people of Westeros can truly claim — not even what remains of the Velaryons’ former glory.
— I don’t think he’s trying to trap us here, » Davos noted. »
Like the three others present, Jon gazed at the former smuggler, trying to understand what he meant. Davos pointed at Daenerys.
« I fear he’s trying to claim Dragonstone. If we assume he first acted under Cersei’s orders, then I suspect the capture of your island is meant as a message to Westeros.
And that message would be the following: No, Cersei is not defeated. On the contrary, she just struck a blow by seizing the ancestral stronghold of the Targaryens.
— I repeat, protested Tyrion, Euron is acting in his own interest.
— The result changes nothing about the fact that people will begin to wonder whether Daenerys is truly fit to lead them, if she can’t even manage to hold and secure her own lands. »
Hearing this, Jon couldn’t help but think back to his brother Robb who, even as he led and won many battles in the South, had lost the North and Winterfell.
« Are you suggesting that I turn away from the North to go face Euron again? » asked Daenerys.
Jon noticed that Manderly didn’t seem opposed to the idea. If he could, he likely would have shoved the queen out of his castle with both hands on her back.
« It’s just a fleet. Euron doesn’t have enough men to be a real threat, countered Tyrion. Especially not if he has to face two dragons. The ships will burn. And Greyjoy knows this perfectly well.
I seriously doubt he would take such a risk if it meant losing what he seems to be after — power.
— He must know what he’s doing, said Davos. For now, whatever he’s up to, the main threat is in the North, with the Night King.
— And that is our top priority, Jon agreed. That’s why we must get to Winterfell first. The Euron issue can wait, unless we discover in the meantime what his goal truly is.
— The journey to Winterfell will be long, reminded Tyrion. Covering that distance will take several days — even weeks.
— Believe me, I know, replied Daenerys. Especially since we still have to reunite with my armies.
— I doubt the Northerners will be ready to accept you if, at first glance, you show up with such a massive force at your side, the former smuggler pointed out.
I’d wager that seeing all those Unsullied and Dothraki, your people will think you bent the knee under duress, » he added, this time turning to Jon.
This reasoning was quite sound, and Jon knew it. Still — how to solve the problem? He could take two horses and travel faster. But even so, the journey to Winterfell would still take far too long in his eyes.
It was Daenerys who offered a solution to untie this Gordian knot.
« We could each ride a dragon there, » she suggested, as if it were the most obvious thing.
Jon studied the reactions of those present. Whether it was Wyman Manderly, Tyrion Lannister or Davos Seaworth, they all seemed surprised by such a suggestion.
« Your Grace, I doubt that’s even possible — unless Jon shares the same mount. No dragon would let anyone ride them unless they’re a Targaryen, » Tyrion explained.
— Oh, they will if I command them to, the young woman replied.
Jon understood she didn’t intend to reveal the scene she had just witnessed earlier — and he was grateful. Such a revelation would bring a host of questions, and Jon didn’t see how he could answer them when he himself didn’t have the answers.
« If I were you, I’d be most wary of such creatures, » Manderly warned.
— Or is it simply that you’re wary of me — and the idea that I might let Jon fall?
One only had to look at the lord’s face to see she’d struck a nerve.
« I have complete trust in our queen, » Jon declared in a tone that brooked no argument. « I’ll go with her. People must understand that the dragons pose no real threat to them. »
— Very well, said Tyrion with a sigh. « The rest of us will go on foot and meet up with your armies, » he added, addressing Daenerys. « There’s still something we need to do for them. »
— What is it? asked Daenerys, surprised.
— The more your troops march through the North, the more they’ll have to deal with the cold. I wager the Dothraki know how to handle it — the steppes have winters too.
However, I can’t say the same for the Unsullied. Many of them will surely perish before even reaching their final destination.
And in times like these, with the dark future looming over us, we can’t afford to lose that many men. »
Jon observed their host for a while.
If, as he believed, Wyman and his son had spent months preparing for the coming Winter, then the city must be brimming with supplies meant to help its people survive.
Beyond all that food, there must also be clothing and gear to better withstand the freezing temperatures that were sure to come.
« Warm clothes are all we need, » Tyrion explained.
— I absolutely refuse to part with anything, Manderly protested. « I must think of my people first. Winter is here. Even if the snow has already reached us, it’s nothing compared to what lies ahead — in the coming months, maybe even years.
And my old bones can feel that the worst is yet to come. What should I do then, when my people are freezing to death? Tell them to rub their hands together to keep warm? »
— What we need are padded coats, continued Tyrion, as if none of this truly mattered. « That should suffice for the Unsullied, along with their armor. »
— I said it once, I’ll say it again — I will not give up anything, the lord snapped.
— And what if your queen commands it? asked Tyrion.
— She’s not my queen, Manderly retorted. « And I won’t obey a Lannister either. »
Jon quickly realized the situation was about to spiral. So he rose from his seat to use his standing position to assert dominance over their host.
« Then I command you to do as you’re told. »
The lord glared back at him. Did he feel betrayed by that remark? Jon would have wagered yes.
Nonetheless, as Tyrion had pointed out, it was crucial to ensure that the Unsullied reached Winterfell without suffering from the harsh winter cold.
« Very well. I’ll do as you ask, » Manderly yielded reluctantly.
— In that case, I believe this meeting need not continue any further, Jon said. « It is high time we made our way to Winterfell, » he concluded, turning to Daenerys.
She nodded. After that, silence settled over the room, though Jon could still feel the tension buzzing in the air.
He sensed it deep within — this entire scene was but a prelude to what awaited him once he finally returned home.
And it was with this anxiety — that nothing would go as he hoped — that he left the room.
Note:
1 — I know that in the books Daenerys has violet eyes, but since I'm basing this on the show, I say they’re blue.
COMING IN THE NEXT CHAPTER: (August 31, 2025)
CHAPTER FIVE : A SECRET SO LONG CONCEALED. (SANSA STARK)
« Impossible! »
It was just a simple word spoken with conviction.
Yet, it resonated for a long time in the ambient silence that then reigned in the great hall where the cathedra once occupied by her father still stood.
A term that Sansa Stark had promptly uttered, unable to conceal her astonishment following the declaration she had just heard. Very quickly, however, the austere black granite walls absorbed the slightest echo of what she had proclaimed.
For Sansa, it was a term that allowed her to more easily deny outright what she had just learned. It could only be a lie.
As for the existence she had known until then, it would remain as unchangeable as it had been before this terrible truth that had just been struck upon her came to upset everything like a powerful kick into an anthill — just like the same gesture Robb had made in his time and which had horrified Sansa as to the fate of those unfortunate little creatures.
But now, everything was called into question by this simple assertion: Jon Snow, the one she had long disparaged due to his bastard status, was actually a Targaryen.
« Impossible, » the young woman repeated, still striving to escape this revelation.
Chapter 5: A secret so long concealed. (SANSA STARK)
Summary:
A shocking revelation: Jon Snow is Aegon Targaryen, the legitimate heir. Sansa struggles to accept it, haunted by her past. Arya fiercely defends him. The secret threatens Northern unity against the Night King and complicates Daenerys's arrival.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIVE : A SECRET SO LONG CONCEALED. (SANSA STARK)
« Impossible! »
It was just a simple word spoken with conviction.
Yet, it resonated for a long time in the ambient silence that then reigned in the great hall where the cathedra once occupied by her father still stood.
A term that Sansa Stark had promptly uttered, unable to conceal her astonishment following the declaration she had just heard. Very quickly, however, the austere black granite walls absorbed the slightest echo of what she had proclaimed.
For Sansa, it was a term that allowed her to more easily deny outright what she had just learned. It could only be a lie.
As for the existence she had known until then, it would remain as unchangeable as it had been before this terrible truth that had just been struck upon her came to upset everything like a powerful kick into an anthill — just like the same gesture Robb had made in his time and which had horrified Sansa as to the fate of those unfortunate little creatures.
But now, everything was called into question by this simple assertion: Jon Snow, the one she had long disparaged due to his bastard status, was actually a Targaryen.
« Impossible, » the young woman repeated, still striving to escape this revelation.
The eldest of Catelyn Stark’s daughters pivoted in order to find some support from her younger sister Arya.
Far from helping her in this task, the younger sister already wore a neutral, totally indecipherable expression. The exact opposite of the burst of frank astonishment at the content of the speech Bran had just delivered a few seconds earlier.
What she might think of it now? Sansa would have been quite unable to penetrate the unfathomable mystery of Arya’s thoughts. The young woman had become a master at filtering any emotion likely to betray her innermost thoughts.
The Lady of Winterfell, whose title once suited her now-deceased mother, then scrutinized the two men present. Besides her brother, there was also Samwell Tarly, a sturdy young man and close friend of Jon. And, as she had quickly noted, remarkably shy in her presence.
Samwell was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, just as Jon had been. His presence in Winterfell was mainly explained by his desire to come and help Jon in this fight the latter intended to wage against the armies of the dead led by this Night King.
« Aegon. His name is Aegon Targaryen and not Jon Snow, » she mentally corrected herself.
As for this Samwell Tarly, whose name was linked to one of the most powerful banner-men of the Tyrell family, now gone forever, he kept his round face stubbornly lowered towards his shoes.
He seemed to feel shame or guilt — Sansa could not have determined which — perhaps it was simply a mixture of both.
Presumably, this attitude stemmed from the fact that he was one of the two people who knew of Jon’s true parentage, and had been one of those who had to transmit the information to the person concerned's relatives.
The Night's Watchman tirelessly refused to look at the two Stark sisters, and only his shod feet seemed to hold all his attention in an attitude she deemed excessive. No matter, he would eventually resume the conversation
Suddenly, Arya’s voice rang out, echoing within the walls of the great hall.
« You are telling us that Jon is actually the son of our aunt Lyanna, and Rhaegar Targaryen, » her little sister began, addressing both Bran and Samwell at the same time. « And that his real name is Aegon Targaryen. How is that even possible? »
Sansa silently approved with an eager nod of her head. She was delighted, relieved even, that Arya had formulated this question. After all, Bran and Samwell could only be wrong. Everyone across the continent of Westeros knew the story.
Rhaegar, the older brother of this Daenerys whose imminent arrival was expected here in Winterfell, had kidnapped their aunt under the false pretense of being captivated by her beauty.
There, Lyanna was raped, undoubtedly several times in Sansa’s opinion, before her tormentor cowardly abandoned her in one of the Dornish towers where she died shortly before the end of the rebellion led by Robert Baratheon, by their father Eddard Stark, and by all their allies, for whom Targaryen tyranny had lasted too long.
And even if Jon proved to be Lyanna Stark’s son, then his real name would become Sand, instead of Snow, as it was customary to name bastards in the lands of Dorne.
Under such conditions, it was indubitable that the person concerned could never claim to be a full-fledged Targaryen.
Moreover, and if, undeniably, Jon had been the fruit of a sincere love, as Bran suggested, and not the product of rape like those perpetrated against Lyanna as the official version of her fate clearly implied, why then would their father have concealed it with such effort from the face of the world, for all these years that had passed?
And even taking into account the fact that he had cultivated the cult of secrecy, for what reasons had he not at least confided in their mother Catelyn?
Sansa remembered all too well the hatred the latter manifested towards Jon, whose presence within the walls of Winterfell tended to remind her that her husband, Eddard, might have loved another woman and indulged in carnal embraces with this stranger.
A resentment which, ultimately, proved to be totally undeserved. Except that Lord Eddard had never spoken, having remained silent his whole life about a secret that must have weighed heavily on his shoulders. Such an attitude, however chivalrous it may have been, made no sense in Sansa Stark’s mind.
After all, and in her own eyes at least, the truth about this muteness in which her father had stubbornly entrenched himself beyond reason, and until his death a few years earlier, seemed much simpler.
Ashamed of the fate reserved for his only sister, the kidnapping accompanied by rapes, her father had decided to pass Jon off as his own son, rather than being the fruit of Lyanna’s ignominious torments at the hands of her terrible torturer, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.
It was Bran who, in his flat voice and with his perpetually impassive face, provided her with answers.
« Eddard knew perfectly well that King Robert Baratheon would not have tolerated someone like Jon living.
The Targaryen partisans would undoubtedly have rallied behind this infant to bring him to power when the time came, perpetuating a conflict for years. And Robert did not want his lifelong enemies to have the possibility of claiming the Throne he had won at the cost of blood.
Therefore, he would not have hesitated a second to have him eliminated the moment he discovered who Jon really was. »
How Sansa deeply hated the way her brother, no matter what he might claim about it, spoke of their father as if he were a complete stranger to him.
He might claim to have become something different from the little boy he once was, but he remained for Sansa, one of them, one of the members of their « pack », a Stark.
Just like Jon.
Bran, far from being aware of the thoughts swirling in his elder sister's head, had continued his momentum.
During her childhood, even Septa Mordane seemed to show much more engaging enthusiasm when she gave her lessons on how to behave like a future lady, as she was then destined to become one day.
« Stark, » Bran therefore declared, « could not afford to lose his sister's child shortly after losing her. Eddard had always been close to Lyanna in their youth, at least from what I could see. He was even very protective.
It was a bitter failure for him not to have managed to save her. To atone for having failed in his duty, he did everything possible to keep the oath he had sworn on his relative's deathbed.
And for all these years, Eddard resigned himself to it. Oh, it was hardly easy for him. Even less so knowing that he could not confide in his wife with whom he had nevertheless exchanged their marriage vows. »
Even before Bran’s monologue was finished, Sansa had felt a powerful surge of love for her late father. He had never betrayed anyone.
Out of love for his own, he had known how to protect them by holding his tongue, just as he had done for Jon by keeping the true identity of the person concerned to himself.
As for the honor that characterized him so well, it remained fully intact, unblemished. At least in the opinion of the elder of the two Stark daughters.
She regretted only one thing, however, that her mother remained forever in total ignorance of this story. Things could have been so different otherwise.
And who knows, perhaps the whole family would have been gathered right now within the warm walls of Winterfell fortress, far from the conflicts that had shaken all of the Seven Kingdoms in recent years.
Sansa questioned the two men to learn more.
« Was father the only one to know this truth?
— Howland Reed, Meera’s father who accompanied me beyond the Wall, was necessarily in on the secret, » Bran informed him. « Of all the men who accompanied Eddard, he was the only one to return.
As for the Silent Sisters and Rhaegar Targaryen’s handmaidens present on site at that time, none have survived to this day.
However, Eddard did reveal it to someone. He told his brother, Benjen. I think that's what made my visions turn to Jon, to understand who he is really. »
After a moment of silence, Brandon added these enigmatic words.
« And to help me. »
This last remark seemed to be addressed directly to his own person, while his whole being suddenly seemed distant, as if detached from what was currently going on in the great hall of Winterfell.
For her part, Sansa was buzzing with questions. How could such a revelation provide the slightest help to Bran? And on what subject could it establish a connection between his needs and Jon’s true identity?
As to what it could be exactly, Bran was careful not to reveal anything.
********************
Beyond her younger brother's words, a part of Sansa stubbornly refused to accept this revelation about her half-brother. Under these conditions, the young woman turned to Samwell Tarly.
The boy's reaction, a start as if he had just been caught doing something wrong, made her understand that he would have much preferred this interview to focus solely on what Bran knew.
Sansa would not hear of it. The future of the entire kingdom was possibly at stake. So, she addressed the Night's Watch brother, using, for this purpose, the authoritative tone of the Lady of Winterfell that she now was.
« Bran's visions are one thing. And all this bewilders me to a degree I'm struggling to explain. However, I'll wager that all this wouldn't be enough to corroborate these claims.
Nevertheless, you insisted on contributing your piece to the puzzle, and you asserted that you yourself held irrefutable proof. Can you at least produce it for us? »
Samwell swallowed with difficulty. Even so, the words refused to cross his lips.
Sansa stared at him for a long time as he glanced sideways. This look was directed at Bran. Jon’s friend seemed to be seeking the latter's approval for the next step.
The one enthroned in his wheelchair did not look back at him, his inexpressive eyes darting between the two Stark girls, without blinking in the slightest, to the point of becoming unsettling.
Ultimately, he finally nodded his head. His brown eyes continued to probe her soul, Sansa thought. For her part, she scrupulously avoided meeting her younger brother's gaze.
Despite the invaluable help her brother had given her to put an end to Littlefinger’s machinations, she feared Bran’s supernatural powers even more.
This conclusion stemmed from her feeling that she couldn’t hide anything from the eyes of her kinsman—who, at any moment, could access all the information he wished. Access to all the ordeals she had gone through and everything she had experienced since her earliest childhood. So many things either buried or still just as vivid in her own mind.
Among them were certain memories that were unbearable to her and that she would have given anything to forget.
Parallel to her mental wanderings, Samwell Tarly pulled out an old journal from his black tunic. The worn leather of the notebook testified to its age. The crest of the Citadel of Oldtown was engraved on it, in refined relief, all affixed to the flexible cover.
With a gesture as sudden as it was swift, and even before Sansa intended to take the rectangular object, the eldest of the Starks looked at Arya who seized the precious document.
Once that was done, and the journal firmly held between her fingers, Arya moved away to isolate herself in her corner. There, she immediately began to turn the first pages to reach the sheets that would mention in black and white Jon’s true parentage.
« Rhaegar had ended up repudiating Elia Martell, » Samwell began as if he were reciting a lesson he had learned by heart. « After that, and in the greatest secrecy, he married your aunt Lyanna Stark. »
Sansa struggled to visually imagine the scene.
In this mental illustration, Rhaegar then had Jon’s facial features. But with the difference that he sported hair of a color so characteristic of the Targaryens. Yet, this vision rang false.
Samwell Tarly had taken advantage of this lapse of time to continue the narrative, focusing his attention on his feet.
« Only Grand Septon Maynard knew of this new union that bound Rhaegar Targaryen to Lyanna Stark. Assuredly, it was he who who officiated at the ceremony that saw them marry unknown to the entire continent of Westeros. »
Nevertheless, and even if she did not question the identity of Jon’s parents, Sansa refused to believe that the two adults could have shared romantic feelings.
Too many years of hearing the same version of the story rehashed had deeply marked her, to the point of coming to disparage that events could have been entirely different.
« It could just as well have been a forced marriage, » the eldest of the two Stark sisters contended.
It had to be admitted that on this matter, she was rather accustomed to the fact.
Indeed, the two unions she had known had in no way been a reflection of sincere love. Anyway, Sansa had not even had her say in it. Everything had been done in such a way that she found herself constrained and forced, tossed around like a simple puppet whose strings other people had pulled.
Firstly, and when she was only fourteen years old, there had been the dwarf Tyrion, of House Lannister. Sansa could agree, the lord had shown himself to be a gallant man, he was even attentive towards her, not hesitating to protect her as much as possible from the cruel King Joffrey Baratheon.
Despite this, there was not the slightest outline of what could constitute a true love story between the two of them. How could that have even been the case?
For, even if Tyrion had not chosen his family, nor to be the man he had been since birth, he still belonged to the Lannisters.
And in Sansa’s eyes, it was inconceivable to be able to bond with someone whose close relatives had plotted the death of her father Ned, as well as the deaths of her brother Robb and her mother Catelyn.
Lord Baelish may have schemed, and concocted other stratagems for war to break out between the two great rival houses, but the Lannisters had nonetheless greatly contributed to annihilating half of the Stark clan.
« But they will no longer have the opportunity to succeed, » she silently promised herself.
As for Tyrion, had he been the most handsome man in all the kingdoms of Westeros, that detail would not have changed Sansa’s feelings towards him in any way. No, there was not the slightest attraction and there never would have been, even in the long term.
Shortly after, Baelish, who had also intrigued in Joffrey’s murder and thus allowed her to escape both King's Landing and Cersei’s clutches, had led her straight to the north of the continent.
There, after a brief stay in the Eyrie with her aunt Lysa Arryn, and until the latter's death, still under Petyr’s action, Littlefinger had finally accompanied her to Winterfell to meet her second husband, the formidable Ramsay Bolton.
Sansa knew perfectly well that the Bolton family had played a large part in what everyone called the sadly famous « Red Wedding ». She nevertheless married Ramsay and it didn't take her long to discover the vile being that slumbered within him.
This horrible man had humiliated her by raping her every night that passed over Winterfell, and who had had the audacity to tell her that this was simply the testimony a husband owed to his beloved wife.
Ramsay Bolton was not known solely for such a misdeed. No, he also enjoyed torturing people using the old Bolton customs he prided himself on having brought back into fashion.
He made an example of the old woman whose only fault had been to want to help Sansa escape the ordeal into which Littlefinger had plunged her. And the young woman was decidedly glad to no longer have him at her side to whisper vile things into her ear.
Without the help of Theon Greyjoy, who had himself been a victim of Ramsay’s torments, Sansa probably would never have escaped the horrible demise that Ramsay would have inflicted upon her after she had given him one or two male heirs.
A fateful destiny that could have seen the light of day much earlier, at the hands of Ramsay’s equally perverse mistress, even if the latter would have accomplished it without flinching.
There again, the providential salvation came following Theon’s intervention, granting them at the same time, the possibility of fleeing far from the dark walls of Winterfell.
Ramsay was no longer now, devoured by his own hounds. A vision that the Lady of Winterfell sometimes relived, not without a shiver of delight. A pleasure all the more sincere, as now, the House of Bolton simply no longer existed.
Marked by the horror of her own past experiences, by the men who had punctuated her existence, and by the tragic fate of her aunt Lyanna Stark several years earlier, Sansa simply could not bring herself to give the slightest credit to this truth stated in the Grand Septon's diary.
No, if Rhaegar had had sincere feelings for Lyanna, things would have been known. But it was not so. And even if Jon was the result of this relationship, nothing guaranteed that he was indeed the fruit of love between those who were his true parents.
********************
« After Samwell brought me the content of this journal, » Bran began in his emotionless voice, « I was able to go back in time to witness this wedding, » he concluded.
It had all been stated as trivially as if he had just told them that it had just started snowing outside the castle.
« I can guarantee you that their vows were sincere, and that Rhaegar and Lyanna truly loved each other. Jon is indeed a Targaryen, with all that this information implies. »
Arya did not seem to understand the meaning of this affirmation.
With a finger slipped into the worn notebook as a bookmark, she furrowed her eyebrows and had forgotten, for a time at least, her imperturbable demeanor, skillfully employed until then.
« What do you mean by that? »
As for Sansa, the young woman felt she had understood from the beginning what such a revelation implied as a possibility, that she had known it even before coming to believe in this truth hidden from the world for so many years.
« Jon is not only Rhaegar’s son, » Sansa explained to Arya. « He is also the true heir to the Iron Throne. »
Arya seemed perplexed for a fraction of a second.
Ultimately, she did the only thing her conscience dictated to her to face this new information, that is, to adopt a neutral, indecipherable expression, retreating into herself in the attitude of one who wanted to share nothing about her feelings.
Sansa preferred not to worry about it unduly, Bran holding all her attention.
« Why reveal all this to us? And to us specifically? » she questioned him. « Jon is the main interested party in this whole story. His origins have always been a fundamentally important point for him.
Therefore, it is to the person concerned that Samwell and you should have spoken first.
— I believe you have the right to know, » Bran affirmed. « You are part of his family, and he trusts both of you completely. What's more, if you are by his side, it will certainly be easier for him to accept who he really is. »
Despite herself, Sansa Stark could not help but let out the following words:
« He's not even our brother. He's a Targaryen. How can we even... »
It was Arya’s sharp voice that resonated between the walls of the hall and served as her answer, which the interlocutor in question hastened to formulate even before Sansa had finished her sentence.
« Jon is OUR brother. »
Despite herself and the reading she was engrossed in until then, Arya had not been able to restrain her anger following the words Sansa had just spoken.
The Lady of Winterfell knew her sister's secrets, especially her stay in Braavos and her training with the Faceless Men; she therefore carefully avoided escalating the situation.
Moreover, the hand her sister had instinctively placed on the guard of her Valyrian steel dagger reminded her of how she had cut Littlefinger’s throat with the weapon in question.
There had been no hesitation in this gesture, and her hand had not trembled at the fateful moment.
« He was raised by our father and among us. Therefore, he will forever remain our brother, whoever he may truly be, » Arya stubbornly insisted.
Her vehemence did not diminish, seeming to grow as her eyes were fixed on Sansa and did not blink in any way, forcing the elder of the two sisters to lower her gaze.
And by all the Gods, whether they came from her father's beliefs or her mother's beliefs, Sansa hated this feeling of weakness and fear that Arya gave her.
« Yes, » she conceded, « he still is. I simply expressed myself poorly. »
But deep inside, her thoughts continued at a steady pace.
No, Jon was not their blood brother. He never had been. Even at the time, he was hardly one fully due to his supposed bastardy. And he was even less so now.
Jon was therefore their cousin. And as a Targaryen, he had no claim to govern the North.
Ultimately, that role fell to her, Sansa understood.
And to her alone.
She immediately blamed herself for such a petty thought. In her defense, this thought must have shown on her face, for in a hateful tone, Arya addressed her as she approached dangerously, her hand still evident on her sharp steel dagger.
« I don't care who his real parents were, » her younger sister chanted, « what he is to us must remain unchanged. Remember father's words. « The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. »
Jon is a Stark through our aunt, so he is an integral part of the pack. Just like you, just like Bran, and just like me. It's our PACK, our FAMILY. And you don't have the right to deny that to Jon after all he's been through in our mother's time. »
Sansa had not seen her so virulent, not for a very long time. Not even when Arya had expressed her anger at the « betrayal » she openly accused her of against their relatives following that missive she had been forced to write and send years earlier, where the paraphrased words on the piece of parchment had been dictated by Cersei’s poisoned voice.
On second thought, Arya’s attitude didn't really surprise her. Indeed, the latter had always been the closest to Jon. Closer than all the other members of their sibling group. One only had to have watched them grow up together to realize it.
Sansa tried to envision Arya’s reaction when Jon returned to Winterfell. Nevertheless, she couldn't manage it. Arya had changed since then, and she was no longer the little girl of old.
And with what she had become, Sansa could not imagine her revealing her emotions.
Arya was now a being as cold as ice, as unshakeable as a block of stone.
She would never let anything that could make her vulnerable show. Not to the eyes of a world she knew was riddled with threats, nor to those she considered enemies.
And even less so if it risked endangering her own.
Bran, totally imperturbable as to the scene that had just occurred before his lifeless eyes, spoke again.
His words therefore prompted Sansa to focus on the present moment.
« Jon is fire and ice. Both Targaryen and Stark. The two are inseparable from the man he is. By accepting this truth, he can bring much to the war to come.
— How? » Sansa tried to understand.
Bran did not bother to give her any explanation on the subject, keeping his secrets and the information he possessed to himself.
Instead, he addressed the crux of the problem.
« You must help Jon admit who he is, Aegon Targaryen. And above all, most importantly, help him be accepted as such by all the other Northern lords who might want to repudiate their allegiance upon discovering it inopportunely. »
Something Sansa found hard to imagine happening. If no one had discovered the secret until today, how could anyone even hope to uncover it unless they were in on the secret?
King's Landing may have taught her that walls have ears, but it was still difficult for her to imagine that anyone could get wind of their current discussion.
And of all the people currently present, she doubted that any of them would spill the beans.
« That would be a bad thing, » Bran had continued. « Especially since the enemy is constantly drawing closer to our borders. And only unity can still help us push him back. »
Sansa silently nodded her head. She was well aware that the task incumbent upon them, and awaiting them, was particularly arduous. However, she felt capable of taking on the challenge when the time came.
Out of respect for her name, out of respect for her parents, out of respect for the woman she had become, the lords would listen to her, the young woman was convinced.
On the other hand, she found it very difficult to be the one who would directly report the news to Jon about his origins. Nevertheless, it wasn't just Jon’s reaction she feared.
At least, perhaps in part, she conceded aside.
No, it was above all that of Daenerys Targaryen who, from what Sansa knew of the latter's journey, had spent her entire life finding a way to reclaim the Iron Throne that her family had lost years earlier.
And what if she were to discover that Jon was a Targaryen as well? Would she then see him as an obstacle standing between her and her lifelong goal? After all, Jon would have more legitimacy to claim this throne that Aegon the Conqueror, the first of his name, had forged centuries ago.
And with growing anxiety, Sansa began to hope that everything would turn out for the best as Daenerys and her terrible dragons were about to arrive at Winterfell.
Coming next : (september 13, 2025)
CHAPTER SIX: THE RAVEN'S VISION. (BRANDON STARK)
The warm breath that could be felt left no doubt as to the beautiful summer reigning over this part of Westeros.
Moreover, the place seemed calm, isolated. This was undoubtedly why the young couple had decided to meet there, sitting together in the green and lush grass.
Not far from their position, one could hear the constant murmur of a river flowing with a certain joy.
As for the two people, lying as they were, each gazed into the other's eyes, and all the love they felt for each other could be discerned in their pupils.
Regarding the young woman, she was very beautiful, exuding at the same time a wild side that reminded the Raven of his sister Arya, as well as the wolf Brandon had owned, Summer.
It therefore took him little time to fully identify her. After all, he had also had many opportunities to contemplate her effigy while his former self wandered through the crypts of Winterfell.
It was Lyanna Stark.
Her round belly left no doubt that she was inexorably nearing the end of her pregnancy.
Near her stood Rhaegar, recognizable by his blond hair, as well as the gold brooch he wore, which depicted a three-headed dragon—visual clues that all testified to his belonging to the Targaryen family.
Despite the long gaze the couple exchanged, this did not prevent the young man from playing the strings of his harp. The melody rising into the air, just barely surpassing the notes of the stream, brought a sad and nostalgic tone.
A tune that meant nothing to the Raven, which made him think that it was probably a composition unique to Rhaegar, and that only Lyanna had ever heard it until the Raven arrived in this idyllic scene.
Suddenly, Rhaegar abruptly stopped plucking the strings of his instrument, and Brandon heard him utter the following words:
« Our son will be named Aegon. »
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