Chapter Text
Jon I
“For the watch,” Bowen Marsh whispered, tears streaming down his cheeks as he punched his dagger through Jon’s stomach.
Jon’s fingers, stiff and uncooperative, fell away from his side, failing to grasp his sword as he fell down onto his knees. His hands drifted away from his sword to the dagger in his stomach and he wrenched it loose, gravity pulling it free and coating his hands in rivers of red. He looked up at the red faced Bowen Marsh- his head Steward… and he had betrayed himi.
Why? Jon tried to ask but his tongue also refused to cooperate either. The world swirled around him, but one thing was clear— his reflection in the murky green eyes of the Lord Steward.
“For the Watch,” he heard once more as a dagger slipped between his shoulder blades and Jon fell forwards onto his face. “Ghost.” Jon whispered, his voice quieter than the wind itself. If only he hadn’t been so stupid and left Ghost behind in his chambers. If only he had trusted Ghost’s distrust of Whittlestick and Marsh. If only he had treated Melisandre’s warnings seriously… She had warned him of daggers in the dark… and told him to keep Ghost close…
Jon’s eyes drifted shut. Stick them with the pointy end. Jon thought to himself. If he was still capable of forcing his lips to move he would have smiled or perhaps laughed. It was cold, Jon thought as he gave up his hold on life.
Ghost rammed his head against the door of the armory in frustration. Jon Snow had died, killed by his brothers in a mutiny. And Ghost hadn’t been there to protect him. He had to get out there. He had to rip out the throats of the ones who had turned on his human. He had to protect those who were loyal to his human from suffering the same fate.
But he couldn’t.
Because he was locked in this room. Locked in here without the ability to defend his human.
And now he was dead.
Ghost felt a pressure building in his head, but the wolf tried to shut it out. He needed to find a way to get out there. The ringing of steel sounded outside along with the panicked shouts of the humans. He looked up at the door in front of him. When he wore the flesh of a man, Ghost had been able to open the door using the knob…
I can’t do it , a small boy’s voice whispered from a far off place. It sounded familiar to his ears, the human tongue oddly discernible to the wolf for whatever reason.
Ghost shook himself and walked to the far end of the room slowly, and then turned towards the door and charged at it full speed, claws outstretched. He crashed into the door and this time it worked. The door toppled over, unable to carry the entire weight of Ghost, and at last the wolf was free.
The pain in his skull grew greater.
There’s someone else in there— is that Jon? Ghost’s ears perked up slightly at hearing the name of his human, but he couldn’t let that distract him from his hunt.
The yard was in chaos in the wake of his human’s death. It was an all out war. The ones who had killed his human were already dead. Marsh and Whittlestick, an echo sounded in his mind. The giant hairy hornblower stood defensively in front of his human with a sword of black rippling steel swinging wildly at one of those in a black cloak.
Runnymudd he thought to himself, a thought that the wolf never could have possessed on his own. He would not leave the battle to the hairy giant alone though, he could smell the guilt on him. And he could smell the blood of his human on the traitor’s dagger.
Ghost leapt into the fray, his teeth bared in a silent snarl as he pounced onto the murderer. It was over in an instant, his teeth ripping into the man’s throat and causing him to fall into the snow, dying it a deep red as more bodies continued to fall. He looked up at the hornblower who was trying to say something to him. Ghost was far from done though, there were more monsters to hunt tonight.
There was a tension growing between his ears, swelling with every second, and Ghost stumbled due to the pain it was causing. His head drifted towards the corpse of his human without his willing it so. Jon… a smaller voice whispered in his ears. How could this have happened…? Ghost violently shook his head to the side, but it did nothing to cease the growing pain behind his eyes. Was he going to die again?
And then it popped. He could feel himself shrinking, it was like he was being forced to pass through the eye of a needle. His mind stretched and twisted as he was forced to walk. For a moment he was Jon Snow, and then he was Ghost again. His eyes squeezed shut to block out the growing anguish in his soul. He felt like he was submerged in ice, and then as if he was on fire.
The world exploded for the second time, an experience more painful than his first death as he felt another presence invade his senses and steal all that he was— pushing him to the back of his mind and ripping him away from the other part of him— his human. He could feel his grasp on reality slipping and then he was Ghost no more.
When the rider’s eyes opened again, it was to the feeling of a warm breeze blowing gently against his hardened scales. The night was dark, only illuminated by torchlights and the balls of fire thrown against the city walls. He could hear the ringing of steel still around him, and for a moment, the rider thought that if he closed his eyes again, he would be back on the wall, curled up next to the fireplace.
Or perhaps in it.
It was hot. The air was warm, but it was more than the temperature. It was as if his very blood was on fire. The fire permeated his senses, a warmth far greater than any he had ever felt before. That was what it was to be a dragon, he was fire made flesh.
Wait, a dragon?
The rider felt the dragon— Rhaegal lift his snout in the air, craning it’s head this way and that way as he felt the new presence settle in his mind. He was alone in the ruins of the pyramid of the perfumed ones who smelt far too strongly of berries and tasted rancid unlike the other humans. The surrounding stone was a rich black onyx that the rider could make out fine despite the lack of lightning surrounding him.
As one, the rider and the dragon lifted their head into the hair and roared loudly. A torrent of flames poured through their open maw, illuminating the skies and bathing the entire city that their mother presided over in an eerie crimson glow. The men in the streets stopped and looked up. They cowered back in fear, running away from the angry dragon.
But the dragon wasn’t wrothful, but in mourning. His destined rider was gone- taken before he could ever sit on his back. Only a brief glimpse had been had— and no more would ever come. Now the two of them would sail amongst the stars as one instead of two— forevermore.
A soft presence brushed against the rider’s brain, a strangely gentle probe. Fly? Rhaegal asked the rider. It wasn’t truly words— just a feeling offered to the rider— the two creatures bound together by blood and spirit. And one that the rider could return.
Rhaegal roared again and the rider joined his song, before he flapped his wings and they were in the air.
The world looked different from up there, the rider decided. He wasn’t sure if that was because he was so high up, or if it was because a dragon simply saw differently. The world was smaller, that was for sure, but it was a different smaller than when the man once known as Jon Snow had stood atop the wall and looked down on the people below. The people were like ants, but even from so high up, he could see every detail— the clothes they wore, and even the expressions on their faces. He could see a rat darting between the feet of one of the men in a gold plated mask. It was as if the rider was standing right next to them.
The world was also more colorful, seeing new colors that the rider had never seen anywhere before now. An entirely new spectrum that illuminated things and the dragon’s eyesight made it apparent when something was even just a shade lighted in one spot on a banner.
But more than his eyesight, it was the smells that made the former human gasp in awe. It was like the rider had a second set of eyes. He could track every person and animal in the city on their unique scent alone.
It wasn’t like when the rider had been a wolf though. As a wolf, he had been able to smell things that his manflesh’s nose would never have detected, but that had been detecting falsehoods and danger. It had been smelling out poison and causing that wine jug to spill before he could have drunk it.
As a dragon he wasn’t smelling emotions or intent, but blood. Every living thing’s blood carried something, some stronger than others, some more pleasing than others, but it called to Rhaegal and his rider. The desire to hunt burned in his belly like a hot iron, but they pushed it down for now.
Right now, they would fly. The first flight the rider and dragon would ever have together, for they would never get the chance to carry one another on their back.
Rhaegal let out another mournful cry.
Jon Snow the human was dead, of that the rider was certain. He had gone on to live again as his wolf…
And then someone had forced him out. Another presence had tried to steal Ghost from him, and that one had overpowered him, crushing Jon Snow into nothingness and forcing his mind out in favor of their own. Who was that? They had known Jon Snow, and even sounded aggrieved by his death… But they still chose to steal his wolf instead of letting that be his second life.
Was it one of the Free Folk? But why would they have sounded surprised seeing his corpse? Who else could it be? How powerful would a skinchanger need to be to steal his wolf from afar if they hadn’t been at Castle Black during the mutiny? Everything that Jon Snow had known about skinchanging also suggested you needed a bond with the animal first… So how was someone else able to steal Ghost- he had no other bonds. Was what had happened even possible?
Their chest rumbled at the thought. Right, the rider supposed that him being here on the other side of the narrow sea as a dragon proved that both of those were indeed possible.
That was a bigger mystery than even the theft of the wolf.
How could the rider have skinchanged a dragon on the other side of the world? One that he had never crossed paths with before… And dragons were supposed to be a Valyrian thing, he was pretty sure that none of the histories mentioned them bonding with the descendants of the first men. Fear seized his heart, could someone steal Rhaegal the same way as they had ripped the rider away from the wolf?
Rider, Rhaegal insisted wordlessly as if that explained everything.
Perhaps it did.
If Jon Snow had lived would he have eventually found Rhaegal? Would he have ridden him regardless of his blood if he had lived? Could the rider be with Rhaegal now because a dragon’s bonds transcended time? It sounded so mystical it was silly.
Rider, Rhaegal insisted once more.
A memory flashed before his eyes, a woman as naked as the day she was born, her skin covered in ash and soot, with one brother suckling at her breast, drinking milk like a newborn babe, and the other— the black one, resting on her scalp, draped across her skull like a living crown. Mother Rhaegal trilled as he scrambled up onto her shoulder. Rider , he trilled again. And there was another there seeing through the same eyes the rider realized... himself.
From the day that they were hatched, the rider had been with Rhaegal?
It didn’t even begin to make sense— but Rhaegal knew it to be true so his rider did as well— even if he could only recall the scene as Rhaegal, not himself. And Jon Snow had not even known Rhaegal had existed until his third life. It must be a dragon thing, to be bound to a dragon since birth. Perhaps because Rhaegal’s rider had the blood of the first men it led to their weird circumstances where they always knew who their destined one was.
But that did not change that all the dragonriders had the blood of Old Valyria… And that meant that the rider once known as Jon Snow had to also have that blood.
Did that mean that Jon Snow’s mother was a dragonseed that Ned Stark had encountered during the rebellion?
White hot rage seized the rider and they let off a gout of flames on the swordsmen below them. Liar. The thought bounced around his head like the pounding of a drum. Jon Snow’s father was nothing but a liar.
Another face joined his father’s in the mind of the rider and his dragon. This one much prettier, pale and free of blemishes, with silver hair word in a braid and sparkling purple eyes. Mother. Liar. Rhaegal commiserated with his rider.
The two of them dove down from the sky and his talons grabbed onto one of the men in plate, his claws effortlessly tearing the leather and biting into the flesh. He tossed the corpse aside and lunged for another one as fire spilled from betwixt his teeth.
Burn. They thought as one. They are all liars. Burn. Burn. Burn them all. They took to the sky again, this was no hunt but a massacre. He just wanted the world to feel the pain that he was feeling— the rage at Jon Snow’s death before he could meet his destined one coupled with the rage that Ned Stark was nothing but a horrible liar.
It was a realization that cut deeper than swords. The true dagger in the dark that Jon Snow had been warned of perhaps.
Ned Stark was not the father of the rider who had once been Jon Snow. He had to have been his uncle.
Jon Snow’s father must have been Rhaegar Targaryen and his mother Lyanna Stark. The girl who had been kidnapped and raped by Jon Snow’s father… and he was the product of it. The man whose existence had led to a rebellion and ended the Targaryen dynasty. And his dragon was named for that monster.
All of those years of asking who Jon Snow’s mother was… and the answer was that. She assuredly did not want Jon Snow, and he had killed her when he was born. He was the product of rape— a product of tragedy.
And yet the rider could not regret the birth of Jon Snow, for it had brought him to Rhaegal. And Jon Snow had already chosen to be Jon Snow— not Stark. If being that shame brought him to Rhaegal and gave him this third life with his bonded one, then it had to be worth it. Being a Targaryen had to be good— because only then could Jon Snow be a dragon now. Only then could he fly with Rhaegal until the stars grew cold.
The rider roared in pain and Rhaegal answered, his mind sliding against the rider’s in something akin to an embrace.
He didn’t even really understand why he was so mad. It was obvious that Jon Snow’s father— uncle had lied to protect the boy. But… he had still died all the same. Jon Snow had died without ever meeting Rhaegal— forced away from the wolf… And maybe if Jon Snow had gotten to know the truth, he never would have gone to the Wall of Ice and he would still live. Maybe he would have gone to Essos and bonded with Rhaegal earlier. Maybe he could have actually ridden on dragonback like he was destined to do.
But…
Instead, Jon Snow had died.
They let out a puff of smoke, and took to the skies again. The rage fading away in favor of that dull melancholy that somehow hurt worse.
They glided through the skies like that for a while, watching the men in the city panic as they looked up to the sky. They watched as the men in the city ran out to battle with the ones outside the gates, led by an old man on a silver mare. And they watched the harbor, where countless ships rested on the water, also part of this war for the city that neither of them knew the name of.
And then they saw one of the ships— a warship that carried a pair of banners. One of them was the banner of Mother’s house— of Jon Snow’s secret house. A three headed dragon in red against a black backdrop. Rage boiled in his belly once more as Rhaegal picked up speed and charged towards the bay with a furious flap of his wings.
He let out a roar in the direction of his brother, encouraging him to join in on the hunt and burn those ships and the men pouring out of them.
For it was the second banner that they were flying that caught the attention of the rider. One that Jon Snow had been very familiar with, and one that Jon Snow had hated more than any other.
A black banner with gold.
And on it flew the Kraken.
Greyjoy. The rider growled.
-
Tormund I
When the roar had shaken the castle followed by the sound of a man screaming, Tormund had been one of the hundreds to file out of the Shieldhall and into the courtyard in pursuit of the source of the noise. Had Bolton arrived to cut out Snow’s heart already? The Free Folk weren’t a people who sent words on a page, but surely, the point of a warning was to wait longer? Would this be a situation like Stannisi were they were caught completely unawares?
Then came the song of steel. Fear seized his heart for a moment, but Tormund was not a man but Giantsbane so he refused to let it rule him.
Tormund blew on his horn, a long and dark sound that seemed to shake the very foundations of the castle. “Free Folk to me!” His voice bellowed out when he lowered the horn, his words heard by all, even in the pandemonium. “Today we fight for Snow! Today we fight for Castle Black! Show those Crows that we are better killers than them!”
His fellow Free Folk roared at their
“To battle!” Tormund shouted once more as they charged to join their brethren who were by Hardin’s Tower, where Val was confined at the precipice.
Wun Wun thrashed a crow against the wall repeatedly, his head swollen beyond recognition. It resembled an overripe pomegranate now. Wun Wun was bleeding, Tormund remarked numbly. On the ground was one of those men in plate, his arm ripped off already— one of the Queen’s Men.
Further to the right was a scattering of crows— Snow’s men, and all of them were bearing steel as they formed a half circle against the wall, trying to fence off both the Giant and the men forming a wall to the side.
And on the ground between the two groups was Leathers. He had been one of the Free Folk— marched alongside Tormund when Mance was King. He was one of the few Free Folk to choose to be a Crow… And the Crows had killed him despite him saying their vows… They had called him brother… And they had butchered him like the pig they were.
Had Snow betrayed them?
“Brothers, kill the Wildlings! Castle Black is ours!” One of the Crows snarled, steel clenched in his fist. Wick Whittlestick if Tormund was remembering his crows correctly.
“Kill them first!” Tormund roared back. He was gong
The two slides charged at each other, and when they did, it was far from an even battle. The free folk might have been a bit tipsy after all that ale, and they might not have been as well armed as the Black Brothers in that moment, but they still outnumbered them nearly two to one with how many were currently residing in the castle due to Snow calling them all there to discuss Hardhome and then that letter. Tormund had brought along 50 of his best. And that was assuming that every crow fought for Snow— even the Free Folk who had taken the Black.
If it was a trap, then Snow was an idiot for planning it this way.
Tormund didn’t have much time to think further as he engaged one of crows, his hammer swinging wildly at their unprotected breastplate. They deflected the first blow with their sword but the second from his other hammer crushed his ribs.
The crow coughed up blood onto Tormund’s beard before collapsing in a boneless heap.
Another crow stepped up in his place, this one carrying a black sword in his left hand that rippled as it reflected the sunlight off of the wall. It took Tormund a minute to place why the sword seemed familiar… It was Snow’s sword.
He didn’t have time to process that revelation before the crow was on him, the sword swinging far faster than the other crows swung theirs. He barely had time to lift his hammer and deflect the first swing, and then it was back on him again, slashing out towards his exposed shoulder.
Tormund grinned. Finally a challenge.
He roared wordlessly and swung his hammer to the temple, but found it blocked again. The sword dashed out and nicked his thigh, and then again, cutting at his shoulder.
Tormund’s eyes tracked the blade as it swung down on his collarbone. This was his chance, he stepped forward into Lew’s reach and his hammer lashed out for his elbow, planning on breaking his good arm and dismantling the present threat.
But in that moment, just as Tormund was about to cripple his foe, the crowd parted in just the right way, and Tormund’s breath was stolen from him.
It was Snow, lying face down on the ground in a pool of blood. The standard daggers of the Night’s Watch that they all carried were buried deep between his shoulder blades, and another in his lower back.
When awareness returned to Tormund, it was too late. The brief moment of distraction at the sight of Snow— killed by his own sworn brothers had cost him his opportunity. The sword bit into the flesh of his shoulder, and then stopped.
Tormund watched wordlessly as a dagger pushed through the back of the crow’s throat. His hands reached up to try to cradle the wound, letting the steel clatter to the floor harmlessly, instead of cutting Tormund in half. The crow dropped to his knees, revealing the familiar face of Tormund’s savior.
“Val,” Tormund greeted as he huffed for air.
She stood where the crow had once been, her dirk stained red as she held it up. Her golden hair was done in a loose braid, but flecked with blood. Her blue eyes scanned the field behind him, not letting her guard down for a second.
“Tormund,” Val’s voice carried no warmth, just weariness. “Stop standing around, and go back to killing crows. They mutinied and killed Jon from what I’ve gathered. Evidentially, they weren’t as willing to accept us here as he thought. All of our plans are in the wind now.” She frowned, and shook her head. “They’ll die for their foolishness.”
“Jon is it?” Tormund laughed in spite of the tension. “Did he finally realize he stole you?”
Val flushed and ducked her head. “Shut up Giantsbane, and get back to killing.”
“Aye Aye Your Majesty!” Tormund bantered as he bent over and picked up the sword that the crow had discarded— the one that had once belonged to Snow.
“Fucking Wildling Princess,” Val murmured. “Dammed Southerners, I’m never going to live that down.” She shook herself lightly. “The Crows have hostages against us,” Val reminded Tormund. “They won’t be enough for them to leverage and stop an ongoing battle, but we need to secure whichever ones aren’t already out here before the crows kill them.”
“Is Dryn…?” Tormund trailed off, unable to voice the thought. “Was he with Snow…?” When Snow had enacted his blood price, he had assigned Dryn to serve as his page— and he was rarely far from Snow’s side.
“I haven’t seen him,” Val answered, her lips pursed.
Tormund frowned and took a swing of Snow’s sword to distract himself. “Har har har,” he laughed, but he knew that his bluster wasn’t fooling her for a second. “I need to get me a sword like this!” It was certainly an impressive sword, lighter than any of the steel they stole from the crows, and sharper too.
“Then use it to kill the crows who murdered him,” Val told him. “I’ll go try to find Dryn and the other hostages.”
Tormund nodded gratefully and turned back to the battle. The Free Folk were not holding up as well as Tormund would have hoped. For every 2 dead crows, there were 3 dead Free Folk. And the snow was running red all around, even as more freshly fell to cover the stained ones. To call this a battle was a misnomer— it was a massacre. Centuries of hatred on both sides, boiled over by the betrayal of the Lord Commander— and both sides would not accept an ending other than every single person dead— complete eradication.
Tormund laughed uproariously. “Kill the crows!” He bellowed again before charging at one of the remaining crows.
He cut through one crow quickly with his new sword, and then another rose to take his place. There might have been twenty of the black brothers against them before the combat had reached a fever pitch, but they were multiplying. It wasn’t hard to figure out why— not every crow here knew that Snow had been betrayed and the Free Folk were fighting for him. They just knew that their brothers were being killed by the Free Folk and assumed the treachery was on them.
Such was the nature of war.
And as such they would die, not that Tormund would shed any tears for a crow.
Tormund lashed out wildly with his sword at a crow, having it deflected, and then swung out again without any hesitation— he really liked this sword. No wonder Snow had refused to share it.
He swung out again, but his sword just cut through the air as his opponent vanished. He blinked and then he saw, it was Snow.
“You stole my kill,” Tormund complained half-heartedly.
Now in the form of his wolf, he had leapt through the air and ripped out the throat of one of the men who had mutinied against him. Snow looked up at him, blood dripping from his jaws, before turning away. He ran off without giving Tormund a second thought.
Tormund laughed without purpose. Snow could handle himself, they had more crows to kill.
-
Theon I
Theon could no longer feel his arms.
Or his legs for that matter. At first his shoulders had burned and his wrists had chaffed, but now it was just a dull sensation of weightlessness. His legs had once tingled at the lack of use, but now, they had just lost all feeling altogether. Theon was just drifting, waiting for his death.
Every breath was painful, his chest compressing on itself. He could no longer lift himself up at all to make breathing come slightly easier. He would die soon.
It’s not so bad , Theon thought to himself. Far better than what he had endured under Ramsay. He still had just as many fingers and toes as he did when Stannis captured him. He wasn’t missing more teeth either. Stannis hadn’t tortured him at all— just let him hang there, and pretended he wasn’t there most of the time. Even the hunger of only being fed the dregs on occasion was nothing compared to what Ramsay had put him through.
If Stannis did not hurry up and give him to his Red God then Theon would die before he could be sacrificed. If he did, then Stannis might use Asha instead.
That was why Theon hadn’t let himself give up. Why he kept on fighting just for oxygen to enter his lungs. He had killed Bran and Rickon— not them, just miller’s boys… But Bran and Rickon were on their own because of him— and likely dead.
Kinslayer, the wind whispered in his ear.
“Twice over,” Theon mumbled, his lips dry and his voice so hoarse that he wasn’t sure he had even said the words aloud.
But he wouldn’t make it thrice.
Perhaps, Stannis would have mercy and give him to the tree as Asha had requested— to the gods of Eddard Stark. To the gods of Robb Stark. To the gods of Bran and Rickon. Who else had a right to judge him other than them?
Stannis might have been a devout follower of the Lord of Light, but most of his men were not. His host was made up of Northerners who fought for Stannis to avenge the Starks and for Jeyne Pool who they believed to be Arya. His army was made of men who worshiped the trees— and would look to the trees to end the storms raging outside the walls of Winterfell that threatened to bury Stannis.
“Greyjoy,” he heard a grunt, and lifted his head weakly. There stood the King, arms folded over his chest, and jaw clenched. The winter had not treated him well, his face gaunt enough that he already looked like a skull, flesh peeling away to reveal bone. The golden crown with the tongues of fire that rested on his head would slide down his brow when he tilted his head, having lost all fullness in his face.
“You will die on the morrow,” there was no ceremony in the King’s speech— no attempts to soften to blow. It was a truth delivered like a hard stone. Blunt and abrasive.
Theon licked his cracked lips. “How am I to die?”
“Theon,” a raven chittered from in it’s cage, them all rattling as one once more. “The Tree,” another cried. Their voices echoed around the chambers as they had for days.
It wasn’t contained to the tent either. Two ravens separate from these ones had flown in circles above the camp until they were shot down. One declared the name of Theon, and the other “The Tree”.
Stannis hadn’t looked in Theon’s direction since that day. Nor had Asha been in to plead with Stannis again.
Stannis grit his teeth. “The ravens have the right of it, you’ll be given to the blood soaked tree.”
Theon blinked slowly, not believing his words at first. The weirwood tree, Theon closed his eyes and pictured it’s weeping face. And he pictured Eddard Stark, crouched next to it, greatsword laid across his lap as he cleaned the blade. A good death, more than I deserve.
“Thank you,” Theon rasped.
“I’m not doing it for you,” Stannis’s gaze pinned him down. “Whichever northerner trained those damned birds to circle the camp saved you from the flames. They have taken to calling it an omen from the Old Gods that you need to be sacrificed to the tree for the storm to abate. Foolishness.”
Stannis turned his back on Theon. “But if I were to offer you up to R’hllor and the storm didn’t abate, I would face mass desertion at best, and more likely a mutiny from the Northerners in my ranks. At least if I offer you to the heart tree, then I can burn your sister next without being decried as a heretic for ignoring the voice of false gods.”
Theon swallowed painfully. Please, Theon prayed. Please to the gods of the Starks, accept my life as payment. Don’t let Asha die for my sins. Theon begged— perhaps the gods would listen because he knew this King wouldn’t.
“Report,” Stannis ordered, his voice curt.
Theon blinked painfully, he had drifted off again. It was becoming harder and harder to stay awake now. Stannis was sitting on the other side of the room, talking with one of the knights— Horpe if Theon wasn’t mistaken.
“We’ve proceeded with carving the holes in the ice as you ordered—”
“But?”
“It’s too cold, Your Grace,” Horpe ducked his head. “The holes we carved yesterday are already frozen over enough to hold a man’s weight without armor.”
“You’ve covered them in snow?”
“We have, but by the time that we’ve covered them, the bottom layer is already frozen again.
“My Northerners claim that the snow should stop the lake from freezing so quickly so the spot can be reused for fishing,” Stannis muttered.
“Perhaps it’s the case normally, but it’s too cold right now, Your Grace,’ Horpe informed him dutifully.
Stannis frowned and leaned back in his chair. “So we will need better scouts then.”
“It appears that way. Cut away as much of the ice as we can as close to the battle as possible, and hope that it proves brittle enough for our ambush.”
Stannis exhaled, his breath coagulating into frost in front of him. “I should have never given Snow those Wildlings. 300 men who know nothing but fighting in such heavy snows might do me more good than the 3,000 boisterous fools that he gave me.”
“What about—”
“I do not believe in planning on what-ifs. That is something only a fool would do, and I am not my brother.” Stannis stood from his chair, the legs scraping against the hard floor. “Alas, it appears that it might be our best hope of winning this battle.”
“Your Grace—,”
“But we will proceed as planned,” Stanniis forestalled his protests. “Test the catapults on the ice. I need to know how deep they can crack in order to proceed from here.” He paused and looked over towards Theon for a moment, before focusing on Horpe again. “And try to talk to the Wull, express curiosity in how he catches so many fish— do not let him know of our plans— but we have to know if there is something we are missing in how to use this terrain.”
“It will be done, Your Grace.” Richard Horpe bowed once more for the King.
“Then get to it and leave me be.”
“As you command,” He bowed again and swept out of the tent.
The day went on as Theon watched, drifting in and out of consciousness as Stannis met with all of his varying officers to discuss the battle plans. Even if Roose had blundered by sending out the Freys and Manderlys to fight Stannis instead of starving him out— Stannis still couldn’t win. Not like this, at least.
And Theon knew Ramsay— if his father was at all like the son then he had sent out those two groups because he wanted them dead and removed from Winterfell. It had nothing to do with Stannis and everything to do with removing the enemy at his back.
“Your Grace,” Theon looked up and blinked the drowsiness from his eyes. Asha .
“Why are you here?” Stannis spoke calmly, but there was an undercut of agitation in his tone. “I did not call for you.”
“I wanted to thank you, Your Grace,” She didn’t rise from her bent knee for even a second. A female guard stood behind her, her eyes on Theon’s bound form, her gaze clouded as she nibbled on her lip.
“What for?” Stannis grunted.
“You offered mercy to Theon and will kill him in the Northern fashion instead of giving him to the flames.”
“Mercy?” Stannis asked. “Is that what you call it? He will die— I merely chose to please my army instead of my God.”
“All the same, it’s a much kinder fate, so I thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the words sounded like they pained the King to say. “Now if that is all— leave.”
“I was hoping for the chance to say farewell to my brother before his execution,” Asha spoke softly, and Theon’s heart wrenched. She still hadn’t risen from that kneel, the picture of true submission in that moment— and for him.
He didn’t deserve it.
Any of it.
The world would be better off tomorrow when he was dead.
If the snows stopped…
“Say your piece and get out,” Stannis resolved.
Asha finally rose and took a step towards Theon. Stannis held up a hand. “No closer— I will not suffer a foolish escape attempt.”
Asha glared at him for a moment, but didn’t take a step closer to his stink. “Theon…” her voice cracked painfully. “I… I’m sorry that you went through so much without me being there beside you. I would have enjoyed serving at your side when you were crowned as Lord of the Iron islands. I’ll give your best to mother when I next see her.”
“What is dead may never die,” Asha intoned softly, her words carrying a certain proud confidence.
Theon swallowed painfully, blinking away tears that stubbornly proceeded to fall. He sniffled loudly. Gods, he was pathetic. “B-but rises again, harder and stronger.” His voice was clearer than it had been in a few days.
“You’ve said your piece,” Stannis sneered at them. “Now get out.”
Asha looked Theon in the eyes and offered a salute. Theon wished that he could return it, as poor as his form would be, but he couldn’t when chained like this. “Asha,” the words escaped his lips unbidden.
“T-thank you. I should have been a better brother to you— I should have not been so foolish. But thank y-you for looking out for me. G-g-goodbye sister.”
Asha smiled at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Have no fear brother, for soon you shall feast on your enemies in the watery halls of the Drowned God with a crown of driftwood on your brow.”
She turned around and walked out of the tent without giving Theon another glance. Theon clung to her words like they were the sustenance he had been denied for the last few days— like it was a rat in Lord Ramsay’s kennels. Was that the first good conversation they had with each other? It was fitting that their last would be the first time she had been proud to call him brother— and for him to call her sister. He replayed the words over and over in his head until he drifted off again.
Theon jolted awake as cold water splashed over his face. His chains rattled as he flinched back.
Standing in front of Theon was a man dressed in full plate, a key in his hand as he worked on his hand. “Stay quiet,” the knight warned him.
“No,” Theon protested as one arm came free and he fell to hang from just the one shoulder. “Stop!” Reek bellowed. “Please, mercy— Ramsay will kill me if I escape.”
“Shut up, or you'll get us all killed,” the knight growled. “We’re getting you out of here.”
“We?” Theon asked in a rare moment of lucidity. “Why?”
The knight scowled through his half-helm. Something about his face looked familiar. “Not sure, you don’t seem to be worth it. But my Lady demanded your safe return as we venture North, so she will have it.”
Jeyne, warmth bloomed in his chest, but he shook his head. “Go without me, I’ll only get you caught.”
“You’re coming Greyjoy, you don’t get to choose here. My lady ordered that you come with us for her to fill her end of the bargain, and I won’t fail or else I’ll lose everything I ever earned.”
His expression unclouded as the second manacle slipped off his wrist and he fell into the knight’s arms, a boneless heap.
Theon studied his face for a moment from so up close. “I know you— you’re Ser Justin Massey.”
“Indeed,” the knight muttered. Theon’s head hurt. He was certain that the knight had gone with the banker back to the Wall. So how was he still here?
“Now get up and let’s get out of here,” Massey snapped at him.
Theon tried to stand, but just collapsed in a heap on the floor after not using his muscles for so long as he hung there. His knees slammed against the floor painfully.
“Fine I guess, I’ll carry you then.” And with that, Ser Justin threw Theon over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
-
Barristan I
“They are on our side!” Barristan’s voice rang out, the deep baritone doing nothing to hide his glee. A grin stretched across his face, hidden beneath his winged helm. “Crush them between our armies!”
Barristan stirred his horse in the saddle and charged forth into the fray, an army surging behind him. All they had to do was buy time for the Unsullied to form their spear wall, but perhaps he could do more than that with the help of the Ironborn.
Barristan had never been a friend to the Greyjoys— he had been one of the chief officers in their defeat during the last rebellion, fighting by Robert Baratheon’s side and smashing their army on the land.
But right now, Barristan only could have been more grateful if it was the Queen that had shown up on her dragon to defend the city. House Greyjoy was the first house from Westeros to declare for Daenerys— second maybe, if you counted Quentyn Martell, although that alliance was likely gone with his suicidal endeavor to free the dragons.
By the looks of it they had brought the entirety of the Iron Fleet, and thousands of men to man them. The numbers advantage was now in their favor, and they had the Yunkai’i sellswords trapped between their attacking force led by Barristan and consisting of the Stormcrows, twenty dothraki, and a rag tag bunch of pit fighters and the Ironborn at their backs. A classic pincer formation that would lead to their army getting crushed between the two walls closing in on them.
And with their support they could defend Meereen— and with their ships, they could sail their army back to Westeros when Daenerys returned. “For the Queen! For the Breaker of Chains!” Barristan’s voice rang out in the bastard valyrian dialect of the free cities as he charged, his cry a rallying point for the armies.
The army roared in approval, echoing his declaration as they followed behind him.
His sword tasted blood immediately as he broke the front line of the Yunkai’i and stabbed one man protected by only boiled leather straight through the chest. The lighter armor of the Essosi sellswords due to the more arid climate would be their demise in this battle. Give Barristan fifty armored knights with any skill, and they could cut through a thousand lightly armored sellswords on their own. Give him the Kingsguard he served alongside before Rhaegar fell, and they might have only needed the seven.
Instead, Barristan had one and three promising squires. That would have to be enough.
An arakh crashed against Barristan’s breastplate, rattling him, but it failed to break past the thick breastplate of castle forged steel, and Barristan swiftly thrust his sword through the attacker’s mouth, ending their life in an instance.
“Forward!” Barristan bellowed giving a sound of his warhorn. “Drive them back into the sea!”
A spear thrust out for Barristan’s neck, him only just barely catching the blow on his sword and causing it to bounce harmlessly off the chainmail covering his Adam's apple. If I had been a decade younger, it would not have gotten that close. Barristan couldn’t help but doubt as he wrapped a gauntleted fist around the shaft and pulled the sellsword to him, thrusting his sword down through his opponents neck once they were in range.
The battle raged on, men blurring together as they always did in war. All that Barristan could really focus on was cutting down whoever was in front of him. He hopes that his squires were doing okay, but he was hardly afforded the opportunity to check on them. A few thrusts had snuck past his guard and plate. His left arm was bleeding profusely from the elbow where one thrust had managed to find the mail and slice through it, but Barristan could hold his shield so he couldn’t worry about it. He would keep fighting until he died— that was the only option for a Knight of the Kingsguard. He wouldn’t make the same mistake that he had with Robert again.
A horn sounded out, and Barristan jolted. His head was ringing like a bell after taking a hit to his helm from a soldier wielding a greatsword. II took him a second to place what that was what the signal was for. But when he did, he grinned. They were going to win.
Barristan fell back, wheeling his horse around to sweep out to the sides, cutting through any soldiers who stood in their way.
The unsullied advanced, moving in lockstep, and pressing down on the enemy as Barristan’s cavalry quickly moved to press down on the sides. The Yunkai’i army tried to retreat, but found themselves running back into the Greyjoy’s who were pressing at their rear, even if their formation was lacking. Men fell like flies as the unsullied advanced. It didn’t matter what the Yunkai’i did now. The battle was theirs.
A roar split the sky, and then the world was aflame. A sudden sweltering heat that threatened to consume him. Dragons , Barristan laughed silently. They had come to defend Daenerys’ city— the day was won.
Then Barristan watched in horror as the gout of flames cut through not just the armies of Yunkai’i but stretched beyond that— the green one spewing flame on their Ironborn allies.
And then again.
And again.
The Yunkai’i almost entirely ignored in favor of taking out their own men.
“Gods,” Barristan muttered watching the devastation as the Ironborn’s ranks crumbled in the onslaught of dragonfire— some were retreating back to their ships now, any intent to aid the Queen forgotten. Others were trying to throw their axes into the sky and bring down the dragon that was ruining them. Some just ran in any direction in fear of their lives. The stormcrows stopped pressing down on the flank, rearing back and away from the dragon’s fire that threatened to consume them.
The unsullied remained undaunted, pressing down on the Yunkai’i, the wall unbroken even when a dragon loomed ahead, but it hardly mattered when the sides were crumbling and offering a chance for the Yunkai’i to flee. The dragon showed no interest in the fleeing prey, instead content to simply slaughter the Ironborn.
“Rhaegal,” Barristan whispered in horror. It didn’t really make sense— the dragons had shown no interest in massacring the people without their mother’s command once Martell had freed them. They had made some of the pyramids into lairs and mostly ignored people. Even the ever so unruly Drogon had only hunted people who were defenseless and easy prey— and that was so he could eat. Rhaegal showed no interest in eating the Ironborn— he just wanted to see them burn.
The very miracle that had brought Daenerys her crown was now going to be the one that took it away.
The battle was lost, the Yunkai’i were scattered, but both sides would live to fight another day. The path to retreat had been opened, and Barristan alone could not stem the tide. The Ironborn were decimated, but his priority had to be Meereen right now, not Westeros.
Barristan lifted the warhorn to his lips and blew once, a long drawn out sound, and then a second time, a much shorter blast. “Retreat!” he called out. “Fall back to the city walls!”
-
Victarion I
Victarion could not contain his glee as they landed on the coast of Meereen. His bride awaited him. They said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he would be hers— not Euron’s. His fool of a brother had handed him the Iron Throne, believing his brother to be a weakling who would not pay the Iron Price to take what should have been his.
But first, Victarion would prove his worth to his rock wife. He would drive out the slavers who threatened her, as any good husband would. He would win her hand by paying the Iron Price to it. He didn’t need the horn of Euron’s to claim her— the Drowned God had given him the chance to woo her the old way. The horn would merely be his wedding gift to her, a dragon for him to ride and defeat her enemies from astride.
“Ironborn!” Victarion bellowed, his words carrying across the sea with a rumble. “Today we free Meereen and take Daenerys Targaryen! Today I become a King! Kill all the Slavers and free the slaves! Take them as your thralls and teach them what it means to be Ironborn!” He shouted into the clouds. Not even the Storm God could stop him now. He was sure that the other captains were giving similar speeches on their own vessels. “What is dead may never die!”
“What is dead may never die!” They roared back.
Victarion turned to Ragnor Pyke. “You have command of our forces on Land.”
“I’ll break the slavers on my axe and deliver the Dragon Queen to you,” Pyke swore to him.
Victarion nodded. “Then go and pay the Iron Price.”
Victarion watched with a morose silence as he watched his men file off the ship and charge onto land. It felt wrong sending them to fight and die for him— to claim glory while remaining behind. But the dragonbinder was more important. If it could truly bind a dragon as his thrall, he couldn’t let it out of his sight. So he would be a coward and remain on the ship in order to protect it— he didn’t trust Moqorro or his Red God enough to possibly leave him with something so powerful.
He headed back into his cabin, after ordering the three hornblowers to wait outside. His black hand, how hard like glass cracked as he flexed it. “Bleed me,” he ordered the dusky woman. “Stay here priest,” he ordered as Moqorro made to leave them.
The dusky woman hissed at the priest, and if it wasn’t for the jubilance he was feeling towards what was to come, then Victarion might have smacked her for that. Instead, he merely glared. She took the dirk off his desk.
Victarion held out his palm and she slashed across it. He didn’t even wince as it tore through skin and blood gushed out.
“You want to fill the base of the horn,” Moqorro provided helpfully.
Victarion looked over at him. “When I have conquered the world with my dragon, I will give your god a landlocked kingdom for your service.” The Drowned God was known to only care about the people on the sea— men on land were heathens who turned their back on their God and refused to live by the Old Ways. Giving them to the Red God in exchange for every inch of the coast was more than fair trade.
“Are we done?” Victarion asked after a few minutes of letting his blood run inside of the horn.
“Far from it,” Moqorro apologized. “Your blood is a very powerful sacrifice— the Blood of Kings— but it will still take a lot of it to enslave a dragon. This is ancient and very powerful blood magic.”
So Victarion sat there in his quarters, his hand bleeding into the dragonhorn as the sounds of battle echoed around his ears. He wanted to be out there. Wanted to see their blood spill upon the sands, and earn all of the glory for himself. His head was spinning, just thinking about it.
A roar sounded out, louder than the loudest shouts from the Storm God. Soon that would be his— he would be the one scaring off the Storm God with his dragon. It would be glorious and every man would have no choice but to forget about his failures. Every man would bow down when they saw him and declare him as King.
“Captain!” One of the thralls who would blow the horn burst in through the door without knocking.
Victarion glared at him. He was lucky that he was currently being bled, or he would have knocked out all of his teeth. The boy didn’t need those to blow the horn.
“The dragon…!” He panted, his face red and strained, eyes frantically scanning the room.
“I’ve heard it,” Victarion laughed. “Magnificent beast, isn’t it? Soon it will be mine.”
The thrall shook his head vehemently. “Captain— that’s not it— it’s- it’s…”
“Just say it already,” Victarion ordered, his voice rumbling.
“It’s attacking the Iron Fleet! Our ships are burning!”
“What!?” Victarion roared, leaping to his feet, a strom rising within him. “How dare she?” Victarioin came to aid her— to name her as his rockwife and give her the Iron Throne that her father had sat on. And she… “She burns my ships! My men!”
He would still take her— he would have Euron’s bride as his own— the most beautiful woman in the world to replace the one that Euron had stolen from him. But, Victarion would not give her the honor of being a rock wife— her treason would be met with blood. He would kill her retinue and take her as his salt wife and claim her throne as she watched in awe and regretted ever daring to strike her husband and King.
“Have no fear,” Moqorro counseled him. “I have seen it in the flames— you will not die here in Meereen. Finish bleeding into the horn, and the dragon will belong to your house. It won’t be much longer now.”
“Fine!” Victarion growled, falling back into the chair with a loud thud. “Gather your fellows and get in here, we will blow the horn the moment that this is done.” He tightened his hand into a fist and squeezed hard to pop any clots and will the blood to come faster. He would not let pain deter him now. The dragons would be his, and then the entire world.
“It is done,” Moqorro intoned after a long moment. “Dragonbinder is now bound to you— the dragon will be your thrall when it is sounded three times.”
Victarion laughed and staggered to his feet. He stumbled as he strode towards the door, horn carried in his arms. Moqorro and the dusky woman followed behind him. “Boys!” He roared at the thralls. “Gather up and blow this horn because your life depends on it.”
The sight that he saw when he stepped outside was nothing short of horrifying. The Iron Fleet was on fire. Half their ships were sinking— more even. The Ironborn on the land fared no better— men running around aflame, screaming loudly. Men on both sides of the battle ran into the ocean, voluntarily giving themselves to the Drowned God to escape the flames.
The green beast flew over the oceans, setting fire to all of the ships that were in the bay— torching the Iron Fleet like it was a bunch of greenlanders. The mightiest armada in the world and it was brought low in the time it took to fill the horn. Of the 54 ships that they had arrived in Meereen with, just sixteen remained.
The cream scaled dragon was not absent either— flying in circles over the men on land and burning them all as fire fell from the clouds like it was rain. Rain that burned through their armor and sentenced men to a slow and painful death— their only salvation being to deliver themselves to the Drowned God.
Victarion couldn’t contain his laughter.
It was glorious.
Euron and his fleets stood no chance when this was the kind of power that Victarion would wield. A dragon—- truly a magnificent beast. The world would be his— not even the Ironborn would be able to beat this creature at sea, and Halleck Hoare had proven how unbeatable these beasts were on land.
The world was his.
King Victarion.
He thrust the horn into the hands of the first thrall— the boy who had backtalked him and feared death. “Blow.”
The boy lifted his shaking hands to his lips and blew. The sound was even more horrible than Victarion had remembered from the Kingsmoot.
aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
It pierced the sky itself, a high ringing that made him feel like his bones were on fire. A ring that shook the land itself. The hornblower’s eyes turned a milky white as he blew as long and hard as he could, and the glyphs on the horn glowed.
As pained as Victarion was by the sound, it did not compare to the anguish that the dragons flying overhead seemed to feel. The green dragon shook in the air, his head thrashing in every direction as gouts of fire were unleashed at random. Another one of their ships went down— along with three of the slavers ships. A wall of fire carpeted the gates of Meereen as the cream colored one found himself responding in the same fashion.
It was working. Victarion laughed as the sound died out.
“Pass the horn down the line and blow,” Victarion ordered quickly.
The boy said nothing, his eyes still glassy and hollow, but instead lifted the horn to his lips again and blew.
aaaaRREEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
-