Chapter One - Jon I

As the only true port of the north, White Harbor was a steady stream of activity, now hampered by daily snowfalls and increasingly cold winds. The King in the North arrived on an auspicious day. The heavy clouds parted in a dance of sunlight and shadows, playing across the ship sails as they whipped and rippled, boats bobbing like apples in the rough surf.

He hated few things as much as he hated sailing - nothing feels right on a ship. The constant unease of being off balance at the mercy of the winds and waves. The intense smells and the deep darkness of the water. Hells, even eating and sleeping felt unnatural. Jon knew the winter seas would be rougher since his last outing, he was not looking forward to this trip. How could anyone think he's going to Dragonstone by choice?

His ship, the ship that carried him to Hardhome and back, was waiting for him, one of many that crowded the busy harbor. Davos sent word ahead to prepare her for the journey south to Dragonstone, about 5 days travel if the winds were kind. My lucky ship, he mused. She's not failed me yet. Maybe he should accept the good omens as they come.

No one was more shocked to see Wyman Manderly sit a horse as Jon was as he rode through the gates of White Harbor. After the initial courtesies, the host began to amble toward the docks as Manderly reining up alongside him. Jon was eager to speak to him about his preparations for the coming threat. Instead, he got an earful from the lord who was freshly returned from Winterfell himself.

The King was a fool to answer the Dragon Queen's "demand for allegiance" as he put it. "Remember your Father and your Grandfather before him, Your Grace." Manderly snorted as they rode their way through the busy, snow crusted streets. "The South is no place for a Stark." Jon reluctantly listened out of respect for the lord, but had already made up his mind the moment Sam's letter arrived from the Citadel. Dragonstone had dragonglass, a mountain of it. It also had a possible ally that could turn the tides of war in their favor, Queen Daenerys and her 3 dragons.

"This is life or death for all of us. There is no choice!" Jon stormed at Sansa and Davos before leaving Winterfell, frustrated at their barrage of pleads for him to reconsider the trip. There were plenty of reasons to stay - Preparing Winterfell for the coming threat. Continuing to train his people to fight. But there was only one reason to go to Dragonstone, the choice was laid bare before him: Life or Death. What they didn't understand was something he lived with everyday since Hardhome; There is no winning this war, only trying to survive it. The Night King possessed power and magic like nothing anyone has ever seen. He was coming for all of them and death was on his side.

The Northern lords' suspicion of his choice to meet with the Dragon Queen had weighed heavy on Sansa. "We need the King in the North in the North!" Lady Mormont had defiantly proclaimed as the men stomped and pounded their mugs on the heavy oak tables in agreement. A child of 10 years, the men called her Kingmaker, a worthy moniker for Lady Lyanna. Surely, if we could capture her spirit in a bottle, we would win this war hands down.

All of them - Manderly, Sansa, Ser Davos - wore his patience thin. He was tired of defending his decision, of the infighting. The growing encampment of bannermen at Winterfell had created a perfect storm of hearsay and chatter. As the gathered lords strategized to shore up defenses for the coming storm, they also conferred and whispered of secrets and alliances. Jon despised the politics of it all. He'll let Sansa deal with the gaggle of gossiping geese.

All the truth he could fathom at the moment was the soreness from the long, hard ride to White Harbor and the task set before him. The quicker he got to Dragonstone, the faster he could return home.

Jon's thoughts returned to the conversation at hand. "We need alliances in this war and I refuse to play games with the lives of our people." Jon interrupted harshly, meeting Manderly's gaze with authority. "Im not a Stark," he straightened, "I will be fine." With that, he effectively ended the discussion.

The harbor was a bluster of covered carts and dock workers. Fisherman were stocking salted fish and crabs in barrels as wagons of wood freshly chopped from the surrounding hills ambled along the slippery roads. The North Prepares, Jon surveyed thoughtfully. Although his people haven't seen the enemy, they understood one truth all Northerners know: Winter is here and preparation means survival. That's all the truth they need to know right now.

"We have responded to Lady Sansa's request for grain, Your Grace." Manderly quipped between his loud breaths as they rode. As one of the richest families in the North, their trading galleys and port were the life's blood of the North - supplying grain and livestock from The Reach, fruits and wines from Dorne, and textiles from the Free Cities. Nowadays, it was food that mattered most. At Winterfell's request, Manderly began importing grain and foodstuff from across the Narrow Sea. The wars had already cost them dearly in men and resources, and with the War of the Queens afoot, The Reach and all its abundance has become the spoils of their war.

Although he hoped to leave soon after arriving at White Harbor, the strong surf and gusting winds had increased two fold, leaving the captain to greet them on the docks with no choice but to delay departure until first light tomorrow. Jon exchanged a disappointed sigh with Davos, relented his good omens, and followed Manderly up the hill to New Castle.

It was customary to dine with his host but Jon excused himself and Davos under the guise of fatigue, a truth, although Jon really just needed some time alone. They will break their fast with Manderly in the morning before they set sail, Jon informed the lord. A slight twinge of insult swept Manderly's face before it was replaced with understanding and loyal courtesy. He ordered baths and food sent to their rooms. A warning for their guests "not to be disturbed" was pronounced. Manderly bowed curtly with a tight smile and left, leaving Jon alone for the first time since Winterfell. A welcome relief, he exhaled, closing the door and relishing the quiet for a moment. His only wish: that Ghost was with him.

The bath was hot, steaming salt water, and his sore, bruised body thanked him for the prolonged soak. He rested his arms on the side of the narrow tub, hand holding his face. The warm drips of water and soap fell from his hair. He ran his hand down his face, exhaling deeply. The hearth was bold, he relished the excessive warmth of his chamber after the cold ride south. As his bath water cooled, he sat staring into the hearth flames, wondering if he would ever be granted a vision of why he was brought back to life. Some questions never get answers, he knew all to well. Promises. Promises that died with his Father. A mother he'll never know, not even her name.

And here he was, going off to convince a Targaryen to fight for the North. A foreign invader, his bannermen warned. He closed his eyes and chided himself about the inconceivable notion that this plan of his could work. He never wanted to rule , let alone with an iron fist. He encouraged his closets advisors to speak their minds and concerns freely. And so they did, loudly and often, until the moment he left Winterfell.

Yes, they followed him, but is it to their end? He knew what they all faced. The day he stood in the Great Hall of Winterfell and was declared King, he scanned the faces of his people - his loyal North men, the surviving Freefolk, and those who suffered under Ramsey's short but painful wrath. He wanted to save them all. To truly defeat the Night King and give them the assurances they wanted from him. But all he could wonder was how many of these faces will live to see Spring. His despair grew at the thought

This was no ordinary winter. This was the Long Night come again, the living nightmare straight from Old Nan's stories. No one knows how or why this threat had come to pass, but it is beyond anything anyone could imagine. A hundred thousand dead men, giants, mammoths, and gods knows what else were marching on the Wall. They don't sleep, eat, or even breathe. A single army meant to kill everything in its path.

And we cant even get supply wagons through the heavy snows, he reluctantly admitted to himself. There is no way we can win this war. Do we stock Bear Island with supplies if we are forced to flee? Do we stay put at Winterfell, knowing there is no easy retreat when the Night King arrives? Is this all for nothing? So many questions and, truth be told, there were no real solutions.

Dragonglass was the best answer he had. Dragons are a better answer but that would require plenty of convincing and diplomacy, as Ser Davos put it. The Dragon Queen was at war with Cersei at the moment, his pleas for help might fall on deaf ears. Unbelieving ears, he thought. I sound like a madman talking about walking dead men. Frustration and doubt crept back up, disrupting the calm of his bath. He never stopped thinking, never stopped figuring out how to survive this threat. His fists began to clench, the tightness returned to his jaw. The bathwater suddenly cooled, no longer the inviting respite from the world it was a minute ago. Jon sighed loudly. I can't even enjoy simple pleasures anymore.

He finished his bath, dressing in a pair of cotton trousers but remained shirtless, soaking up as much warmth in the room as he could. When supper arrived shortly afterward, he picked from a hardy plate of roasted chicken, carrots and potatoes with a heel of buttered bread. A flagon of tart red wine helped wash the food down and the worry away. His brow unfurled as he drank deep from his cup, the wine beginning to work its favor. Finishing his meal, Jon yawned, squinting toward the candles at his bedside and dining table, the weight of the day catching up with him. Licking his thumb, he stood and walked around the room, extinguishing the flames, leaving only the hearth lit. He flopped down onto the furs of the oversized featherbed and exhaled. Lying on his back, Jon watched the fire shadows danced on the ceiling, enjoying the warmth and glow of the room.

No more worries for today, he thought. Steadying his breath, he closed his eyes and let the exhaustion and wine take over, musing the journey ahead. To meet the last Targaryen, said to be as fierce as she was beautiful with 3 dragons. Sansa's warning came to mind, She is a conqueror, Jon. Never forget that no matter how fair and beautiful she appears.

Don't fall for her, he reminded himself. He shifted and slowly fell to sleep, dreaming of circling dragons in silver clouds.