Disclaimer: I do not own any of George R.R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire books or content, nor their continuation in Game of Thrones. This is just my stab at picking up the leftover pieces and making my own sense of them with the help of book content.

Warning: This is Rated M for a reason. I haven't quite figured everything out, but Martin is ever the realist and I plan on continuing that trend in my version of the story. Expect everything you would from any novel like his.

This is my first time writing here so I'm pretty nervous and could do with feedback. Please let me know what you think and leave a comment!

I will be updating weekly, probably on the weekends. Enjoy : )

The Dragon and the Wolf

A Game of Thrones Fanfiction

Drogon

For leagues the black winged beast flew across the rippling waters of the Narrow Sea. There were many a shriveling, cursing fishermen that were trying their luck at the coming schools of fish in the fading winter, shaken at the sight of such a creature in the sky. Jumping from their boats or quivering in their boots, they would make fast prayers to the Seven and quiet their whimpering breaths.

This creature ignored their gaze, lingering instead on the precious corpse he held in his tiring claw. Memories swarmed in his head - of screams from frightened prey, of the warmth in her gaze, of fire and blood. And that wretched metal that she always kept in her thoughts, poisoning her mind, stretching thickly over her dreams.

The sun was slowly becoming stronger, its gaze warming the aching muscles in his webbed skin. Days were easier than the nights when the moon was all that kept company. In these times, it was more clear how alone he was - without her. Without the bond that merged their souls together.

One such night a crow echoed in the silence, and then another. A flock of ravens watched in the moonlight glow, their focus too human to be mistaken. He could feel a mental tug from within and roared violently in rage at such an act. No one else was allowed to touch his mind the way she did. Bellowing dangerously, he spewed fire at the birds and watched gingerly as they fell.

In the coming dawn the ebony dragon had made it to the weathered land and circled away from the cities, close to the cliffs that nestled near the sea. Here he rested, placing her gently on the long grass that reminded him of the first time he caught sight of his mother.

Laying his head nears her, Drogon settled protectively before closing his eyes. In his dreams he watched bald men with darkened lips snatching him away, screams for his mother unheard in the walls of the sorcerer. Then he felt her grip on his scales, urging him forward, her fierceness a compliment to his own. Dracarys.

Yes, little one, he would say, his heart yearning for her shimmering violet eyes. Always.

A noise woke him suddenly, feet scrambling on crumpled stone. Shaking the dreams away, he stared at a man that was now running down the jagged path, screaming. He would kill for such a disturbance, but looking down at her flowing white hair and soft face, still resting as if asleep, he dare not leave her unprotected. Roaring warningly, the black beast stretched his limbs and readied for the air. Softly, he pushed her into his claw and then beat his powerful wings into the sky.

Above the cities the creature felt waves of hunger stabbing into his inner recesses of his belly, but he knew he could not stop. No, the dragon would not eat while his mother breathed no longer. There was an instinct that drove him back to this place - back to where it all had begun. Before the time of his mother, he was conceived in another land that was the home of his ancestors. There his roots urged him to go. There he would take her.

Below, where the common people watched as they tilled fields and traveled with their herds and their goods to the markets, many pointed at the dangerous shadow that cut across the sky. They had heard the legends, but did not know why he was returning. Was the Dragon Queen finished with her conquest? Had she come back to check on the former slave cities? At a closer glimpse, the guards stationed in watchtowers caught a white blur within a closed claw. One such man sprinted to the messengers and sent a quickly written scroll, his heart pounding heavily.

Drogon ignored them all. He instead lingered on the memory of that wolven man whom she loved so much - the anger of his actions making the beast growl deeply. Had it not been for the shared blood in his veins and her last wish made in haste, the beast would have torched that man with every drop of energy he could muster. Redirecting his anger, the dragon made sure that tainted metal would pay for costing his little one so much.

The largest hold of them all shone in the night - considerable fires kept it aglow, eyes cast upwards at the sound of his screech. The beast did not notice their presence, or did not care enough to focus on their red cloaks from above. No, the dragon was too close to the end to allow for any further distraction.

The city came and went, and he was alone once again. His body protested at the strain in not stopping but he could taste the familiar ash in the air. The dawn should have risen upon the world but clouds of powdered smoke barely allowed any light to cut through. A familiar hanging rock came into view and Drogon pushed his enormous wings faster at the sight.

Landing clumsily, the beast fell onto his side rather than risk crushing his little one. Stopping a moment to breathe heavily, the dragon turned and took a closer look at his mother. She has not changed. Exhaustion threatened to overwhelm the creature and he felt his vision blur as he dragged himself under the massive arc of stone, moss growing on its sides and stretching over the ground. Placing her softly on a bed of mulch, he felt satisfied with her care.

Tumbling to the stone, Drogon gave one final mourning call to the world before sinking into a dreamless sleep.

In the shadows a pair of eyes blinked, watching. A hand gripped her red cloak as she gazed at the one who was promised.

Arya

Feeling the tide push and pull the ship, a girl settled deeper into her swaying cot, her fingers gripping a familiar blade absentmindedly. What is west of Westeros? What an easy lie that came to her lips. Looking at her queenslayer of a brother, no, cousin she reminded herself, there was an unmistakable depth of pain in his darkened eyes. However it ended - he would be haunted for the rest of his night's watch life. Of course, there was no night's watch either. Wherever he was, Jon was not that. Then Lady Stark settled quite comfortably as Queen in the North, but at least Arya could have expected that. What with her beautiful red hair and shining blue eyes, that gait of a walk down the halls of Winterfell, it had come to no surprise her sister would succumb to a thirst for power. Either way, they had believed her without a doubt.

It was true, Arya wondered what laid in that direction. She had hoped to let her questions settle and leave her Stark name behind, but she wasn't ready. It was easier to think of an alternative. When Jaqen H'ghar first looked upon a girl when they were heading to the Wall it was the face behind his mask that she was curious to discover. Where was the assassin now? What was he doing when he was caught? Now that the Hound was gone, she felt a stab in her chest that she pretended to ignore. Was there anyone left that she knew? Well, besides Hot Pie, and -

No, she wouldn't think of that black haired man. The very hint of his face in her thoughts made her legs tighten, and she rolled her eyes before looking out the window. It seemed the dawn was edging into sky and gave her reason to rise from the sleep she didn't have. Strapping her worn boots tight, Arya dressed and pulled her hair into a half braid - just like father. Chuckling, she glanced at the faded mirror and could imagine him looking back. "Wouldn't you be proud?" she asked, taking a step closer. "Bran is King of the six realms, while Sansa is Queen of the North. And Jon still lives. But I did warn you, the future you thought for me, that isn't me. I hope - I pray that this would've made you proud too."

Feeling tears in her eyes, Arya wiped them away and settled into a blank face. Running up the stairs she found Dodrick eyeing the cloudless sky, his entire body still. She remembered his drunken stupor in front of the tavern by the docks, waving around a mouse bitten captain's hat. "Wha'a fine littl' lass, would'a thought a wolve wouldn'a strayed from da den," he hiccupped, noticing the stark sigil on her leather breastplate. Stumbling to a wall, the gray haired man leaned on it for support. His clothes smelled like rat's piss and his breath was even worse.

Now cleaned up, Dodrick looked more like the weathered captain he was. "Looks like a storm a headin'," he grinned wickedly, a gnarled hand lingering in the air. Arya stared at the captain, her eyebrow raised. "It is a clear sky," she countered, not entirely convinced. A part of her would always question what others spoke as truths, even if they believed them to be true. The Dragon Queen's face flashed in her mind, and Jon's faithful words about her. That kind hearted man thought his truths were real, and look at how that ended.

"Aye, but its da smell me nose is listenin' ta," Dodrick winked, tapping his nose as if it would explain everything. Arya sniffed in the air, and all she could smell was the salty ocean and an old man's sweat. Turning to the deck, Dodrick snapped orders for the crew and they hurried to change the sails. The girl settled herself on a stair and watched with keen interest. She began to mentally take notes of what was needed to command a ship. No one knew what the future held for her, and it was no one she was seeking answers from.

Picking her fingernails for the dirt that was crammed underneath, Arya's mind went back to her family. Would she return for them when she was finished with the Faceless Man? No, Arya felt her goodbye was the only sincere part of their conversation. She couldn't bear to see Jon in his current state and wished him well in the North, where he belonged. I don't want it. Those words always seemed to linger in his mouth. Inwardly, the girl believed Jon would have been a good King, better, even, than the third eyed raven that lived in her brother's body. Something about this new Bran had a way of getting under her skin, unsettling her. Of course, she never let anyone know of these feelings. Sansa had clearly felt the same way about him, or more, considering how her face pales in his presence.

As if in response to her thoughts, a raven landed on one of the ropes high above, looking down at her. It tilted its head and glanced in the direction of Braavos before leaping into the sky and out of sight. Arya shivered, knowing what the bird meant. Why was Bran watching her from here? Whatever she was doing now, it had nothing to do with Westeros anymore.

"Stop stalking me!" she bellowed, and swore she could hear a laugh in the caws that followed. The sailors peered at her as if she had sprouted white hair and then quickly shuffled away. Good. They knew to mind their business.

Later on, when it was dark and a storm raged heavily outside, Arya sunk deeper into her cot and gripped her dagger. "It will pass, don't be a coward," she whispered to herself, and then screamed when the boat lunged forward and she tumbled to the creaking floor. Settling on the ground, she wrapped her arms tightly around her knees and looked up at the flickering ceiling. Killing men was much easier than fighting against nature. What was stopping the ocean from swallowing her whole?

You killed the Night King, you aren't going to die from a storm. Breathing heavily, she thought of her list for comfort, and then felt a familiar disappointment when there were no names left. Or, at least, there weren't any yet.