AUTHOR'S NOTE: In my other story (A Rose in Winter) there have been a few comments and questions about Jon Snow's part in it all. I'm telling you here and now that there will be spoilers regarding Jon's story in the series. If you've read through A Dance With Dragons, you're fine. But there will be HUGE SPOILERS if you are only watching the TV show. Do not keep reading if you aren't OK with that. This is an AU universe, and little things will change. But Jon's story is one that is staying damn near the same as it did in the books. Only his feelings regarding events that I've changed will differ. But he's done everything exactly as it happens. This is just my version of events for how things proceed after ADWD.
For now I will only be posting this first chapter. It will explain how he got out of his vows he made to the Knight's Watch. I will go on later depending on the reactions of readers and what kind of comments I get. For now, this story will be on the back burner. My focus will mainly be going to A Rose in Winter. I'd like to finish that one before getting too many side projects going on.
I do not own anything in this story, except for the general plotline, but even that isn't very original. I've come across a lot of my theories through other fans, and I've adopted them. I send out a heartfelt sorry to George RR Martin who doesn't like fanfiction, but ignores it while we indulge anyway! HOLLA! Many thanks to him and his brilliance for creating these characters and this world for me to play around with.
CHAPTER ONE
Cold. So cold. He didn't even remember falling face first into the snow. He remembered cold. Even the pain had been gone when he fell. The pain was completely gone, but the cold wasn't. The bitter air bit at his skin. It was cold around him and he knew it. But of course it was. It was winter. In spite of the chill in the air, he was on fire, as if embers burned in his belly. It sustained him in spite of the chill. It was more than that, though. He felt fantastic! More then ever before, he felt strong. He felt as if he could do anything. He felt untouchable. It was empowering.
Nearby, the sound of peaceful breathing could be heard. One of his brothers was asleep nearby. It was relaxing. Jon kept his eyes shut, his head down. His last memory had been unsettling. He remembered that much, and he pushed it as far from his mind as he could. He didn't want to think about that. He wanted to think about this moment. He wanted to think about this new strength he had found inside himself. What don't you want to think about? The details weren't coming to him, so that nagging thought remained. He didn't want to think about it ... but what was it he was trying to forget?
They stabbed you! The thought seared through his mind like wildfire, startling him. His eyes shot open. One. Two. Three ... four? They stabbed you four times! He shouldn't feel this good. He should be dead. They tried to kill him. Your men tried to kill you, he reminded himself. But the thoughts were already lost on him. His eyes were open, and he wasn't where he should be. There was no snow. There were no men in black around him. This wasn't Castle Black - and that wasn't a brother asleep by him - it was a dragon, a green dragon.
His mind lashed out ... at what? Panic seared him. He was moving before he had a chance to think twice. The air flew past him, under him. There was a scream behind him - shouting. But Jon didn't stop. He pressed on, terrified and uncertain. His body didn't tire as he expected it to. It was comforting to be moving. It made him feel better. He was alone, and he was free. He was safer here than he was back there. His mind was occupied enough that he didn't even think about what he was doing. It was instinct. He was fleeing an unfamiliar setting. Did it matter how he did it?
Reality didn't descend until he saw the streak of white in the distance. The Wall, Jon reminded himself. That is the wall, and you are flying. The thought made him falter, and he crashed to the ground.
The next time he opened his eyes, the warmth was still there. It felt familiar and comfortable, in a way. He knew where he was. There mere men in black all around him. There was snow beneath his feet. His senses were keen, but it was different than before. This felt like home. Underneath that was a dulled sense of grief that he couldn't quite place. His feet carried him, moving through the snow, moving towards some radiating heat, and noise. That was where he wanted to be. That was where he'd been trying to get for hours. It had taken ages to break free. They'd restrained him. His neck hurt from the effort, but it was worth it. He would do it again. The chain trailed behind him as he moved quickly through the snow.
By the time he arrived the blazing fire was burning now. Nobody watched it, though. They were clustered together, whispering anxiously. His eyes weren't on the men, though. He didn't care about those men. Had he ever? They were afraid of him. They weren't close. His eyes were on the low flames. He watched them as they danced in the cold breeze. The air bit at his nose, but it was welcome. The rest of his body was the perfect temperature. His body ran hot, but the cool air washing over it helped. This was what he'd been born for. This was where he belonged - in the cold and snow. He was ice and fire.
He laid down as he watched, off in the distance. Nobody seemed to notice. They were so absorbed in their own concerns. One ear perked towards him.
"This is wrong. We shouldn't have given up. We should have given him more time. He was holding on." One anxious voice insisted.
"He wasn't holding on. He's been like this for a month. He's dead. We can't leave him around until he starts moving again. The dead need to stay dead. His watch has ended." Another insisted harshly.
"Shut up! I told you both that something is wrong! How many people have you burned before?" A raspy voice demanded. "You smell their flesh burning. Breathe deeply, boys. What do you smell?" The more mature voice demanded coldly. "Smoke. Ash. There is no body burning. Something is wrong!" He insisted.
The hum of argument continued, but he stopped listening at that. His eyes were on the pillar of fire. In the middle was a body - not charred black, not falling to ash. A perfect hairless body. The chest didn't seem to be moving. The only sound was the hiss of dying flames. It was thin. He could see the perfectly defined ribs from here. It wasn't just any body, though. It was his body!
For the second time, uncertain panic gripped him. He let out an inhuman cry - a yowl. If he hadn't been laying, he would have fell. The last thing he remembered before the world faded into black was a shout.
"GHOST GOT LOOSE! SOMEONE GRAB HIM!"
He didn't fall though. He sat bolt upright. His body ached. He felt weak and starving. Mentally, he counted. Ten fingers, ten toes, and one splitting headache. I'm me, Jon thought, a cold sweat running down his face in spite of the flames that still smoldered beneath him. His throat ached, as if there wasn't an ounce of water anywhere in his body. Would he even be able to speak? Could he move? Before he could try, he fell down once more. There were already shouts of surprise and horror. But they sounded so far off. The only thing he noticed was the frantic snarling of a wolf in the distance. Ghost! Jon thought anxiously. He tried to move. He tried to speak, but his body wouldn't cooperate.
How did I get here? There was a vague awareness. Furs draped over him. A warm breathing body atop him. The bed was uncomfortable, but the ashy logs had been worse. He could still remember them poking him in the back as he'd been unable to move. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing. He wasn't long awake when a wet tongue found his face, frantically greeting him, obviously overjoyed. Jon lifted a heavy hand to Ghost's head. It fell there, unmoving. But the dire wolf didn't seem to care. His head fell heavily on Jon's chest. Tail beating his leg in a steady rhythm.
"Some water for you, boy." A wizened voice offered. His eyes shot open. Hanging over him was a wizened man - old, chinless, with a few wisps of white hair clinging to his head. Clydas, Jon reminded himself. His every thought felt fuzzy, and tainted with mistrust. But he wasn't in a position not to trust. He complied as the old man put a cup to his lips. He parted his mouth and swallowed greedily.
"More," He begged dryly. It was the only word he could manage, and it tore it's way out of his throat. Five cups later, he stopped. Jon lay there for a long time in silence, unable to move, trying to make sense of what he remembered. "Weird dream." He muttered under his breath, not believing the reality that his mind was trying to feed him. It couldn't be real. He wouldn't believe it.
"An even stranger reality to accompany it." The old man remarked. Jon opened his eyes, brows furrowing in question. "Best you not know. Seems you have a great deal of recovering to do. Been three days since you moved, boy. Most were beginning to doubt that you'd ever stir again." Clydas answered. He huffed out an exhausted breath as he fell into a chair at the foot of Jon's bed.
"And you?" Jon asked shortly, attempting to shift and catch a glimpse of the old man.
"I'm old, and I've nothing better to do. New Maester arrived, and there's little to occupy me." The old man stared down at him with his pink eyes, a curious expression on his face. "You are lucky the men didn't see fit to try and burn you again. Didn't see the sense in it." He stated. At that, consciousness seized him in a vice-like grip. Was that real? He thought, not daring ask it. Did he want to know?
"What's going on?" He asked, his voice stronger than it had been since he woke up. Jon knew he couldn't make demands. He was in no state to defend himself. Even old Clydas could easily overtake him. But he wanted to know. He needed to know.
"The Wall has a new commander, and the men don't quite know what to do with it." Clydas answered cryptically. "Little spit of a thing showed up a day and a half ago. Making demands and ordering everyone around. Most organized I've ever seen the Watch." He stated sounding more than a little impressed.
"The men are letting him just take over? Out of nowhere? What happened to choosing their own Lord Commander?" Jon inquired. His eyes fell shut again. He needed sleep. You need food. His subconscious insisted. He needed a lot of things. But sleep seemed to be the hardest to ignore. His mind began to fade.
"Not him, boy. Her." He corrected. "Most of the men want her gone. But they can't well argue with her with those dragons, can they?" He pointed out, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. The strangest thing of it all was that Clydas seemed so comfortable with the thought. Jon wanted to question. A hundred thoughts filled his mind at that. But he was too far gone. Dragons. Flying. I was a dragon ... it was his last conscious thought before he slipped away. The world was black once more.
"Your Grace, he was awake for no more than five minutes. There is no sense in this. Once he has recovered someone will -" the voice was irritated and impatient. There was no respect in the tone, but a trace of fear kept it in check. Even so, the man was cut off by an unfamiliar feminine voice.
"Do not make me tell you again! I intend to speak to him the next time he rises - whether it be for five minutes, or five hours. Do as you are told and bring rations." She ordered harshly. Her voice was soft, hardly a voice one would expect to hold such authority. It seemed as out of place as Sansa commanding an army. There was the shuffling of feet.
A door closed. Then, there was a faint creaking. Jon groaned, opening his eyes. A woman was sitting in the chair at the foot of his bed. Her hair was long and silver, her eyes violet. Silver hair, violet eyes, dragons, he thought. This was the Targaryen everyone had been talking about. Tales of the Mother of Dragons had easily reached as far north as the Wall. Even if they took no part, news of her was exciting, and everyone wanted to spread the word.
"We did not expect you to wake for hours yet." She remarked lightly.
"You two were kind of loud." He pointed out in a tired voice. Jon yawned deeply, struggling to sit upright. He managed, after a fashion, leaning back against the wall behind him. "To what do I owe this honor, Your Grace?" Jon inquired tightly. He didn't sound like it was much of an honor. His body still ached. It was stiff, and hard to move. He didn't want to be taking to more royals. He wanted food. He wanted to sleep.
"The pleasure is mine entirely." She answered. He couldn't quite place her tone, or her gaze as she looked him over. "Though it would seem we have a problem, Lord Snow." She answered. "Pardon my manners. The men have told me who you are, but I have not introduced myself. I am Daenerys Tar-" He cut her off with an impatient wave of his hand.
"I know who you are. I will pardon your manners if you will pardon mine. I'm not in the mood to bother with formalities or pleasantries. I feel like I got stabbed repeatedly. I'm tired and I don't care for manners. What is the problem?" He demanded warily. His hands moved up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawned once more, and attempted to roll his stiff shoulders. It did little to help. She raised a brow in response.