I am reposting this from my AO3 account as someone stole another of my stories and placed it here.
Dragonstone was beautiful. In many ways, the island was as barren as the frozen lands Jon had traversed in recent years, but it had barely been touched by the winter winds that were creeping further and further south. It was different from any place Jon had been before, but something about it echoed what he felt standing upon Winterfell's walls, surveying the landscape. Only here, on this island, it wasn't hills, fields, and woods, but rolling waves as far as the eye could see.
In the distance, he could see the two dragons Daenerys had left behind swooping through the air. Viserion and Rhaegal, their names came to him. The queen was proud of them, the smaller two of her dragons, but he had never seen her ride them.
Jon had watched from a distance as she had mounted the largest beast, Drogon she called it. It was impressive. He couldn't deny that. Much more impressive than his Ghost. The thought of his companion sent a pain through his being. Ghost had been absent for some time, Jon had left him at the Wall, to help keep his allies there safe. He also knew, no matter how much he used to deny it, that he had a deeper connection to the direwolf than that of a master and pet or human and friend.
Ghost, like Daenerys' dragons, wasn't tame and wouldn't ever be. Jon didn't want to tame him and Ghost didn't want to be tamed. At night when he slept, the dreams where he was Ghost came more often and now, more so than ever before, he knew that they weren't just dreams. So, even when Bran had arrived at the Wall, greeting Ghost with an emotionless, near offhand comment, Ghost had remained with Jon's former brothers.
If Castle Black fell, he would need to know immediately and Jon was sure either a dream or the pain of Ghost's loss would warn him of it. He had no doubt he would feel it if something happened to his old friend.
He sighed, his hand going to grip the empty space at his side where Longclaw usually hung. The lack of it was as if someone had cut off his arm. Jon's fist clenched and he grit his teeth. The only good thing of staying here was that slowly—much too slowly in his opinion—the North would receive the weapons they desperately needed.
The thought of the dragon glass pushed his thoughts to the cave and the conversation that he'd had with Daenerys.
"Isn't their survival more important than your pride?"
Pride. Jon took a deep breath, eyes sliding shut as the smell of salt and what he could only describe as the ocean drifted up with the breeze. If only pride was the reason.
He hadn't understood, years ago, when he said near the same thing to Mance Rayder before the King Beyond the Wall had been led to the pyre. It seemed like such a simple thing and perhaps to some it was: bending the knee.
But it wasn't, Jon knew that now. It wasn't pride that kept him from kneeling, no matter what others insisted or whispered. It wasn't pride that had kept Mance Rayder from kneeling.
Jon understood now what the man had tried to explain more intimately than anyone else ever could. The wounds he bore may have healed with the Red Witch's magic, but the scars stretched deep and pulled when he moved wrong. Sometimes they ached when he stood still.
He let out his breath, wishing he could see it drift away in the air as he so often could at home. It was too warm here. A screech from far off caused him to catch sight of Rhaegal as the green tinted dragon landed on the beach, some sort of large fish or whale dropped onto the sand before him. The other dragon whirled right above him. Nearby Dothraki and Greyjoy men carefully moved farther down the beach.
No.
It wasn't pride.
Not his pride, anyway.
Daenerys, Tyrion . . . no one here but perhaps Ser Davos could understand.
Bending the knee meant giving away the North.
Bran was home. Sansa. Both had more right to Winterfell and the North than he. Jon may be a northern fool, but he wasn't fool enough to think that should he bend the lords of the North and the Vale wouldn't back his siblings. Should he prostrate himself before the dragon queen and swear fealty to her no one would have cause to follow him. And if she forced him to? He wouldn't hold a knife in his heart against them.
The North wasn't his to give. The Free Folk weren't his to give. The Vale wasn't his to give.
He served at their leisure, for as long as they would have him.
No. It wasn't pride that kept him from bending the knee.
It was honor.
A laugh spiraled out of his chest, surprising him.
Honor, duty to the north, and, in some ways, the love for his family—living and dead.
Not Pride.