"KILL THEM ALL!"
The command was damn near impossible to disobey, but Jon fought it nonetheless, and as he did, he came to a chilling realization.
Bloodraven had been right.
Ever since Jon had returned here, his actions had never been entirely his own. The Night King had been there the whole time and slipping hate into his mind like winter creeping into summer.
It had been subtle, so, so subtle; an urge here, a quashed emotion there, bouts of bloodlust, whispers in the back of his mind proclaiming he was in the right, that he should not stop no matter what the cost, that it would be all worth it in the end. Jon did not know he was being corrupted until he stood above the man who raised him from birth ready to strike him down.
Everything felt broken and disjointed, his mind was in shambles, and he could feel it; the collective will of the Others. It was an army of blue eyes and freezing darkness that only wanted to extinguish every flame of life in the known world. Taking that final step in raising the dead opened himself up to that collective mind. His newfound river of magic led him into an ocean, and in the center of that whirling storm of sheer, raw power, were the glowing blue eyes of the Night King. Not the fragment he'd brought through time, no, this was the Night King of the present; the one that resided beyond the Wall at this very moment, and the one who could control every wight and White Walker in existence, and by extension, him.
He had been arrogant, so, so arrogant, to think he could control this power. Whatever Ice was in his soul tethered him to the Army of the Dead. He could feel the King of the Others pulling on that tether. Even separated by leagues of distance and the Wall itself, the Night King was able to reach him through that river of Other magic. The sensation was like an avalanche threatening to bury his soul and very sense of self in cold and darkness. Jon felt the phantom sensation of frozen fingers gripping his head, arms, and legs, trying to control and direct his movements. Every time he closed his eyes, those orbs of accursed blue were there to greet him. Jon struggled against every command, every pull to hurt, harm, and kill.
"KILL THEM ALL!"
The command smashed into him again and made him jerk in Ned's arms as he fought against taking up his sword and slaying every living thing with hot blood in their veins.
"NO!"
He roared the words out loud, just to know he still had the power to speak freely. Jon was the puppet now, except he was fighting tooth and nail against invisible strings tugging at his limbs and pulling his thoughts in directions leading to death and darkness.
Dozens of memories were flashing before his eyes. Yanked straight out of his head by an outside force, they were picked apart moment by moment and examined piece by piece until his entire life was unraveled like Arya's stitches. A particular memory was pulled from the depths of his mind and flashed before his eyes like a waking nightmare-
-Violet eyes glared at him with burning anger. Behind her stood her small army of pike helms, spears, horses, and arakhs. Facing them were the combination of furs and armor of the North and Free-Folk alike, and the remainder of the Vale knights. Drogon wheeled overhead while smoke from the pyres rose into the cloudy sky. Jon stood at the head of them with Sansa and Arya to his left and Bran on his right. Behind him stood Jamie and Tormund who glared right back at the Dragon-Queen with visible distaste.
"I thought we had an understanding." Daenerys stated in an unyielding voice. She was addressing Sansa, but her eyes were on him.
Sansa spoke, crisp and clear as a winter morning, "The Night King has not been defeated and the Others have merely retreated. The men are tired and need to rest. No one here is in any shape to march South and the North must prepare for another attack."
"The North is one of the Seven Kingdoms." Daenerys responded, "I am the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and I have commanded the Northern armies to march with me and retake the Iron Throne. Or did you forget that your former king-" She looked pointedly at Jon, "Bent the knee and swore allegiance to me?"
There was a deathly pause where everyone held their breath. She spoke with the confidence of a conqueror, a queen, an invader with a dragon who did not understand the risk she was taking. They may have won the battle, but at great costs. Rheagal died killing Viserion. They'd took great care to butcher his body and drop his remains into the sea so that another dragon would not be risen against them. Their armies combined were down to less than half their original numbers, Winterfell had been breached and a good many people had been slain in the Battle for Winterfell. Tyrion, Edd, Grey Worm, Missandei, Sam, Brienne, Jorah, Varys...their bodies burned in their pyres outside of Winterfell. The storm had subsided, if only for a moment, but they were going to lose the War for the Dawn if they did not bolster the North while the Enemy regrouped. The Army of the Dead would not be stopped. Yes, they needed to unite the Seven Kingdoms, but from the North, not from the South. Daenerys disagreed. After she had found the bodies of her knight, her advisers, her soldier, and her dragon, she had been sick with grief. For days, she stayed locked in her quarters refusing to eat or sleep. Of course, she was entitled to grieve over the loss of her friends and allies, (the only true ones she had here, Sansa had pointed out to him one night) but over the following sennight, something inside her changed. She became prickly, irritable, quick to sense a slight, self-righteous and arrogant to the point where the Dragon Queen managed to offend and ostracize nearly all of her Northern allies, even Jon! She acted impulsively. Irrationally. Whenever her actions or decisions were questioned, her only responses were simply to not question her judgement, that it was her destiny to rule. It was like she thought they'd won the war against the Others, when in truth, they had all barely survived the first battle. She acted like she was invincible, like nothing could hurt her. She was the Unburnt, yes, but cold could burned just as much as fire. Jon thought she had looked terrible when Viserion had died, but now? The once regal queen was unkempt and distraught looking. Her hair was a matted mess, dark circles lay under her eyes from lack of sleep, she was pale and wan, and there was a glint in her eye that bordered on, dare he say, madness.
Everything had come to a head when she had discovered Sansa's letters. Things had been tense between Jon and Daenerys since Bran had announce his true heritage, and even worse when Sansa defied her at every turn. So, when the grieving Dragon Queen found his sister writing letters proclaiming jaune as rightful King, she ordered her execution. Jon managed to talk her down, but the absolute fury he had self towards is Queen did not abate. His temper was on a knifes edge as well. The black hatred he felt at the Night King's escape from Longclaw's blade festered inside him like a disease to the point where he could think of nothing else but slaying the Enemy once and for all. Then, Daenerys sent out the command for them to march on King's Landing despite the fact that the Others were still a threat and completely disregarding how they were essentially boxed in on all sides. The Golden Company was a blockade to the south and the Iron Fleet ruled the seas.
Jon stared down Daenerys with an equally cold look. Inside, he was both furious and terrified, a sentiment shared by all. How dare she? How dare this foreign woman who so desperately wanted to rule over them blatantly disregard the sacrifices of not only the people of Westeros, but her own people who died holding back the Long Night? And for what? A throne she had never seen before? A kingdom that had overthrown her family because they had ruined it with the very words of her House?
The words of their House, he supposed.
Fire and Blood.
That was all that Daenerys had to her name, it seemed; how she built her empires.
Fire and Blood.
Yet the words of the Starks now rang louder. Winter had come, and no amount of dragonfire or bloodshed would unite Westeros against the dead. Daenerys would never listen to reason. The entire purpose she had come here, the very reason she fought so hard against all opposition, was for the Iron Throne. Which, apparently, was his by right and birth, and made him a threat to her precious rule. Jon did not want it. He was not Aegon Targaryen, he was Jon Snow. He could never be a king. How could he be one? All his life, he'd been a bastard. He fought for the North and for the Starks. He was the White Wolf, and had to remain as such if he was to defeat the Others once and for all.
Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
But, a dragon would never listen to a wolf.
When he reopened them, he stood a little taller, a little straighter, and stared right back at his aunt with all the fire and fury he could muster.
So, just this once, he would allow himself to be a dragon.
He spoke so that his words carried, "I never bent the knee to you. Not truly."
Sansa turned her head to look at him with a mixture of utter surprise, happiness, and relief. Arya's lips curled into a wolfish grin while Bran gave a small smile. Sounds of shock and mutters of confusion echoed around them. Deanery's eyes flared.
"You swore-" She began. Jon cut her off, his voice as sharp as Longclaw.
"Did I ever bend the knee to you? Truly? Did I fall to my knees and beg for your help? No, I did not. I declared myself for you, yes. When you came to my rescue north of the Wall, I saw your courage and your honor, and I dared hope that you would be the one to save us from the coming storm! When I awoke to your declaration that we would defeat the dead together, I chose you, because out of all the ones that came before, I dared believe you'd be the right one for the Iron Throne! Now, I see that I was wrong! Now, I see that even with the fate of every man, woman, and child is at stake, all you focus on is that damn throne!" He pressed a hand against his heart, right over the scar, "I took a knife in the heart for my people! I died for my people trying to save them from the dead! I'd do it a thousand times over if I have to! Would you?"
His aunt spoke imperviously, "We have already won the great war. With Westeros united under my rule, the dead will never-"
Jon cut her off again, "Would you die for your people?" He yelled.
"...It seems that the North has not fully submitted to me. Therefore, they are not my people." Daenerys all but hissed in a mix of frustration and rising anger.
"No," Jon responded, "But they are mine."
Her nostrils flared as a cheer rose up from the Northmen. Lords that once glared at him behind his back now looked on with a renewed sense of respect. Jon bared his teeth at her. She demanded obedience and expected love and adoration, but did little to garner such. No one knew her for who she was aside from the Dragon Queen, and she did not make an effort to know them. Jon thought that he'd known her, too. He had been wrong. How could anyone respect her when all she had done was come here and ask that Westeros be given to her on a silver platter. Jealousy was alight in her eyes as attention and adoration were given to Sansa, Arya, and himself, instead of her. She received her fair share of praise, but apparently, it was not enough. Daenerys alone had not won the battle. Daenerys had not been on the ground with the troops repelling the dead or traded blows with the Night King. Daenerys had not held Winterfell together, fed the troops, organized the safety of the smallfolk, and held the loyalties of the North. Daenerys had not assassinated Cersei, nor had she slain Viserion. Those had been the actions of himself, Sansa, Bran, and Arya. Instead, she had flown on dragonback and strafed the wights with dragon-fire.
Daenerys Targaryen asked everything but gave very little in return.
"No one wants you here, anymore." Arya, as blunter than a battering ram, said, "We never wanted you here in the first place!"
Daenerys glared at her. Deep down, Jon knew, she was jealous of Arya for taking Cersei's life. Jealous and afraid. She alone had wanted to be the one to end her. Arya had taken Tyrion's face from his body and gone to King's Landing along with Sandor Clegane. There, she got herself captured, escaped, and choked the life from Cersei's body. Sandor fought and killed the Mountain, and with his dying breath, bought Arya enough time to escape the Red Keep. Word soon reached them that Euron Greyjoy took the throne in Cersei's place. The Bloody Wolf, as she had become known as, returned just in time for Deanery's demands that the Northern armies march with her to take the capital.
"You needed me then and you need me now! The Night King lives! The dead lay just beyond the horizon! You need my dragon and my army if they are to be defeated! I will take the Iron Throne, no matter what I have to do." Daenerys threatened, "And when I do, the Seven Kingdoms will be mine through Fire and Blood!"
"You do whatever you think is right." Sansa spoke softly, but her voice was strong as steel, "But what you think and what is true are entirely different." Her eyes narrowed coldly and said, "You have become arrogant and selfish."
Daenerys stared at her in such a way that set Jon's teeth on edge.
"Then you will burn." She declared.
There was another tense pause, but then Bran spoke.
"You'll need your dragon for that."
No one expected him of all people to speak, for he had been silent until now. His eyes went white and his head tilted back. Up above, Drogon let out an aggravated roar that drew everyone's attention skyward. The dragon shuddered and shook in the air, but only for a moment. Then, his flight pattern changed, his wings folded, and he dove for the ground. Everyone shouted in panic and fear, but stopped when Drogon hovered over the assembled northern army, facing his mother.
Daenerys watched on with confusion and trepidation. "Drogon!" She called for him to come. Drogon stayed where he was. Slowly, Daenerys turned to stare at Bran's motionless form.
"What have you done?" She all but whispered in horror.
"Daenerys of House Targaryen." Sansa's voice carried across the assembled armies like a tolling bell, "I speak to you now on behalf of the North. The North remembers. We remember how your father burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. We remember how your ancestors took this country as conquers, through fire and blood. We remember the countless petty cruelties and acts of madness your House committed throughout the centuries. We remember the Dance of Dragons, and the hundreds of innocents lost in the firestorms. The North remembers, Daenerys of House Targaryen. We will remember you for your assistance in fighting the Others, just as we will remember how your desire for the Iron Throne outweighs the good of Seven Kingdoms."
Daenerys' eyes became hunted. She looked from Sansa, to Bran, to Jon. Behind her, her forces grew restless as they stared at her son, her dragon, that was facing them instead of their enemies.
"I never bent the knee to you." Jon said after a moment, "And, if I recall, I never forgave the sins your family committed against the Starks."
"Then you are a liar." His aunt stated.
Jon's eyes narrowed.
Ghost slunk to his side. Half his ear was missing, and his white fur was dirty and matted, but he still lived. The direwolf stepped past Jon and stared down the Dragon Queen with teeth bared in a silent snarl.
"The Night King still lives. The dead will not stop and winter is here! I will do what is best for my people and family." Jon spoke, cold rage building low in his throat when he said, "Unlike you."
Daenerys flinched as if she had been slapped.
"Your dragon will stay with us until the Others are defeated once and for all." Sansa spoke up, "I give you my word that he will not be mistreated."
Daenerys snapped.
"DRACARYS!" She yelled.
Drogon did nothing but gradually descended to the earth besides Bran. Men scattered to make room when the dragon landed and kicked up a cloud of snow. The dragon was eerily calm and still, with the odd twitch and jerk against Bran's control. Daenerys was panting now. Her breath came out in clouds of steam in the winter air. Her eyes were wild and wide when they fell on Bran's still frame and white eyes. "KILL HIM!" She shouted to her men and pointed to the crippled boy "KILL HIM NOW!"
Drogon reared back with mouth open wide and a deep rumbling coming from his throat. Everyone on Daenerys' side screamed and ran just before he vomited a stream of flames, sweeping his head back and forth to spray the frostbitten earth, but no one was harmed. The dragonfire burned a line across the ground that separated the two armies by a wall of flames.
Daenerys stood closest to the fire. Her clothes were singed and smoking, but she lived up to her title of Unburnt. She and Jon locked eyes through the dancing flames, and he shouted a single word.
"LEAVE!"
Daenerys did leave that day. She took her armies with promises of vengeance, fire and blood, and left. Her and her forces sailed for Dragonstone, but were caught in a terrible storm as they approached, and sailed straight into the teeth of the Iron Fleet lying in wait. The ships had been mounted with scorpions, fully expecting her dragons, but scorpion bolts worked just as well against ships.
Her fleet was torn to bits, and Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, The Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons drowned in the sea as a mighty storm raged around her.
They learned the truth of her death through Bran. Many celebrated her death, but Jon wept for her in the privacy of his chambers. It had been such an ignoble death for one so great, and despite what she had become in the end, Daenerys had been his queen, his lover, and most importantly, his aunt. The words of maester Aemon, "A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing." echoed in his head. Jon had always felt alone in his life. Even with the family he'd grown up with, he always felt like there was some half of him missing. He'd always attributed it to him wanting to know the identity of his mother, but perhaps it was the blood of Old Valaryia in his veins crying out for kin. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her, Jon had felt a strange connection to the woman, one he was sure Daenerys had felt as well. It had led to their closeness, their trust, and their eventual passion. Now that she was gone, Jon was the last Targaryen, and he never felt more alone in the world.
The following decade after her death was one of terror, pain, and borderline madness; a life that left him jaded, callous, and cold. During the war of Ice and Fire, as it became known, Jon witnessed countless atrocities, watched good men and women die from those who still played the game of thrones even while their kingdoms froze or burned, and lost the people he loved, one by one, until all he had left were a dragon and a greenseer in a world where night reigned eternal, the dead roamed the land, and people were burned alive for a fire god's delight. Things like honor and duty did not matter anymore. All that had mattered was survival.
Survival, and revenge-
More and more memories came and went.
The invasion of the Red Priests, led by Melisandre. The stolen wildfire planted in every major castle. Casterly Rock was the first to go up in green flames, followed by the Eyrie. Euron Greyjoy abandoned Kings Landing and returned to the Iron Islands just before all of King's Landing was set ablaze. Then Winterfell was hit, Sansa died, and the Army of the Dead returned with the mother of all winter storms and the Long Night behind them. The North was lost to them there, as were the rest of their friends and allies. Tormund died under a wall of the dead. Arya and Ghost were slain in the godswood. Both held off the Night King so he and Bran could escape with Drogon from the overrun castle before another dragon could be turned into a wight. Jamie had stayed behind as well and helped lead whatever survivors he could to safety. The smallfolk and Lords alike soon took to calling him Ser Goldenhand the Just, after that. No one suffered under his watch and no crime went unpunished. Ser Goldenhand lived up to his newfound reputation by treating alike fairly and equally, because, to the dead? Everyone was meat for their army, highborn and lowborn alike, and working together as one was the only way they would survive another day with the dead at their heels. Ser Jamie Lannister saved hundreds of lives, risked life and limb to save as many as he could. In an odd way, he lived up to the true core morals of a proper southron knight until the end of his days. Chivalry, honor, justice, and protecting the innocent. He finally met his end fighting alongside Jon in a raid on a Red Priests encampment. The fire-worshipping madmen had finally captured Bran and were going to sacrifice him.
Jamie died helping to rescue Bran Stark.
"Jon!"
The voice sounded distant. Was that father? No, his father was not Ned Stark, it was Rhegar Targaryen, and the man was long dead.
"Jon, get up!"
That...that sounded like Robb. Impossible; Robb was dead, too-
"JON!"
The voice hollered in his ear, and Jon flinched. His eyes flew open and he blinked hard. When had he closed them? They refocused on the horrifyingly familiar sight of wights running at them full sprint. Ned Stark stood protecting him, his son, and ward. The mother direwolf was at his side, swinging Ice in great arcs that cut down the wights coming for them. Robb and Theon stood back, swinging their own swords with wide and fearful eyes at any and all that got past Lord Stark. Grey Wind stood close to Robb and helped pull any wight that got to close to him away. Ghost stood between Jon and Theon, snapping at anything that got to close. The bodies of over ten wights lay around their feet, some with parts still moving. The bulk of the wights were still tangled up in the mess happening just outside the gates. The king's men were doing well in distracting them by proving a more attractive target; a clump of fast and beating hearts that screamed and cried out in fear as they tried to fight off their own dead, and they were not winning.
A cluster of four spotted them and broke off from horde and were now running at them full sprint.
Instinct kicked in.
"KILL THEM ALL!"
It was like swimming through that frozen lake again. It damn near hurt to move, fighting against the commands wracking his body. He moved so, so slowly as his fingers closed once more around the frozen hilt of his dropped weapon and he rose to his feet, lurched forward towards his uncle, sword raised, and slashed down.
The wight he attacked was bisected at the waist. Ned glanced at him with wide eyes, flinching. Their gazes locked; tired blue staring into wide grey. Jon's eyes were flickering between colors like a candle in a breeze. Sometimes glowing blue, sometimes dark. Ice chopped down another wight that got too close to Jon as he sluggishly slashed at another. He missed and just wound up punching it. The wight that had once been Miranda flew backwards into a redcloak with a mangled face and knocked over both of them. They got up a second later and came back at the two with a vengeance.
"Jon!" Ned called "What are they?"
"Wights!" Jon slurred. Miranda came at him again and he stabbed her in the stomach. The wight just pushed herself along his frozen blade and stabbed his face with a dagger. When it shattered, Jon twisted his sword and wrenched it sideways. Miranda was split nearly in two and fell apart, but her remains still scrambled towards him. Jon's sword could shatter steel and slice through armor, flesh, and bone like butter, but it did nothing against the wights, unlike Ice, which permanently felled every wight it cut.
"Wights? The Others!" Ned gasped in realization. He stopped when a redcloak wight all but threw himself at him. Ice punched clean through the dead man's breastplate, and the wight slumped against the greatsword, dragging it down with dead weight. Ned struggled to free his weapon as two more wights came at him. Jon stepped between him and the wights so that their weapons burst apart against his skin. His sword slashed out and one lost his head. The second was knocked to the ground when he slammed his shoulder into it. Ice stabbed into its body and ceased its movements completely. Ned had freed his sword and swung it around to cut down the headless wight.
Ned turned to Jon. "Make them stop!" He panted. Jon, who was panting just as hard, nodded back. He turned to the horde of wights and squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. A moment later, they flew open in horror.
He had lost control of the wights. The strings that had connected them to him were gone; severed. The newly opened river of power had swallowed them up and swept them into the vast ocean of blue magic.
Magic that could be controlled by only one other being.
"I-I can't!" Jon stuttered, "He's controlling them, now!"
"Who?" Ned demanded.
Jon looked him dead in the eye, and said with fear for all to hear, "The Night King!"
Ned looked between him and the rest of the wights. He thought for a moment, before gripping Jon's shoulder. "How do we stop them?" He demanded "How?"
"Fire and dragonglass." Jon answered instantly. He nodded to Ice, "Valaryian Steel, too."
Ned looked at his greatsword, then back to Robb and Theon. Both of them were pale and shaking. A low growl pulled Ned's attention back towards the mother direwolf. The great beast was staring behind them. Smoke was pouring into the air. Some of it came from the direction of the Great Keep, where Ned had instructed the rest of his family to go.
Fear gripped his heart in a vice.
"Robb, did your mother and your siblings get to the Great Keep?" He demanded.
Robb twitched and stared at him, "No," he said and gestured to Theon, "We doubled back before they did!"
"We need to move!" He said. "NOW!"
They ran.
Fires had broken out all over Winterfell. The Barracks, the Guest House, even the small sept Ned built for Catelyn had smoke pouring of the windows and flames licking the wood. The Fiery Hand worked fast and swift while the dead rose and the living died. They killed everyone in their path and called upon their god to fuel the fire so that it might burn the heathen's castle to the ground. R'hllor must have answered. Whatever fires they lit caught and spread with preternatural speed and burned a shade of red. Now, they chased a small pack of wolves, commanded by visions from their god. R'hllor hungered for wolfsblood, and the Fiery Hand would deliver. The direwolves led them straight towards the Great Keep. Clustered around the base of the structure were the rest of the pups, and they were furiously howling and barking up at the keep itself. Ned stopped dead in his tracks when he first saw the fire and smoke billowing out of all possible openings from the keep. Fires raged from of the bottom windows to the lords chambers. "MOTHER!" Robb screamed when he first beheld the blaze as well. Theon came to a stop next to him with mouth slackened in horror. Jon brought up the rear with his head cradled in his hand. The feeling of invisible fingers made of ice grabbing him and the voice screaming to kill everything that moved intensified. Other magic was churning inside of him like a boiling pot. One wrong move, and everything would be awash in cold and ice and death.
"KILL THEM ALL!"
Jon twitched violently in Theon's direction with memory and irrational hate and bloodlust screaming at him. The turncloak was right there! Ironborn scum! Traitor! Kill him! Kill him, kill him, KILL HIM!
"Ramsay! Sansa!" Jon thought right back in response.
Jon would never forget what Theon had done in the life he'd come from; the marks of his betrayal ran too deep for that. The first week he arrived in the past, he had seriously nearly the squid while he slept, just so he would never betray the Starks, but he remembered what Ramsay did to Theon, and what he did for Sansa was something he could not forget either. It was not his place to forgive everything Theon had done, but what Jon could forgive, he already had a long time ago.
And he needed to remember that before he did something he regretted. So, instead of lashing out, he turned his rage inwards towards what was trying to control him. Other magic spilled over out of his control. With a shout, he threw up his hands, fingers splayed and palms facing the fire, and shoved all the built-up magic outward. Icy wind and frigid magic blanketed the Great Keep and smothered the fire.
Every flame went out with a whoosh.
Jon slumped back in momentary relief. The oppressive will forcing itself on him briefly abated with that action. Ned, Robb, and Theon, turned to stare at him in utter shock and amazement. As dark grey smoke began to curl from the keep, a chorus of loud whimpers and howls from the pups were heard in place of crackling flames. The she-wolf charged forwards past her pups and began scratching and pawing at the closest entrance. Jon's eyes burned blue as he looked Further through the ancient stonework and into the keep. Ten hearts lay beating inside. Five burned red with R'hllor's fire while the other five burned with fear and panic in a room on one of the upper floors, and the red hearts were bearing down on them. Horror cut him to the quick. Lady Stark, Sansa, Arya, Bran, little Rickon; they were all up there!
"KILL THEM ALL!"
"They're inside!" Jon yelled through a wince.
Ned glanced at him in surprise, but only for a moment. He to the door the mother-direwolf was pawing at. Oddly enough, he felt no threat from any the beasts, only a sense of shared urgency. He cast off his musings and made to open the door, but found it barred from the other side. He all but threw himself against it in desperation, Robb joining him a moment later, and the two Starks slammed themselves against the study wood.
"It's barred!" Ned snarled in frustration.
Jon's patience ran out. Wisps of freezing air began curled off his fingertips as he stalked past a scared looking Theon, shoved Lord Stark and Robb out of the way, and slapped both his palms against the door and concentrated. All heat was sucked from the air surrounding Jon. Sheer cold emanated from his body and poured over the door. A layer of frost spread out from his hands across the wood and froze over the iron studs and hinges. When it was completely frozen from top to bottom, Jon leaned back and kicked it as hard as he could with a yell. There was an audible 'crack' when his boot met wood, and the whole door fell of hinges that had froze through and shattered.
Jon threw the wooden bar used to block the door out of the way and charged inside. The direwolves poured in behind him. The two Starks and one Greyjoy shared a startled glance before they, too, ran in. The bodies of dead servants and guardsmen littered the floor. Every one of them looked to have been gored with a spear, and some of the wounds looked like they'd been cauterized. Jon recognized the familiar wounds as the work of the Fiery Hand's spears. The military branch of the faith of R'hllor were skilled spearmen and their fire magic was a deadly thing indeed. They were skilled, very skilled, and fanatic enough to do something as mad as attacking a Lord's castle, but there were only five, and he had fought many of them and survived.
He always survived, even when he wished to die.
Four flights of stairs later, Jon found himself staring down a hallway where five men in orange robes were doing their best to break down a door. Ghost and the mother direwolf flanked him, and Jon looked upon the warriors of the Fiery Hand with pure hatred.
"KILL THEM ALL!"
Jon attacked with all seven direwolves at his heels.
The five priests instantly turned when they heard the snarling direwolves and leveled flaming spears in their direction. Jon drew and threw his sword in one fluid motion. The ice-blade flew end over end and buried deep into one of the warrior's chest, slicing through his thick robes and ringmail underneath. The impact knocked him off his feet and broke through their formation. One them, the tallest of the four, shouted something in Volantine, and they all shuffled back with a synchronicity on par with Unsullied. The same man then began to mutter something under his breath and cast forth his hand just as Jon was upon them.
A gout of flames leaped from his hand and lengthened into a whip of crackling flames that lashed across Jon's raised arms. He winced as the flames made contact and sizzled against his skin. It hurt, but not as much as actual fire would to normal flesh. When the whip came back around, Jon swept his arms to the side with a roar, and the fire-whip fizzled out mid-lash. The direwolves gathered around him; seven snarling maws that filled the air with their collective growls. Jon squatted down and wrenched his sword from the fresh corpse. One of the priests suddenly cocked back his arm and hurled his spear like a great, flaming arrow. Jon swatted it out of the air with his sword and began to advance forward. Another spear was hurled, and Jon turned and caught it. The flames on the head puffed out, and Jon turned and hurled it back just as quick at the one who'd thrown it. Blood splattered along the keep's floor when the spear punched straight through the man's skull and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Three remained.
When Robb, Theon, and Ned came puffing to the top of the stairs, the priests bolted. The tall one who Jon assumed to be their leader barked an order, and the priests dipped their hands into their robes to pull forth the same vials they used in the courtyard and threw them at their feet. A cloud of grey smoke filled the hall, Jon's Other eyes saw their beating hearts through the smoke, and watched them through the walls as they ran into the closest room, throw open a window, and begin to descend the walls. No surprise there; the Fiery Hand were skilled in more ways than one. Just before he made to pursue, Ned and Robb began calling out Lady Stark's name, and the creak of a door drew his attention behind him.
Catelyn had run into the closest room she could find and locked it behind her. The Great Keep was old and strong, but the pounding at the door was getting louder. She doubted that the lock would hold forever, so she'd thrown her body in front of it. There was nothing in here to barricade the room with, either. Where were the guards? Had they all been killed? Rickon still would not stop crying in Sansa's arms, and neither would her eldest daughter. Bran was white as a ghost, and Arya, her little she-wolf, stood protectively in front of all her siblings with fists clenched and eyes wide. Catelyn had commanded her children to get back against the corner while she pressed her back against the door and prayed to the Old Gods and the New that their fate would not be like Elia Martell and her children; trapped like rats and murdered in a room much like this one. Suddenly, the pounding stopped and Catelyn heard what sounded like a snarling pack of large dogs and cries of pain outside the door. Then, she heard the voices of Ned and Robb, and she opened the door. Her husband, her son, and their ward stood just outside. When Ned saw her, she all but threw herself into his arms.
"Cat!" He cried out and embraced her. Robb's arms snaked their way around her, too. Her children followed her when they heard their father's voice. Soon, all of them were hugging one another.
Theon stood just off to the side, watching them. The Greyjoy's eyes slowly traveled to the other pack of wolves just a yard away. The six wolves were clustered around the tall, dark figure who was staring at the Starks with blue eyes unreadable. Theon had barely recognized him. Even when he was going toe-to-toe with Lord Stark, he did not recognize him. How could he? He looked like a man of forty namedays rather than a boy of four-and-ten. Hells, he didn't even look human. Jon's once inky curls were now whiter than snow and hung past his shoulders in pallid strands. His skin looked almost blue, like he'd been freezing, and was drawn taught over his face with patches of ice and frost consuming his skin. The patches around his scalp were growing outwards into small points, like icicles. Not to mention his eyes were entirely blue, save his pupils, and shone like stars.
"Jon?" He called softly.
Those eyes snapped to his. Not only his; every one of the wolves looked at him, and Theon froze. One of the smaller wolves, the white one with red eyes, bared its teeth in a silent snarl. Jon seemed to do the same, except his eyes flared even brighter blue. Theon gulped. Suddenly, the bastard of Winterfell visibly grimaced and shut his eyes in a wince. He lurched towards the wall for support and slid down to the floor, panting like he was in great pain. Theon stared, baffled.
"Jon!" Came little lord Brandon's voice.
"Bran, no!" Catelyn cried, but Bran had extracted himself from his mother's grasp and ran towards Jon, but stopped just before the direwolves surrounding the downed form of Jon Snow like they were guarding him. They all seemed to part for him, although one of them with silvery-grey fur and yellow eyes cautiously stepped towards him, nose sniffing Bran's air.
"Bran?"
Bran looked from the direwolves to the form of his half-brother. Jon was slumped against the wall with frost pooling around his body. Bran gasped when his eyes turned to meet his. They were the same kind of blue he saw in his dreams.
"Bran?" Jon called again. His voice sounded so...lost. Tracks of tears were leaking down his face and freezing before they rolled off his cheeks. Just like in his dreams...
"I'm sorry..." Jon all but whimpered.
Bran felt his mother's hands wrap around him and pulled him away. His family were all standing there, now, all of them standing just before the direwolves, and all of them were staring at Jon with various expression. Father took a great step forward, Ice, clutched loosely in his hands. There was something in his eyes that Bran dared to call fear.
"I'm so sorry..." Jon was whispering. His whole body jumped like he wanted to move but stopped himself at the last moment. With a cry, Jon hurled the frozen blade still clutched in his hands away from him where it skittered to a stop a the end of the hall. He slumped against the old stone of the Great Keep and just lay there, heaving for breath.
"Jon?" Called father.
"This is all my fault." Jon rasped. Bran couldn't tell if he was talking to father or himself. The direwolves made room for Lord Eddard Stark when he collapsed by his nephew's side and made to reach out for him.
"Don't!" Jon yelped before his gloves brushed his skin. Ned pulled back like he'd been burned.
"Don't..." Jon repeated much more quietly, "Please, father...I don't want to hurt you."
Arya called Jon's name then. Her voice was trembling and shaking, like she was afraid. That scared Bran more than anything because Arya wasn't afraid of anything. Jon's neck creaked and turned towards her. Arya flinched at the sight of him. Sansa looked like she wanted to faint. Jon looked like he tried to smile at them, but it looked more like a grimace. Mother was clutching a whimpering Rickon and looking like all the horror of the Seven Hells was staring her in the face.
Ned stared into his nephew's blue eyes, and spoke in a tentative voice, "The Others...in the crypts, you mentioned the Others, and those things out there..." He glanced in the direction of the courtyard, "You called them wights. You...you're a..."
"A White-Walker." Jon finished for him quietly.
"Jon...they're legends!" Ned sounded like he was trying to convince Jon otherwise.
"No." Jon panted in a ragged, exhausted voice, "Only asleep...they're...awake, now."
"The deserter from the Night's Watch..." Ned spoke more to himself than anything, "He said...he said-"
"It's true." Jon gasped, "All...true...warn...the Watch..."
Eddard suddenly seemed to realize Jon's state of being and stared at him, hard.
"Jon?"
Jon opened his mouth to speak, but what came out of his throat sounded like ice crackling on a lake. There was a semblance of language in there, but only just.
"STARK!"
All eyes turned towards the hulking figure that stood at the end of the hallway. Robert Baratheon was limping up the stairs. In one hand, he held a bloody sword. The other was pressed firmly against a wound in his side. Mud and filth decorated his leathers and beard. The king's eyes were wide and wild and his teeth bared into a snarl, and when his eyes fell on Ned, they seemed to grow even wider. Spittle flew from his mouth when he yelled, "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, STARK!" He took a plodding step forward and jabbed his sword at Ned, "YOU FUCKING TRAITOR!"
Ned stared at the form of his king with something akin to horror as he stood up. A low growl ripped through air as the mother direwolf took a step forward with her eyes locked on the fat king and her hackles raised. Her pups followed suit.
Robert began limping forward.
"ALL THIS TIME!" He bellowed, "YOU'VE BEEN A FUCKING DRAGON-LOVER AFTER ALL THIS TIME!"
"I PROMISED HER, ROBERT!" Ned shouted right back. He marched in front of his family with Ice gripped tightly in his hands, "ON HER DEATHBED, I PROMISED HER!" A thought crossed his mind and he all but yelled "How did you-"
"FIND OUT!?" Robert thundered. His hand reached into his tunic and pulled forth a pair of crumpled letters which he threw at the floor, "ASK YOUR WIFE!"
Ned went very, very still.
Even from here, he recognized his wife's handwriting. What was more, he saw the sigil of House Tully stamped upon the other letter. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned to look at Catelyn.
"...Cat?" He asked in a whisper.
Her face was white as a ghost and her eyes were wide and afraid.
"I did what I had to." She croaked in a small voice, "He was a threat to our family...our children."
"I trusted you!" Ned's voice sounded dead to his own ears.
Cat slowly shook her head back and forth, "I'm sorry." She said with tears in her eyes.
Movement pulled Ned's attention over Catelyn's shoulder. Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon was rising to his feet and gripped the wall with a desperate strength to pull himself up. A thin layer of ice formed the outline his body on the wall behind him and handholds of ice bloomed underneath his fingers to help him rise.
Robert saw this and paused, "YOU!" He roared "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I AM THE KING!"
Jon took a shaking step forward.
In contrast, Jon's voice was quiet, no longer speaking in that strange tongue from earlier.
"My name...is Jon Snow." He rasped, "My mother...named me Aegon Targaryen." He met Robert's eyes, blue staring into blue, "Her name...was Lyanna Stark!"
Robert was the one to freeze this time.
"And she..." Jon hissed with a shocking amount of venom, "Never loved you!"
Robert's rage finally boiled over. He screamed so loud it felt like the whole keep was shaking, and he charged with sword swinging wildly above his head, fully intending to cut through the whole Stark family to get to him-
"NO!"
-And shuddered to a stop.
Slowly, Robert looked down to where a length of Valaryian Steel was buried in his gut. His eyes traveled up to stare into the wide Stark grey of Ned Stark. Ned's breath came out in shuddering gasps. He jerked the sword out of his king's gut and took a step back. Robert, on the other hand, stumbled back and stared at where his guts were leaking out of his belly. His eyes traveled up to meet Ned's, and he lurched forward with his sword half-raised and a yell on his lips.
A blur of shaggy fur tackled Robert to the ground. The mother direwolf tore into Robert's throat with reckless abandon. Blood splattered the floor, and Robert's war-cry turned into a gurgle of agony that died a moment later. The direwolf stepped away to reveal Robert's bloody throat. Despite it all, the king was alive.
Ned stared down at the form of his best friend, his king, and Robert stared right back.
"K-k..." He gurgled his final words, just before his eyes went blank.
"Kingslayer!"
Well, i'm back! did ya miss me?
DING-DONG THE KING IS DEAD! BET YA DIDN'T SEE THAT ONE COMING MUHAHAHAHA!
This is all going somewhere, I swear it! This chapter went through 5 different versions in my head, and like all things that are planned out, nothing went according to plan! You guys have no idea how difficult it was to find a good picture of a window in Winterfell castle. Just a regular old window. Seriously, the design of a medieval window in a fictional setting held up half the story.
The flashback kind of came out of nowhere. As I was looking back through the chapters, I realized I never really had an ending planned out for Dany in Jon's previous life. Yes, I saw the ending of season 8, and this is all I'm gonna say.
Acting=phenomenal
Music=phenomenal!
CGI/Special-Effects=Amazing!
Ending=...I...It felt like they threw a lot out the window...I just...it was they forgot the previous storyline! I'm not going to complain, and the actors, crew, writers (Even though a lot of blame the writers) deserve major props for the incredible amount of blood, sweat, and tears they put into it. It was not easy for them at all. I just wish it would have been different. Other than that; it was amazing.
Anyway, Dany ALMOST become Queen of the Ashes in Jon's previous life, but different events and circumstances changed his and Dany's paths in drastic ways. The Night King was not defeated, therefore no one can march south for fear of the dead encroaching upon them. Dany lost EVERYONE that had been with her through her journey to westeros (Jorah, Grey Worm, Missandei, Rheagal) all at once in that battle. All she has left is the Iron Throne. After everything she has lost and gone through, it's the only thing she has, now; all she can focus on. Jon is much the same in this regard, except his obsession is the Night King, and he still has family and friends to keep him grounded. Dany does not, and a Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing. Still, it does not give her the right to sacrifice others. In the end, she is not the only one who has lost people, and Jon will not let her drag them all down with her.
I'm really going to be expanding on the Night King's powers and White-Walker abilities in the future. There is going to be a lot that is going to happen. Want a hint? All I can say...is ice.
Ice everything.
Ice, ice baby.
Alright, time to try and answer some reviews and make statements at the same time!
I'm going to try to upload at least once a month, now. Once a week is no longer going to work.
Yes, Catelyn is going to get a foot up her ass. I know about Lady Stoneheart. Nuff said.
More of this Jon's War of Ice and Fire will be shown in the future, and it ain't pretty.
Winter is still coming.
R'hllor hasn't forgotten about Jon, either.
On a more personal note, I quit my job, and am praying the new one is gonna be a good one. I go for a follow-up interview the 19th so wish me luck! Seriously, pray for ya boi if this doesn't work out...now...pardon me while I eat go prep some chicken.
Valar Dohaeris!