Chapter 25
Val
Her eyes flickered open lazily. The faint morning sun filtered through the shuttered windows of the room. Val yawned and stretched, feeling toned muscles and hair lying underneath her. He felt warm, solid, masculine. The smell of him in the morning caused her to smile.
Jon was already awake. He lay on the featherbed, staring up at the ceiling.
"Morning," Val muttered tiredly, rolling slightly. She still wasn't used to these soft southron beds. The smell of sex and sweat still lingered in the wool blankets, but it wasn't an unpleasant smell. Her whole body felt stiff, sore, but relaxed, in the way that good sex did.
He didn't reply for a while. "I am sorry, my lady," Jon said finally. His voice was low, forlorn. "We… I shouldn't have… it was dishonourable."
Val didn't react straight away. She sighed. Well, there's a bucket of water over my good mood. Too early to do this, her head ached. "Now isn't that what every girl wants to hear the morning after?"
He shuffled away from her, tripping and stumbling slightly as he pulled himself out of the featherbed, taking a deep breath. Val groaned, pulling herself upwards. They were both naked, and a chill crept into the room.
"Get back in bed," she said with another yawn. "The air is cold and the sheets are warm."
"No, I… I shouldn't have done that," he said, voice dripping guilt. "I beg your pardon, Val. Last night, it was shameful."
"We must have different opinions on what that word means," she said, pulling the sheets off her to reveal her naked form. "Do I look shamed to you?"
He bit his lip and averted his eyes. "It was shameful for me." Still he didn't even look at her. It made her irritated. "I took a vow."
"That ship has sailed, Your Grace."
No reply. She saw him wince in pain as he moved his scarred leg, trying to get dressed quickly. Where is he trying to run off to? She wondered. This is his room.
He hasn't even called me 'my lady', she realised. Normally that was their little teasing joke; he'd say 'my lady' and she'd say 'Your Grace'.
"You're serious," she groaned. "You really want to do this now?"
"I was upset last night. I exploited you."
"Good. Exploit away." She rubbed her eyes. "You were upset and you took comfort in the arms of another. There ain't nothing wrong with that."
"It shouldn't have happened, I'm sorry…"
"You say sorry one more time and I will geld you," she warned. That apology irked her.
He took a deep breath. "There's someone else."
She nodded. "Ah. Your little redheaded girl, I take it?"
He nodded. The guilt on his face reminded her of a little pup, staring at the ground. He can't even meet my eyes. Or my breasts.
Val shrugged. "So?"
He flustered. "So it's dishonourable, I shouldn't have–"
"When was the last time you saw your girl?" Val demanded.
"Seven months ago."
"Is she even still alive?"
No reply. He doesn't know, then.
"And you think it's dishonourable taking company with another after a lay you had seven months ago? Bugger off."
"Ygritte," he snapped. "Her name was Ygritte, we were together and I never finished things with her. I can't… do this… it's…"
"Sex," said Val. Her good mood was burning away fast. She shambled up. "Rutting. Make love. Coupling. Fucking. Call it what it is, don't act like a bloody blushing maiden."
"It's wrong," he stammered. "There was too much wine and I shouldn't have."
A mistake? Is that really how he wants to treat me? Oh, that made her annoyed. "I swear, Snow; you're not a eunuch but you sure do pretend to be one. You act like you're frightened of your own dick." She tried to wash her face with her hands as she shambled over the cold stone floor. "We had sex. So what – why do you need to make it something foul? There ain't nothing dirty in it unless you make it so."
His gaze flashed. "I have a duty. I never intended on breaking my vows and I can't break them again."
"Is there really some god in the south that goes around punishing folk each time they get their dick wet?" she said incredulously. "Do you think you're marked for each night you spend with another?"
He shook his head. "I have a duty," he repeated. "And love is the death of duty. I can't, there's…" He grimaced. "I can't marry you, Val. And I can't sire a child."
"Did I ask for marriage?" she said, standing upwards. "And bugger off if you think I'm having a child. Moon tea exists for a reason, Snow. Why do you always have to try and complicate things?"
"It's not that simple."
"It's very simple," she said, stretching out the words like she was speaking to a dimwit. "We had sex. It was good sex too. If you want to have sex again, then let me know and maybe I'll want to as well."
He didn't reply. He stood frozen at the far side of the room, looking downwards. Couldn't even come close to her. She pulled on her breeches and tunic, and then her gown in an easy motion. She didn't bother with her smallclothes, they'd need to be washed anyways.
"I swear, Snow," Val continued. "You've got a nice body and I'm attracted to you, but I really don't need this headache afterwards. I've got things to do."
She walked out of his chambers without another word, letting the door slam behind her. She shivered in the cold, trying to straighten both her furs and her hair as she walked down the spiral staircase.
She saw two of the Dragonguard at the bottom clearing looking upwards at her. One of them, Furs, call up and asked, "Did you two just fuck in there?"
"Yep." Val nodded. "It turns out that King Snow really does have no balls."
She went back to the Silent Tower to wash, and change her clothes. She left her knife behind and picked up her dirk and belt instead. She thought back to the exchange in Jon's quarters. Did I go too far back there?
No, she decided. That was a pretty justified reaction against someone who used the word 'shameful' the morning after we slept together.
Jon
He groaned as he paced his chambers, hands on his head. The wine left his head aching and the sex left his body aching. His skin still shivered from her phantom touch.
It was mistake, he told himself. A drunken mistake made in grief. Too much wine.
Val could send him mad sometimes. She was beautiful, fearsome and so, so maddeningly alluring. She had glorious blond hair, sharp cheekbones and a lean and nubile body. Her lips, her legs, her breasts…
All of the alcohol in the world couldn't dim the feeling of last night. The tension, the touch, the trembling motions. Thrashing bodies and soft squirming. He could barely picture it, but he remembered the sounds – her breathing in his ear, her muffled groans beneath him. He remembered golden hair in his face, lips tracing his collarbone…
Ygritte had been fair, even cute, but Val was the type of beauty that men could fight over.
The thought of Ygritte made Jon feel even worse than he already did. The memory of him pushing her off the cliffs had haunted him for months.
His body didn't stop trembling.
I shouldn't have spent the night with her. That was a mistake, he thought, ignoring the tightness in his chest. I shamed myself, and shamed her.
I loved Ygritte, I did. Now why is it that everyone I love seems to die? My father, Robb, Ygritte, and Arya…
Love is the bane of honour, the death of duty. What is honour compared to a woman's love? The ghostly words of Maester Aemon only served to make him feel even more tense.
He broke his morning fast alone in his tower, stewing in frustration. Jon caught the flicker in the serving girls' eyes, but no one said anything. After that, he didn't want to see anyone at all.
After a long time, he sent word to Sam to bring him the pink letter from the Boltons. The thought of that letter sent shivers down his spine, but he needed to read it again in the cold light of day.
Jon didn't even say a word to Sam as he dropped the parchment at Hardin's Tower. Sam muttered something about burning the severed nose, and Jon just nodded. What was the acceptable way of disposing of your sister's nose? Jon had to force himself not to even think about it.
He read that letter four more times, constantly. He had been too drunk last night to really process it beyond rage. Arya, he thought. Gods, Arya what are they doing to you?
Jon remembered a sweet, wild nine-year-old girl. Would he even recognise his sister anymore? Would she recognise him?
Why would Ramsay Bolton send me a letter like this? Jon thought slowly. It was crude, taunting, mocking. He used the phrase 'come and see' three times. He's trying to provoke me. He wants me to do something rash like charge to Winterfell in anger.
And it might work too, Jon though. His was a constant, simmering anger, like tar bubbling in his gut.
He delegated his duties to his Dragonguard and to Mance while he retreated into Hardin's Tower. He gave the pink letter a special place on his desk, so he could reread it constantly. Then, he passed a message onto Sam to bring him all of the letters and correspondence the castle had received concerning the Boltons.
The more he read and the longer he simmered, slowly all that rage turned cold, as frigid as the roost of the ice dragon's perch above him.
All of the grief, the stress… all of the problems he had but couldn't deal with it. The assassination attempt, his dragon, Aemon's death, Val… Jon could feel it all getting to him. He could feel himself becoming liable to do something rash, so he gave the order that he wasn't to be disturbed. He needed focus. Jon couldn't even focus on anything without the echo of Ramsay Bolton's words haunting his mind.
They torture my sister. They murdered my brother.
Jon turned to focus on an older letter, well lined with faded ink. This letter had been sent months ago – declaring Roose Bolton the Warden of the North. Robb Stark executed for 'treason'. How would Robb react to this?
It had been over three years since the last time Jon saw Robb. He remembered a smiling, confident, curly red-haired boy who could always outride him but would never gloat. Now, Jon sat at the desk in Hardin's Tower, staring at so many letters describing events that he had missed.
It was like looking at a timeline of everything that had happened. Sam had dug out every letter they had ever received - every missive of events that occurred so far away.
Now, Jon had to try to match his memory of his half-brother with the person described in the letters. The parchments described the Young Wolf and his campaign – a young king who fought valiantly in the riverlands, fighting for justice for his family and the freedom of his country. Robb Stark had been crowned, married and then murdered all the while Jon had been in the wilderness, a thousand leagues away.
Jon's hands gripped the table, tightening quietly with every letter he read.
He remembered Theon Greyjoy – laughing, cocky, constantly smirking Theon Greyjoy. Jon wondered whether Theon had been smirking when he murdered Bran and Rickon and mounted their burnt heads over Winterfell and sacked the castle.
He remembered Tyrion Lannister, the clever dwarf who had even befriended Jon during their trip to the Wall. Jon wondered if Tyrion had been so kind and clever when he married his sister, and plotted to murder his family. Now Sansa was gone, by all accounts; disappeared and implicated when the Imp assassinated Joffrey at his wedding.
And Arya… wild, sweet Arya… It made Jon's hands tremble with just the thought.
Was that the fate of the Stark children? Jon thought, quietly fuming. The sons to be murdered by their enemies, and the daughters to marry their enemies?
He wasn't angry, it wasn't rage anymore. It felt colder than anger; like an ice-cold blade through his chest. His fingers traced the line of the scar between his ribcage. The more he thought about it the more he felt the dagger dig into his heart…
There was a knock on the door. Furs brought him an evening meal. Jon was in no mood for company, so he ordered his guards to refuse all guests.
He didn't sleep that night. Instead, he reached out to Phantom, feeling her prowl darkly and simmer. The shadowcat seemed to suit him better right now. The feline prowled restlessly over the battlements of Eastwatch, sharp eyes overlooking the hustling bay.
Jon felt Ghost howling, still hunting beyond the Wall around Hardhome. Sonagon was on top of the tower, looming over Castle Black like some enormous gargoyle.
What would Robb do in this situation? Jon thought. He thought of his brother a lot, of the campaign he had led. The Young Wolf victorious in every battle he fought. Would I have been able to do that? To win those battles?
Robb had always been the leader, the confident, assured trueborn Stark. Jon was a fighter more than a leader. The free folk followed him not because of his leadership, but because he fought for them.
What would Robb do here? Robb Stark would have rallied the north. He would have raised his bannermen and led them against the Boltons, marched down to Winterfell and rescued his sister, and put the Boltons and the Freys to the sword. Robb Stark could have won justice for his family, could have rallied the realm.
I can't do that. I am Jon Snow, not Stark. I am a deserter, wildling and traitor to the realm. By the laws of men I should be executed. I am a warg and skinchanger – a bastard.
He could feel that anger in his chest. Robb would have been the justice. But I can be the vengeance.
He woke up early that morning. His two legs felt weird after spending the entire night in Phantom's skin. Jon spent some time thinking about it, and then prepared his full battledress. He clad himself iron top-capped boats, a worn wool-lined hauberk and leathers, before fastening his giant hide furs over his shoulders. He took a steel half-helm formerly belonging to the Lord Commander, cradling it under his arm.
It was only just dawn when Jon walked down the tower, with Dark Sister on his hip. His guards stared at him in surprise.
"Furs!" Jon shouted. "Prepare the saddle."
"Your horse?"
"No," he replied. "The other saddle."
Furs grinned, revealing both missing front teeth. "Ah."
"Hatch, prepare ten of the Dragonguard to fly with me. We need supplies for a week, thick furs, and we're going prepared for a fight. Make sure the men are ready," Jon ordered.
He saw the big man's face pale. "We're riding the dragon? Today?"
"Aye. It'll be a long journey too."
"Where are we heading?"
He paused. "We're going raiding. I'll tell you more on the journey."
He could see the murmurs spreading. He just pushed on. Jon stopped off by the armoury with one of his saddlebags. He picked up a spare longsword, a wooden buckler, and a set of dull iron gauntlets. He ordered his men to bring longbows.
The castle was already moving. Jon saw Grenn watching him open-mouthed as his guards prepared equipment and supplies. He glimpsed Val standing on the battlements with her arms folded, but Jon just walked past her. He couldn't handle complications right now. Let's focus on what I can do.
He met Mance limping from the King's Tower, with a spearwife holding his arm for support. "Where are you going?" Mance demanded, eyes narrowing.
"South. Sonagon and I will be gone for a few days, a week at most," Jon replied.
"You leave and we might have a riot on our hands."
"It's only a week."
"That might be too long. Lots of free folk worship you like a god. That dragon might be the only thing keeping the northern lords back and the Night's Watch in-line. What happens when they figure that this might be a chance to throw us out?"
"Well, make sure they don't. Remind them who has the power here. You're in charge of Castle Black when I'm gone."
Mance's lips pursed, but he nodded. I'm king now, Jon thought. Let's be king.
He could feel the people stirring. His Dragonguard rushing for arms was confirmation that Jon was moving out. He knew it was sudden, but sudden was good. Sudden gave any conspirators little time to conspire.
The whole castle was definitely waking up quickly. Mance looked at Jon with a frown. "… I heard about that letter, Snow," he muttered quietly.
"Yes. They have my sister."
"And if you fly to Winterfell, your sister will be the very first casualty in that battle. She's a hostage."
"I'm aware," Jon said coolly, walking away towards the rookery. His heart was pounding. This was a big moment. This time, he was finally flying south, and he knew just what to do. "I'm not going to Winterfell."
Sooner or later, the whole realm would know about Sonagon, but Jon wanted it to be on his terms.
He headed towards the rookery, before remembering and staring at nothing but broken rubble of the half-crumbling keep. Jon had to backtrack, recalling that Sam had moved the ravens and anything salvageable to the Grey Keep – the Lord Steward's former quarters. His rooms in the Grey Keep was left a dump from all the books and letters that had been piled, unsorted. Jon saw a big, beefy man standing guard in front of Sam's chambers, before he half-bowed and let Jon through.
Jon met Sam staring at him wide-eyed. "Sam," Jon said, his voice turning softer. "I need maps – as good of maps as you have. I'm heading south."
Sam's voice trembled. It looked like he had been crying after Aemon's death. "Maps….? Um, I'm not sure… I think Aemon had a few… where of exactly?"
"South of Moat Cailin and down towards the riverlands. Maps of the Trident, if you've got it." Jon hadn't even been south of the Neck before, and it was too easy to lose all bearings when flying on Sonagon. "As detailed as you have, as fast as possible."
Sam blinked, and nodded. With Aemon gone, Clydas would be in charge of the ravens and Sam the library. Aemon never even had a chance to touch Sonagon, Jon thought with a pained grimace. There just hadn't been time.
Jon paused, an idea coming to him. "And if you want," Jon offered, "there's a place for you to come with us."
Sam's mouth dropped. "Wha… I can't…" he stammered. "You mean on the dragon?"
"Aye," Jon ordered, but gently. He had plenty of fierce fighters, but he needed intelligence. "I've never been out of the north before, you have. You know the route, and you can manage ravens. I need to bring a few birds to send messages back to Castle Black."
The noise out of Sam's throat sounded vaguely like a fish out of water. Jon gave him no time to protest as he swept out of the room.
Val cornered him as he was packing supplies from the kitchens. "What's going on Snow?" she demanded.
"We're going on a trip south."
"Why?" She said sharply. "Your sister…"
"It's not about her," he lied, sharply. "All across the realm, there will be rumours about a dragon on the Wall. I don't want them to be rumours for much longer. We're going to take a trip south on Sonagon's back, and make sure that everyone knows that there is dragon in the north."
She looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you wanted to wait for the right moment."
"I'm tired of waiting."
Jon was already walking away. So much to do, so little time. "You're going to make a lot of people very scared."
"Good." I want them scared. When your enemies are scared, then that's half the battle already won.
Jon had wanted them ready to move out as fast as possible, but anything involving Sonagon's harness required at least two dozen men to prepare. Three of his Dragonguard – Harlow, Gregg Sheepstealer and Mo – would stay behind but the rest were coming with him. Twelve fighters in total. He saw Toregg, son of Tormund, roaring in anticipation. Grenn looked pale-faced and trembling; he wanted to stay behind but Jon ordered Grenn to come and ordered the sworn brother to stay by Sam's side at all time.
The first flight is always frightening, Jon thought. Only four members of his Dragonguard had ever even flown before. They needed Wun Wun to help clear the courtyard to prepare for the dragon, and carry stacks of rations. Furs was busy directing the giant, getting him ready to help lift the men on to the dragon's back.
Crowds were gathering. He heard Bullden Horn and Hatch arguing for who got to sit at the front.
Jon closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. Sonagon was already awake, already alert. It didn't take much prodding before the dragon started to twitch. Come. Hunt. Green fields and new territory. We fly.
The white shape twitched. Enormous wings unfurled. From atop Hardin's Tower, the white dragon dropped downwards. Jon heard the collective gasp of breath as those wings pounded against the ground. The sudden beat pounded so hard that great billows of snow whooshed in the wind like a sudden storm dropping out of the sky.
Sonagon landed so hard that the ground rumbled, while snow washed around them. People were screaming, but Jon could have laughed.
The dragon was so large that it could barely fit in the courtyard. Sonagon was a fearsome sight, lumbering between the buildings. The great keeps and towers of Castle Black looked like toy houses compared to the dragon.
Men ran under Sonagon's wings in panic, causing the dragon to snap and growl irritably, but Jon soothed him. We're going to fly a long way together, Jon promised. We're going further south than you've ever been before…
Furs was one of the few who didn't panic. The wildling was more used to Sonagon than most, snapping orders for men to get moving. Perhaps I need to appoint him some rank, Jon mused looking at Furs. Official dragon keeper, perhaps. Furs was certainly capable enough.
It was awkward, panicked, and took longer than Jon would like. It required a lot gentle pleading to get Sonagon into position, and even longer to position the men around them.
Jon had to rub the dragon's snout reassuringly to stop the dragon from moving. They needed Wun Wun to lift the men upwards with his great, beefy hands so they could clamber onto the dragon. I need a better way of mounting, Jon thought. Perhaps something like a siege tower that could be pushed up against Sonagon.
Sonagon's back was jagged and ridged, particularly around the wings, but they were more experienced now. Sam and Grenn had to be fastened down and covered over with their cloaks, but Hatch and Furs wrapped ropes expertly around the dragon's back spikes to secure themselves.
Jon couldn't help but grin. By contrast, he had an easier job. He was well-used to climbing up the rope over Sonagon's right horn, using the dragon's neck crests as footholds, to position himself on top the dragon's head.
"Get comfortable, and secure!" Jon ordered. "Find a position and keep in it, but make sure you're wrapped up!"
"It doesn't seem so cold," Hatch shouted. When Jon was on the head and the others on the back, there was about a twenty-five feet distance between them.
"It will when we start flying," Jon said grimly.
The best bowmen of his Dragonguard – Haldur, Bullden, and Harle – had longbows cradled in their grasp, but most didn't dare take their hands off the hoists. Very awkward sitting, Jon admitted. His seat on the head was more vulnerable, but also far easier to mount. Anyone on the back had to shuffle dangerously over rippling muscles, clutching the dragon's spikes.
Sonagon shifted uncomfortably with the weight shuffling on his back. Jon had to soothe the dragon constantly. The dragon was a fickle beast at best, but only the promise of food and flying made him wait.
By the time they were ready, it was already noon.
They were fiddling with the last few straps, when Sonagon decided he had enough. Jon heard screams. The dragon rumbled and his tail whipped, and Jon ordered them to back away. Time to go.
Jon's heart was beating. He had flown nine times now, and twice with other people, but flying on a dragon's back would never be anything less than magnificent.
South, he pushed. Let's head south.
"Strap yourselves in!" Jon called, clutching the ropes so tightly his hands hurt. Sonagon started to move like a lumbering mountain.
"How long do we have to stay like this?" Haldur shouted, his body rattling with every thunderous step as Sonagon turned.
"Maybe half a day!" Jon bellowed, though truthfully, he had little idea. He could barely guess how fast Sonagon could fly or the distances involved – he had never taken a trip this far before. "Just hold on really, really…" Sonagon took another step. Jon's teeth rattled. "… tight!"
He had deliberately not mentioned their destination to anyone. He didn't want to give any warning, as unlikely as it was to reach ahead of them. Now, he was on his way.
There were screams as the dragon reared up onto two legs, wings outstretching wide. Sonagon roared, taking a few uncertain, unsteady steps as his wings started to beat. Jon had to hug the dragon's scales to protect himself from the draft and snow.
And then, slowly, he felt the dragon rising up into the air. Sonagon roared under the strain.
I wanted to go to Winterfell, he thought foggily. I wanted to go home. But he couldn't; that letter seemed too much like the bait for a trap, and they held his sister hostage regardless. Heading to Winterfell seemed too risky, too expected.
But that didn't mean he had to let his brother's murder go to unpunished. "The Twins," Jon muttered head rattling by the thunderous, mind-wracking beat of wings. "We go for the Twins." To give Walder Frey my regards.
They were lifting upwards quickly. The pressure so intense he gagged. Jon's eyes opened, only to see the Wall disappearing beneath them…
For the first time in two hundred years, there were dragons flying over the north.
Sonagon had never flown so freely before. Generally, the dragon liked to keep its own territory, to patrol the same hunting grounds on an evening. Now, though, the dragon was roaming wild, flapping over pine forests, lakes and rolling hills.
And Sonagon loved it. Jon could feel the dragon's glee as it pounded faster and faster, accelerating and streaming through the air.
All around him, the cold wind hissed so hard that it could have sheared skin. Jon had to keep his face pressed against the dragon's scales, cloaks wrapped around him.
He had no idea how the others were doing. Jon could only thank the gods for the quality of Devyn Sealskinner's workmanship. The leather harness felt secure even despite billowing winds.
Flying on a dragon's back… it felt like a once in a lifetime experience. Jon could still barely believe that he got to do it repeatedly.
The people on the ground would be like ants. Jon wondered vaguely what it must be like to be on the ground beneath them, to see the white shadow flying over the clouds…
He gasped as he extended the warg towards Sonagon. The dragon was having so much fun he didn't object. Jon's mind expanded as suddenly he was staring downwards, watching the world through a dragon's eyes.
Dragons.
Dragons.
No one had ever mapped the world like this. Jon struggled to recognise the shapes of the mountains, or of the forests in the distance.
South. Jon pushed, thinking of all the landmarks he knew. South towards the Long Lake, the Wolfswood, the White Knife, and the coast. The Neck, Moat Cailin, the Bite – all the way to the rivers. Jon wanted to see the south. And Sonagon wanted to see it too.
Jon had no idea how long that journey lasted. It was hard to measure time when every heartbeat felt like your last.
Jon forced Sonagon to fly low, low enough to be survivable for the passengers. Sonagon reluctantly complied, but it was still so fast the winds were vicious.
He felt the way the dragon instinctively sheared over wind currents. The dragon tilted left to avoid a strong headwind storm, his tail swishing through the air. Jon could feel the exertion every time the dragon pounded his wings, but the dragon was well-fed, energised, and free. Flying was where he belonged.
He must have made this trip before, Jon realised suddenly. A lifetime ago. Sonagon once flew from Old Valyria to the North.
They were making good time. As fast as the raven flew, if not faster. Jon reckoned he could probably reach the bottom of the north by the end of the day.
The sun was bright. Sonagon's shadow roamed over the ground. By tomorrow, the whole north would know the dragon was no rumour.
It was dark when the dragon finally landed. Sonagon flapped down over a small mound on a grassy plain, one of the old barrows of the north. The kingsroad was somewhere to the west, probably. He could smell coast and ocean to the east. Jon spent most of the journey with his own body unconscious, while he shared Sonagon's skin.
By the time they stopped, it was past dusk and the riders could barely even see straight. Most of them had fallen unconscious during the trip. Over half had soiled themselves, but Jon honestly couldn't fault them.
Sonagon was exhausted too – exhausted enough to curl on the ground flat for them to stagger off. Hatch and Toregg were the only two who managed to stay conscious the whole trip. It took Grenn and Urwen to carry a pale and limp Sam down to the ground.
Sam had brought two caged ravens with him. One bird had died during the flight, the other didn't look so good either. But at least no one had fallen off this time.
"Fuck. Me," Black Maris gagged, her body trembling. "You said nothing that it would be that hard, Snow."
Jon nodded wearily. Black Maris was the only woman in the Dragonguard with them, yet the spearwife was better with a spear than Furs and as hard a leader as any. She shambled to the muddy ground, helping Furs clamber off as well.
The trip around the Wall had been a gentle breeze by comparison. It had been a day of hard flying. Thank gods they had all buried themselves under cloaks. Hopefully there wouldn't be frostbite.
"Set up camp here!" Jon ordered, as the men staggered on the hilltop. "Eat, clean yourselves up, sleep however much you can." He stared at Sam sympathetically, still half-conscious and white-faced.
All of them were hardened raiders or rangers, but the journey still nearly proved too much. Gerwick almost crashed as soon as he hit solid ground. It was lucky Jon brought plenty of rations, because they all pigged themselves out on supplies, and then puked again.
"Fucking hells!" Grenn gasped. The big man was pale and trembling. "Fucking hells!"
"We must keep watch," Jon ordered. "Someone must have saw us, they could have followed. Rest now, but don't unpack. We leave early at first light."
It wasn't ideal – they could lose a lot of their advantage if anyone saw them coming – but there was nothing for it. People would die if they had to fly through the night as well.
Jon couldn't sleep. He had to unroll the maps and try to figure out where they were. He reckoned somewhere north east of Moat Cailin, by the coast, in a deserted cliffside. Six hundred leagues, he decided finally. They'd had flew for over half a day straight.
"What's the plan here, Snow?" Furs slumped down next to him. Others were listening around them. "You say we're raiding? Raiding where?"
"We're going to a place called the Twins," Jon muttered. "And we will burn it to the ground. We raid only what's left."
"Aye? Just the fourteen of us?"
"And a dragon. Have you ever heard of what Aegon the Conqueror did to Harrenhal, Furs?"
Grenn's eyes widened. Furs paused. "I can guess. So this place is a big castle?"
"Yes."
"And you're okay torching it like this?"
"Aye."
"Without warning or chance to surrender?"
Jon's jaw clenched. "If they have any warning whatsoever, we lose half our advantage. They might try to prepare a defence." He shook his head, well aware that everyone was listening. "We don't give them any warning. Surprise and panic are our best allies here."
They murdered my brother. They don't deserve surrender.
"Then let's bring those bastards down." Furs grinned, tightening his clutch on his spear.
The Twins. Jon hadn't even seen the Twins before, but he knew of it. The Freys murdered the northern host there. They murdered Robb Stark. Jon would bring dragonfire to the Freys, and he would make sure that the whole world knew.
I will take my lesson out of Aegon's book.
The whole north would know. The Boltons would lose their strongest ally. Any man who tried to oppose Jon would think twice. Any man who wanted vengeance for the Red Wedding would flock to his side.
And the Freys would pay. Oh boy, will they pay.
The anger didn't fade. Sonagon could feel Jon's bloodlust seeping through their connection. The dragon stirred slightly.
The camp was tense. They were all ready for battle, but had to wait. Grenn, at least, stuck by Sam's side protectively. Jon didn't sleep at all.
The next morning, they mounted Sonagon again. They climbed on faster this time, although Sam still had to be carried. By first light, they were ready to go.
"Noon," Jon promised. "We'll reach the Twins by noon. This needs to be a fast journey, but we can take it gentler going back."
Grenn muttered something that it would be easier to walk. Jon just smiled, but the smile was wooden. His fist hadn't unfurled.
No matter how intense the journey was, Jon knew that it would be nothing compared to what would happen when they reached there. Jon's heart was buzzing with the thought. Is this what Aegon felt before he razed Harrenhal?
Sonagon made good time. This far south the air was warmer. Jon could afford to lift his head up, staring down as they flew over boggy swamps and marshes. They flew so low that, occasionally, Jon could even see the people running. He glimpsed horses galloping down the roads.
Dragons. Dragons flying south.
Oh yes, come tomorrow the whole realm will be buzzing.
He saw mountains in the distance, dressed by low-sitting clouds. He smelled lands teeming with livestock and people, new scents he couldn't place. Sonagon roared, a cry of dominance like thunder.
The maps were useless. Jon couldn't even think to place the squiggles on parchment with the great expanse that stretched before him. Instead, he just had to try and guess their position. The Trident, he thought. I know the Twins rest upon the northern Green Fork of the Trident. Follow the river.
He could see a cape in the distance. He heard seagulls scatter around the dragon. The Cape of Eagles, he realised. I must have gone too far south and west. Sonagon had to backtrack and flap east again.
There were definitely people screaming beneath him. He passed over farmsteads and small villages and he saw panic.
Jon saw the Trident. The river muddy and reedy, but it was so wide he could barely miss it, even through the forests and clouds. He followed the Green Fork upstream, watching the river turn deeper and swifter.
Ready yourself, Jon pushed towards Sonagon. Enemies. Enemies ahead.
The dragon roared. They would hear the dragon coming, like thunder in the distance. But so long as they don't have the time or the coordination to prepare, it won't matter.
He smelled the stench of men. He saw two squat, ugly and formidable castles of grey stone with curtain walls and towers sitting in the distance. There was stone bridge beneath them, the Trident gushing through the pillars. From dragonback, the Twins had never looked so small.
He heard Hatch from the the back shouting for the men to prepare themselves. Sonagon flew so low over the rushing waters of the Trident that the river splashed with every immense pound of the dragon's wings. The river was wide, yet the length of Sonagon's wings still reached over its breadth.
Jon heard the ringing of bells. The Water Tower sat in the middle of the bridge, with barbicans and portcullis leading left and right. He heard the east tower ringing first, and then the west. The two were singing in fear. His heart pounded in the moment.
The sun was bright, the air was warm, yet winter was here.
Dragons. Dragons are attacking the realm.
This is right. This is my vengeance.
"Dracarys!" Jon shouted at the top of his lungs, over the sound of roaring air. "Dracarys!"
White fire exploded from Sonagon's mouth in a continuous stream. The dragon swept over the eastern bridge, and ice plumed from underneath. Jon saw men like ants skittering over the white stone.
The first plume of ice froze a chunk of the bridge twenty feet wide. The spikes of ice were ten feet high, the cold steam billowing upwards. The cold was so extreme that the stone shivered and cracked. Great billows of steam hissed and howled.
Suddenly, the frozen rock crumbled away, and a wall of ice split the crossing into two. The ice plumed across the river, chunks of frozen stone scattering the wastes.
Screaming, so much screaming. It was so chaotic Jon could hardly process it.
Jon was gasping. He had known it would be panicked but this… it felt unreal.
Sonagon roared upwards, circling. The dragon was eager, ready. The cold was bubbling in his chest. The dragon loved a good armageddon.
Men littered across the battlements of the Water Tower. Men running mad.
These men killed my brother. All Frey bannermen had been either conspirators or complacent. Jon could give them all a king's justice.
No. Vengeance. This is vengeance, not justice. But right now Jon just didn't care.
Wings roared as Sonagon flapped over the Water Tower. A few arrows bounced uselessly off hard scales. The sounds of screaming filled the air as the ice burst out of the dragon's throat. The tower exploded into bloody white spikes and mist.
The castle. The bridge could be destroyed at will, but the castles were the priority. They were both identical, so Jon just had to pick one to destroy first. The east, he thought, the east one was facing the north.
Destroy the east castle first. A small but squat keep with high curtain walls and deep moats. Both were useless now. There was an apple orchard and cornfield spilling out of the grounds, with men and women scattering…
Sonagon circled. Jon saw hundreds of men trying to stampede out of the gate. Jon saw men jumping off the battlements in their panic to escape. A few tried to shoot arrows, but it was useless – the pure force of Sonagon's wings swept the arrows away.
Sonagon was a blizzard given flesh. The dragon swept over the gate first, white dragonfire raging.
All of those men fleeing. Jon saw bodies rupturing and exploding in the extreme cold. Frozen chunks of bone and pink ice, scorched in white steam. Dragonfire scoured the ground clean.
Some men – the ones towards the edges – were left frozen solid, transformed into brittle, grotesque ice statues frozen in motion. A courtyard of dead frozen bodies.
At least fifty men dead in an instant.
Then Sonagon swept over the walls, in a continuous stream of dragonfire. The walls cracked and froze into rubble. The limestone didn't stand a chance against anything that cold and destructive.
Another thirty dead.
Then the courtyard. Sonagon perched on an outbuilding, flapping amidst the great billows of steam, raining bursts of frozen death onto the yard.
Another fifty.
Jon gasped as the dragon jumped, crashing into the main keep. The dragon dropped down onto the tiled roof, crunching through stone, and the frostfire exploded from his jaws. The dragon's breath blew down through the roof and the walls exploded outwards. The whole structure groaned and screeched.
The waves of cold were so intense that even the backdraft nearly scalded Jon. The noise sent him deaf. Frozen rubble scattered.
He could see the keep crackling and crumbling. Ice so cold it burned.
After that, Jon lost count of death. He wanted to push the dragon to restrain himself, but Jon could barely even think. The noise and chaos left his mind blank.
It was over quickly. In a single sweep, Sonagon turned the castle into a frozen ruin and graveyard.
And then, the dragon leapt into the air towards the western tower.
Jon lost control. Sonagon wasn't listening to him anymore. The dragon's blood was burning for destruction.
My brother's killers.
The din was deafening, the force bone-shaking. Jon couldn't even focus on the falling mortar and flying arrows when everything was screaming and shaking. He heard a woman's wail.
Those sounds… they made his blood curdle. This was a mistake. This is a mistake. Too much death, too much…
Too much chaos, so little order. Jon had no idea the fury he had unleashed. The cold scorched his skin. The dragon had hard scales to protect him, but those on Sonagon's back had nothing.
He glimpsed Haldur managing to fire his bow uncertainly from Sonagon's back, but most others were struggling to even hold on. The panic, the disorientation, the noise…
The dead. So, so many dead.
A tower collapsed under Sonagon's breath. Jon watched it crumble.
It was all Jon could do just to hold on.
The dragon felt exhausted from breathing so much ice, but also so, so happy.
Around them, the Twins were crumbling into the Trident in frozen rubble.
It was too much. Jon couldn't even breathe. Down, Jon ordered. Put us down.
The dragon didn't even seem to hear him. The beast was having too much fun catching those trying to flee. Jon saw some of them, and they were serving girls or servants, not soldiers. Sonagon gave them all the same mercy.
Icy fire transformed the orchard yards into cold ruin. Trees exploded in frozen splinters.
Jon's head spun. Down, he begged, down.
Finally Sonagon complied. The dragon dropped to the earth outside of the eastern keep with a great growl. Jon staggered, feeling the bile rise in his throat. The air was so cold.
They shambled down off the dragon's back. Sonagon twitched impatiently. Jon's hands could barely clutch the rope.
"Please…" a voice croaked. "… By the Mother's mercy, please… help…"
Jon turned, to see a figure crawling across the stone. It was hard to even recognise him as a man under the rime and frostbite coating his skin. The figure used to be a man-at-arms with a jerkin emblazoned by the two towers, but Sonagon's breath had ripped straight through him. The man's legs were left frozen solid as he dragged himself over the courtyard.
Jon watched in horror as the man's foot broke apart as he crawled. He didn't even seem to feel it. His legs were just lumps of ice dangling from his waist. Dragonfire had frozen over half his body. "Please…" the man whimpered.
Jon's jaw tightened. "Put him out of his misery."
"Aye, Your Grace," Hatch offered, hoisting up his hammer and stepping forward. Jon averted his gaze. There was a dull crack. Metal through skull.
Sonagon flew back up into the air. The dragon's bloodlust hadn't been sated, not yet. There were hundreds of men left running down the road, but Jon doubted they'd get far. Jon heard Sam being sick.
In front of them, the eastern castle of the Twins was a steaming wreck. Great walls of limestone were left pulverised. They heard the crash as another chunk of bridge fell into the current.
"By the Gods…" Grenn muttered breathlessly, staring in horror.
Sam's legs gave out, falling to his knees. Jon felt the urge to do the same. Focus, Jon told himself.
"Haldur, Bullden, and Harle, go stand guard on the walls. Watch for anyone coming back. Hatch and Stiga, guard the doors," Jon ordered. The oak gate had exploded in cold, along with half the walls. "Grenn, you stay here with Sam. Everyone else, on Furs or me, we search the castle for survivors."
"To prevent any?" Toregg asked.
"Just search," Jon ordered. "But watch your step, the structure is crumbling."
They had only fifteen men to hold the castle, but it looked like everyone had either died or fled. The biggest worry was if any of the survivors managed to group together and head back towards them, but with Sonagon still in the air Jon wasn't too concerned.
There could have been a thousand men between the two castle. Jon doubted if more than a dozen had survived inside the castle itself.
They deserved this, Jon told himself, trying to calm his beating heart. They deserve this.
He heard Furs cackling as he walked away towards a steaming outbuilding. "Big castle like this! Let's see how much treasure we can salvage."
"Just be careful!" Jon ordered. "Beware – it's still very cold. You could lose a hand touching the wrong place. And any survivors, let me know."
The wildlings split up in groups of three or two. Sam and Grenn were left huddled together.
They found the first three survivors, a group of serving maids, huddled together and weeping under a wall. The girls looked at him like he was a demon. One of them was a young serving girl with wide eyes and pretty brown hair and she had her left hand frozen into a block of ice. There was no doubt she would lose the arm.
Furs encountered another four men, guards, who tried to attack them. The men were left so panicked and crazed they couldn't think, though, and the wildlings killed them all. Black Maris and Gerwick cut through them easily and stole their armour.
The only ones who survived had been the ones to hide in the odd nooks and crannies of the castle, taking shelter from the ferocious cold breath. There were corridors that had been scoured clean by the power of Sonagon's dragonfire. Afterwards, the collapsing buildings killed almost as many the cold did.
Jon found a screaming man who had dived into a well to take shelter, and broke both of his legs from the fall. They had no rope to get him out, so they left him in the well to die.
It turned out there were two dozen or so survivors in total, but most injured, panicked or weak. Jon saw several limbs that had been bitten off by the cold. It seemed like the castle was wailing and weeping.
"Walder Frey," Jon demanded from one man. "Where is Lord Walder Frey?"
The man pointed weakly towards the great hall in the keep, unable to form coherent words.
It had been some sort of meal when the dragon attacked. The great hall had taken the full blast of Sonagon's fire exploding downwards through the roof. It was left a frozen, desolate waste; there was nothing but steaming, cracked stone and frozen corpses remaining. The dragonfire hit the hall like a giant hammer of ice, gouging a massive streak through the stone floor.
The high table of the Twins had been blasted into frozen splinters. It would be impossible to even identify the bodies. Even the intact corpses had been frozen beyond all recognition like bodies. Lord Walder Frey died over his table, in the middle of his meal, and his body blasted into oblivion.
My brother died in this room, Jon tried to remind himself. He wanted to explore the keep further, but it was too cold to even enter.
From the wall, Haldur reported some men poking around the castle. The archer put three shafts into two of them to convince them to stay back. Fourteen men could hold a castle like this easily when everyone else is frightened witless or dead, Jon told himself.
The only highborn survivor they found was a man called Merrett Frey, discovered hiding in the pantry with frozen piss in his groin. He tried to run, and Bullden Horn killed the man before they even realised who he was.
Everything that wasn't destroyed, the wildlings tried to steal. Furs found a good pouch of several hundred gold dragons hidden in one of the chambers somewhere, but the treasury or vault was left inaccessible when the building collapsed.
The prisoners were left huddled and guarded together in the only surviving stable. Black Maris and Eywn stood guard over them, but they looked too scared to even move. The sight of scorched frozen flesh scattering the castle made Jon feel sick.
Jon heard Hatch calling for him. "Your Grace!" The big man bellowed. "Found one you might want to look at."
Jon came running as fast as his leg could move over the crackling ground. He saw Hatch standing over a fat, bald, white-faced man in wool robes. "He has one of those chains," Hatch explained, folding his arms. "That makes this one a maester, aye?"
It did. The rookery had been destroyed in one of the first passes of Sonagon, but the maester was lucky to survive hiding under the stairwell even as the tower collapsed. Jon nodded Hatch away, and bent over the man. He kept his hand on Dark Sister. Good. A maester would know everything that had been happening in the castle.
"Maester," Jon muttered. The man was wheezing for breath in panic. There were bodies crushed by frozen rubble around him. "Deep breaths, maester. What is your name?"
He stammered. "Bre– Brenett."
"Maester Brenett." He nodded. "My name is Jon Snow, maester. King Jon Snow. I trust you will answer my questions."
"Dragon," he wheezed. "Dragon."
"Aye. The dragon obeys me."
His eyes were wide, bulging. Jon had rarely seen a man so scared. "You killed them. You killed everyone."
The maester would lose at least three fingers from the cold, Jon realised. He had seen frostbite like that before. It looked like a broken leg too. Doubtless the man would never walk or write properly again. "You monster," Maester Brenett gagged. "How… how could you?"
"This is justice."
"This is barbarity."
"I am Jon Snow. My brother was Robb Stark." Jon's eyes were dark. "He died in this castle, did he not? Murdered in defiance of guest right and the laws of men."
"You monster," the maester croaked, shuffling backwards. "Monster."
"No. Vengeance for the Red Wedding." Jon stood upwards. "Hatch, bring the man here a drink to calm his nerves. Tend to that leg. He has questions to answer."
Brenett looked so scared he couldn't even grip the bladder of water. Hatch had to force it down into his throat. Even afterwards, he was left a twitching mess. "How could you?" Brenett gasped, looking fearfully at Jon. "How could you kill so many?"
"Did you ask the same after the Red Wedding?" he replied coolly. "The Freys murdered my brother, maester."
"What of the serving girls and stableboys?" Brenett demanded. "The innocents in the castle?"
"They died for the lord they served, and for the crimes they are accomplice to."
"The Red Wedding," the maester gagged. "I knew naught of the Red Wedding. No one told me until it happened, I had no part in it. Many who did know tried to object. For every one soldier in the castle that could be held accountable, there were ten stewards and servants that were just doing jobs, trying to provide for their families. Do you see those as murderers?" His voice cracked. "And what of the babes and widows? Did they murder your kin?"
Jon's hand twitched, clutching Dark Sister. Maybe the maester caught his unease. "You killed them just the same," he accused, voice breaking. "How many in the castle even survived?"
Not many. "Mind your tongue," Hatch warned.
"Tell me who was in the castle," Jon demanded. "Where was Lord Walder Frey?"
"In the hall. It was Edwyn's nameday, there was a feast…" He trembled.
Then all the Freys in the Twins were dead. There had been no survivors from the hall. "What of guests? Was there anyone else in the castle?"
"Lord Tytos Blackwood and Lord Karyl Vance were being hosted," the maester gasped, struggling to speak. "As were guests Ser Harys Haigh, Ser Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister. And Tristan Ryger."
They were? Blackwood, Vance and Mallister had both been Robb's allies. Loyal allies. Jon twitched. 'Hosted' – a polite term for hostages. "Who else? What of Frey allies?"
"Ser Harys Huigh, and his son Donnel Huigh. Ser Theon Charlton. Ser Daven Lannister was present – he was to be betrothed to Walda Frey." Lannister. The maester must have seen Jon's expression change. "Ser Daven was named Warden of the West. Cousin to the Queen. Ser Jaime Lannister had been here over a fortnight passed before marching to break the siege of Raventree. And Tytos Marbrand stayed to squire for Ser Arwood." The maester quaked. "Hoster Blackwood and Jayne Bracken lingered before heading down to the King's Landing. They were children."
The Freys had been sitting themselves up as the most influential house in the Riverlands, Jon realised. They had been taking hostages from other houses who had been forced to bend the knee. Hostages.
The maester's eyes were wide. "Oh Gods… and Roslin Tully," he gasped. "Her babe."
Jon's hands clenched so tight they hurt. "Roslin Tully." Formerly Roslin Frey, he realised.
"The woman that Edmure Tully married. She was staying in the West Tower. She was pregnant."
Jon looked. There was no West Tower anymore. Somewhere in the rubble maybe there was a body of pregnant woman. How could he know? What can I do about it?
Deep breaths. Focus. But she had been pregnant. With the child of Edmure Tully, my brother's family.
"We had prisoners too," Brenett wheezed. "Ser Merret Grell. Garen Hornwood. Osmund Locke. Yoren Glover. Captives taken from the Red Wedding."
"Prisoners?" Jon said urgently. Loyal Stark prisoners. "Where? Where were they being held?"
Brenett gave him directions to the dungeons, the entrance of which was under the causeway. Jon ordered Toregg to go investigate. The man came back fairly quickly and shook his head. The dungeons had been completely collapsed. Unlikely to be any survivors. He ordered him to try and clear the rubble nevertheless.
Jon could have screamed. "These prisoners," he demanded. "How many were there? Who?"
"Two dozen or so," Brenett said nervously. "The crown ordered us to surrender them to King's Landing, but Lord Frey refused. He kept them in the castle. They were from either the north or the riverlands. Um, there was Lynel, no, Lyndel Westerly, um… a son from House Ryswell, and…"
"What of the Greatjon?" Jon demanded. "Lord Jon Umber?"
The maester shook his head. "No, Lord Umber, Robin Flint and Ser Wylis Manderly were moved a month passed. There was to be a trade of hostages in the north and they left for Winterfell escorted by Black Walder, but their caravan was ambushed by the crannogmen in the Neck. Lord Frey was furious, yet the prisoner went missing."
So Lord Umber hadn't been in the castle. Oh gods, small mercies. If I had actually murdered Lord Umber…
There had been hostages and prisoners. Of course there had been prisoners.
This is vengeance, Jon tried to tell himself. The men who murdered my family are dead. The Red Wedding had been avenged. The Freys are destroyed, the Lannisters and the Boltons have lost their major ally. There are casualties, yes, but there is no way to save everyone, and this is vengeance.
He stared around at the bodies and the ruined castle. If this was vengeance, then he didn't like how it tasted.
So, so many dead.
How did Aegon feel after torching Harrenhal? Jon wondered. Did he feel victorious, or was he left shaken by so many dead? Did Aegon ever torch another castle the same way again?
He spent the next hour questioning Maester Brenett. How many men had there been in the castle? Where were their allies? Who ruled the riverlands? What was happening in King's Landing?
The answers came quickly. The main force of the Freys had either left north with the Boltons or went west with Jaime Lannister's host to Raventree. They had then been summoned south to deal with an invasion of sellswords, but many men had lingered to hunt down the outlaws plaguing the riverlands. Ser Jaime Lannister was said to have vanished after being captured by the Brotherhood-without-Banners. Lord Petyr Baelish was supposedly Lord Paramount of the riverlands, yet Riverrun was held by Emmon Frey and his wife Genna Lannister.
The Golden Company under Jon Connington and Tyrion Lannister was said to have taken Griffin's Roost, and there had been a schism in King's Landing after the High Septon declared Queen Cersei unholy. It was either a power grab by the Faith to topple the government, or a cry for justice for the Queen's crimes, depending on who was believed.
Euron Crow's Eye was said to be readying to assault Oldtown, and the Golden Company was marching from the stormlands. There were revolts from smallfolk all around the crownlands, and the Tyrells and Lannisters were at each other's throats. Stannis Baratheon was waging war from Dragonstone with a series of raids and skirmishes. The most recent news said that Stannis had seized Claw Isle.
Ser Kevan Lannister and Lord Mace Tyrell were trying to contain the unrest in King's Landing, while the city was locked in a power struggle. Rumours said that Queen Margaery Tyrell was being held hostage, either by the High Septon or Queen Cersei, but details were foggy. The Lannisters face enemies on every front; Ser Jaime had vanished, Queen Cersei was said to be going mad, and Tyrion was leading an invasion against the realm. Ser Daven had been trying to regather forces in the riverlands and from the west, but now he was dead too.
From the maester's words, it seemed like the whole realm was collapsing in on itself. A power struggle in the capital, reavers in the Reach, mercenaries from the south, bandits in the riverlands and even the Vale was said to be suffering some leadership strife.
The War of Five Kings was over, but it had left the realm so, so unstable. It gave Jon much to think on, head still spinning.
Jon listened for as long as he could, before passing the maester over to Furs to continue the interrogation. He gave orders to collect as many letters and correspondence as salvageable, and pass them over to Sam. The maester was a wailing mess as Jon limped away.
He heard activity from the building. Gerrick, Maris and Urwen had finally evacuated the ruins of the vault beneath the keep. Jon glimpsed gold bullions being hoisted into sheepskin sacks. The Twins had a lot of wealth in them – they had been wealthy and in a good position. Well-paid for their services. The wildlings would steal it all.
"King!" Haldur shouted from the ruins of the crumbling curtain wall. The man had his weirwood bow notched and poised, not even turning his head from the scene. "We've got men poking around out front, by the trees."
"How many?"
"Fifty or so, I think. Maybe more coming."
"Can you hold them back?" Jon demanded, limping forward. The gates and wall were ruined – they couldn't stand siege in this castle.
Harle, Bullden and Eryn all had bows drawn too. There were only four archers standing guard on the walls, but they were all very good.
"Oh aye. For now. They seem awfully scared." His bowstring pulled back a little bit further. "But sooner or later they'll want to come back to this castle. We'd be good making ourselves scarce."
"Aye. I'll call Sonagon back." Jon turned to stare out over the steaming ruins of stone. We have to get out of here. "Gather what you can and prepare to leave."
Jon didn't meet Sam's eyes. The feel of death seemed to linger over the castle. Perhaps they could have pillaged the west castle of the Twins too, but there was no chance since the bridge was broken.
It took Jon a long time to centre himself enough to reach out to Sonagon. He felt the dragon flying happily over the river, idly chasing down horses. Like a well-fed cat toying with mice. Sonagon responded quickly to Jon's call.
"Oi," Dark Gerrick called over to him. The hard warrior wore the necklaces and expensive lady's jewellery he had pillaged from the chambers, wearing silk and silver draped over boiled leather. "Why stop now? There are other castles around here, aren't there? I don't think your dragon is tired yet. Why not bring down a few more too?"
Jon's fists clenched. The thought of the man crawling with frozen legs flashed before his eyes. "No," he said icily. "This is enough."
As soon as Sonagon appeared over in the sky, Jon heard the men in the forest screaming and scattering for cover. Haldur and the others launched shafts at them as they fled.
The sight of Sonagon sent some of the prisoners into a frenzied panic. Hatch had to kill three of them before they finally fell back. Sonagon dropped slowly into the courtyard, sniffing at the ruins. "Load up anything we're taking. Get ready to move quickly!" He shouted.
Maester Brenett was still wailing. The wildlings loaded up their plunder, as Sonagon sniffed and rummaged. "Maester," Jon said, approaching. "I want to you write a letter for me."
The maester didn't reply. He didn't even look up from the ground. "You will write that for the breaching the laws of men, for treason and breaking guest right, for murder and kinslaying," Jon said, "that the Freys of the Crossing faced the highest punishment. Their lands are razed, their lord is dead. The guilty are punished. Write that I will see justice for the all crimes committed against my family." Jon knelt downwards by the old man. "Write the letter, maester, and sign it King Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall and in the North."
It took a bit of coaching before he actually wrote it. Only one of Brenett's hands could even clutch a quill. The handwriting was horrible and shaky, but the message was short. There were no ravens left, but Jon ordered the maester to keep a hold of it and pass it on to whomever came to rescue them. All of the prisoners were to be left unharmed when they flew away.
There was no hesitation in Jon's voice. He couldn't afford any sign of weakness, not here, not now. This is right, he told himself. These men were my enemies, and this is a good tactical decision.
Still, it didn't feel like it. The sound of wailing women echoed around the frozen ruins.
One of their prisoners – barely more than a boy, actually – tried to lunge at Jon with a pitchfork as he moved to leave. He was a brave boy, to attempt to assassinate him so boldly. Furs intercepted him, though, and knocked him easily to the floor. It took several spear thrusts before the boy was finally dead. Jon didn't say a word.
It was approaching dusk by the time they were mounted on Sonagon and ready to leave. As Sonagon burst upwards into the sky, Jon saw a land in pure panic. Behind him, the wildlings were cheering. The ruins of the two castles were still steaming gently in the faint sun.
I was so, so angry. He didn't feel angry anymore, just hollow. I have my vengeance, but my brother is still dead.
They couldn't safely fly at night, so they had to stop around the coast as they had done the previous night. Sonagon could smell an early winter storm brewing up north. The grassy plains were deserted, but as they made camp, Jon ordered everyone to stay alert.
"They may well be riders following us," Jon ordered. "They can't beat Sonagon in battle, but they may try to ambush us while the dragon is asleep. Everyone stays alert."
There were wary mutters. They were all tired and weary, but the tension kept them alert. There had been few injuries – Eryn took a cut across the waist from a man's broken sword, and Harle had some nasty scalds from getting too close to Sonagon's frostfire. There were many bruises from bouncing and holding onto Sonagon's back, but one of the most vocal injuries came from Sam tripping and spraining his ankle.
Night fell. The watch fires burned over the cold, grassy knolls. He had spotted the rocky coast to the east. "Where are we?" Grenn asked finally.
"Between the Neck and the Bite, I think," Jon replied. "That'd be the waters leading to the White Knife over in that direction. Moat Cailin to the west or northwest, maybe thirty leagues."
"Moat Cailin," Furs repeated. "Those Boltons hold that place, yes? They're enemies too?"
Aye," Jon nodded.
"Better put scouts on those hills over there, then," Black Maris advised. "With no torches lit, but to give a bit earlier warning if anyone approaches." Jon agreed, and Maris and Haldur both went to take positions watching south and west.
"Then let's see if they're brave enough to charge against a dragon," Hatch barked. Sonagon was a huge coiled white shape snoozing against the hills.
"They're all enemies here," Dark Gerrick insisted. He had his longsword cradled in his grasp. "Let's start with this Moat Cailin place. We torch that castle by dragon too."
"No," he said sharply.
"Why not? We got good plunder from that place, and they didn't stand a chance."
"We won't survive long if we treat everyone as our foes." So many dead. "We find someone to treat with."
"You mean to ally?" Furs' eyes narrowed.
"But why should we treat at all?" Gerrick grunted. "We have a dragon."
Jon turned to Furs. "If the realm really is as unstable as the maester said it was, then we need allies. There may be a chance," he said. "The Freys weren't well-liked. Maybe in destroying them we might make ourselves some friends."
"Who?"
"I don't know," Jon admitted. He felt so, so tired – emotionally and physically. "Give me time to think."
He said that they could sleep in turns, but nobody even tried to rest. The camp felt restless.
"We don't have long," Eryn warned. He was a short man, lean, with a worn face and quiet and soft voice. A sailor's slender dirk cradled in his hand. "The weather is getting cold and it's a long and dangerous flight back north. We aren't a vulnerable target here with the dragon, but we are an exposed one. We could use shelter."
"… Um…" Sam gulped, and spoke up hesitantly. "What of Greywater Watch?"
Jon frowned. "House Reed?"
"It's not far," Sam offered. "And the… the maester said that crannogmen are opposing the Freys and Boltons. Maybe they could shelter us?"
"Or maybe they could try to trap us," Bullden warned. "How would we know what they'll do?"
"Maybe," Jon admitted. "Yet the weather is getting cold and it's a long and dangerous flight back north. And we sorely need an alliance." He stopped, trying to think of the maps he saw. "Sam, who else is around here?"
His mouth floundered slightly. "Moat Cailin is the closest. The kingsroad to the west," Sam said. "Oldcastle across the water to the east, White Harbour to the northeast. Or the Three Sisters if we fly across the Bite."
I know of those names, but I know little of the men who live there, Jon cursed. They were all foreign places to the wildlings too. The idea of approaching a noble house for an alliance was tempting, but if he made the wrong choice then they could all be in danger.
"White Harbour," Jon said. He remembered the fat Lord Manderly. "White Harbour is the biggest city in the north."
Sam looked pained. "The maester said that Lord Manderly was to marry his granddaughters to Rhaegar and Walder Frey."
"Then we run out of options that would help us."
It was past the hour of the wolf. Hatch, Gerrick and Bullden argued that they should fly against Moat Cailin. Jon was more tempted to head south to Greywater Watch, if not for the possibility of meeting forces coming from the south. The torches crackled in the darkness as the hard wind swept over the plains.
He heard a horn blow echo. His turned south, but then he realised it was coming from north. Black Maris' alert cried over the dark hills.
"We got riders," Harle shouted suddenly. He already had longbow in hand.
They were exposed on the plains, but they could see anyone approach easily too. Jon quietly prodded Sonagon as his hand went to his sword. "How many?"
"Two dozen mounted men."
Jon spotted the torches too. They were coming from the north. Jon could see spears and lances. Furs grinned. "Well, you think they can match a dragon?"
Two dozen riders, all well-armed. The Dragonguard reacted quickly. They quenched their fires to hide in the darkness, drawing bows or taking cover behind the dragon. Sonagon stirred, nostrils sniffing, but Jon restrained him. Furs was right – the dragon had little to fear from so few men in an open fight.
"We take their horses," Jon decided. Sonagon was too awkward to mount easily, good steads would be useful. "Give them a chance to surrender, but be ready."
With a gentle prod, Sonagon lumbered upwards, growling and sniffing irritably. They must were able to see the dragon, but they didn't stop. Brave men, Jon thought quietly.
Furs must have had similar thoughts. The riders were coming in too slowly, too obviously. "If this is an ambush, then they're doing a crap job of it."
"Aye," Jon agreed. "But don't relax."
They were all in position when the riders stopped, fifty feet away. Their horses shimmied as the dragon loomed over them. Most of the riders lingered backwards, but three of them broke off to approach. They had to force their scared horses to trot forward towards the shadow of the dragon. Don't attack, Jon thought, pushing to the dragon. Not yet. Sonagon snorted, breathing a gust of steam.
"Identify yourself!" Hatch bellowed. "Who do you serve?"
The riders didn't move. They're not here to attack. The men looked terrified, staring between Sonagon, the wildlings and Jon. "We hail from White Harbour," the man at the front shouted back. "King Snow! Lord Manderly would treat with you."
Notes
Dragonguard of King Jon Snow:
● Furs of Old Mother's Crock
● Hatch the Halfgiant
● Haldur Two-Notch
● Toregg the Tall, son of Tormund Giantsbane
● Bullden Horn, unicorn hunter
● Stiga of Thenn
● Urwen Rockfist
● Gregg Sheepstealer
● Mo
● Harle the Huntsman
● Black Maris
● Eryn, son of Alvin Whaletooth
● Dark Gerwick, seventh son of Old Man Harwick
● Harlow
● Grenn, of the Night's Watch