Jon
The falling snow follows Jon and his small army through a forest of giant, dead evergreens. Where I go, winter goes with me. There's no escaping it now. His horse grunts impatiently as she plods through the ankle-deep trenches, her mane now white with frost. Jon gives her a pat with his left hand, examining the long, winding road ahead for any cause for alarm. So far, his party's journey has been uneventful. Lord Mallister rides at his left on a black mare, his beard and winged helmet catching snow. On his right rides Ser Davos Seaworth, and on his right, Lord Edmure Tully. Behind them Thoros of Myr swings back a flask of ale and drinks like it's his mother's milk; and behind him are the two thousand weary soldiers tasked with going south with them. Lord Mallister had left three hundred men at Seagard and Lord Edmure had left one hundred to return to Riverrun. The Brotherhood without Banners, meanwhile, Jon had tasked with defending the Twins. If Sansa brings her army south, I need men to slow them down at every stop along the way. They'll probably die, but… it's what needs to be done. Lord Mallister understood that, but Lord Edmure did not. The fool couldn't be trusted with such information. He'd likely not come with us if he knew, and we still need his men.
It was a bit of a miracle that Lord Edmure Tully had agreed not to retreat to Riverrun like he'd been threatening all along. Jon suspects it had something to do with the look in Lord Mallister's eye whenever Edmure brought it up. If Edmure deserts us, it will be treason. He's a spineless craven, and I won't let spineless cravens hold me back any longer. Too long I've relied on the ignorance of cravens and morons to help me. If he deserts us, betrays us, or disobeys me in any way, I won't show him mercy.
Jon notices Davos glaring at him, his face nestled in a black scarf. Ever since their disagreement, he hadn't spoken to the man. I'm sorry, Davos. I wish you could believe me. I know what I'm doing.
The Lord of Light had told him a great deal, much of which didn't make any sense to Jon, for it was spoken in Valyrian. But it was definitely a voice, and while Jon couldn't understand what was said, Thoros could. The Red Priest translated many of the words Jon could remember hearing in that fire…
Daenerys is the key. Sam told me that, and so did this Lord of Light. That can't be a coincidence. These dragons are going to be the thing that stops the White Walkers from killing everyone. I just have to convince her to see things my way… Whatever it takes.
Three horses appear up ahead, galloping as fast as they can; Jon recognizes them as part of the scouting party he'd sent ahead hours before leaving Seagard. One of them is bleeding from a slash across his arm, and the other two are drenched in sweat despite the cold weather. "My Lords!" The head of the pack shouts, nearly falling off his horse by the time they get close enough to hear them. Jon spurs his mount with a kick and rides up to meet them along with Lord Mallister and Ser Davos (Lord Edmure lags behind).
"What's happened?" Jon asks.
"They—they were everywhere—they ambushed us before we knew what was happening!" gasps the scout, out of breath.
"Calm yourselves and speak plainly. Who did this to you?"
"Dothraki, My Lord. There's—there's Dothraki ahead. Thousands of them…"
"Did he say Dothraki?!" shouts Lord Edmure, still catching up.
Jon's knuckles tighten around his spurs, and glares up ahead, seeing no sign of Dothraki—just more tall trees and falling snow. "How far ahead are they?"
"N-No more than six hundred yards, My Lord."
"We can't face an army of Dothraki savages! We must turn back at once!" Lord Edmure cries, "This was a fool's errand!"
"We won't have to," Jon says, eyeing Davos with a frown. "These Dothraki, they fought for Daenerys before, yes?"
Davos nods slowly. "Aye, they did."
"They abandoned her after she burned King's Landing to the ground." Lord Mallister grunts, "If they're this far north already, they must not realize winter is coming for them. These Dothraki have never experienced a thing like winter before."
"Then these men are not loyal." Jon says decisively. "We are surrounded by forest, so going around them might be the wiser move here. If we can slip past them under cover of the trees, we might make it… We will not turn back."
"Might I offer another solution?" pipes up Thoros, having quietly ridden up beside them still drinking from his flask.
Davos glares at him and says, "No you may not. I'm with Jon on this. We can't fight them."
"We don't need to fight all of them. Just one." Thoros smiles, "The Dothraki are tribal by nature. Instead of Kings and Queens, they have Khals and Khaleesis. If these Dothraki no longer follow Daenerys Stormborn, then they now follow whomever they see fit to be Khal. I suspect these Dothraki were already tired of serving a woman, and that's why they left. We can safely assume this Khal will follow their tribal rules—whoever defeats a Khal in battle could earn the rest of the tribe's respect. You see? Think of it has a trial by combat, only if you win you get to keep their army for yourself."
Davos scoffs and shakes his head. "Brilliant idea, you amaze me. That's just about the most foolish thing I've ever heard. Jon, this is why you can't listen to this man. He's drunk off his horse!"
"I am not!" Thoros cries, taking another swig of his ale. "Getting there though."
Jon shakes his head and says, "And what if after I defeat their Khal, they all decide to challenge me one by one until I eventually fall? Then what? What if they just refuse and attack us all? I can't take that risk, Thoros."
"The Dothraki would respect your strength, if you proved you had it. I don't know, this is just one man's opinion. I've met one Dothraki in my life, but he'd left his people to pursue a life as a sellsword. I don't claim to be an expert on their ways… but I do believe that if you defeated their Khal in single combat, sure, it could all go wrong—or you could win an army of Dothraki to your side and shove that in Daenerys's face when we meet her. It'll likely earn her favor, bringing them back to her. It's up to you."
"Either way, these Dothraki have been pillaging our lands and if they're moving north, it puts my people at risk." Lord Mallister sighs, "I support whatever you decide, Jon. The Dothraki are savages… but they're also battle hardened warriors. These are the kind of men you want on your side, not fighting against you."
"The rewards don't outweigh the risks. We could all die if we try and face them now." says Lord Edmure, "I'm not doing this, no way."
"Shut up, Edmure or I'll—" Mallister begins to say, but Jon interrupts him.
"I will ride ahead alone and do what I can to stop them from pillaging the countryside. None of you need risk your lives…" I won't let my people get butchered again.
"Jon, you can't be serious." Davos gasps, his face sagging with despair, "This is suicide."
"I can bring him back, remember?" Thoros grins.
"Not if they tear him apart! If you're going, I'm coming with you. You can't stop me this time."
Jon can't help but gawk at Davos in shock. "I can't let you risk your life for me, Davos."
"That's what Kings do all the bloody time! I'm coming with you, and you can't stop it."
"There's an idea." Thoros chuckles, "Just do what you did with Lord Edmure—lie to them, Jon. Tell them you're the King of the North. They'll see you as a warrior, and they'll see you as a King. They followed Daenerys, they'll follow you if you prove yourself. Even these savages will know what King means."
"This is madness." Davos says incredulously.
"I can't allow them to do what they like. Lord Mallister is right, they'll make better allies than they will enemies." Jon argues stubbornly, "Davos, I'm ordering you to stay behind."
"If we stay behind they won't believe you're a King. They must see that you have an army at your backs." Lord Mallister says, "We'll ride with you, Jon. All of us. If it comes to a fight, then fight we shall."
"But—"
Lord Edmure interrupts Jon, spitting with anger. "I'm not going. I refuse. Fuck the Dothraki and fuck all of you if you think—"
Lord Mallister shoots Edmure an intimidating glare, silencing the man. Jon says, "It's alright. Lord Edmure, stay behind if you wish. Guard our flanks. I'll take half of the army with us. A thousand men should be enough. But Lord Edmure, if I return and find you've deserted with half my army…" Jon pauses, mostly for dramatic effect, holding the fear in Edmure's eyes at attention… "I will find you."
They ride off, the hooves of a thousand horses storming through the snow.
Eventually they arrive in a small village just outside of Darry where the ruined fortress burns on top of a white hill. The smoke from the fire is the first thing they witness, followed by the sound of men hooting and hollering in the wind. Jon sees them first—the Dothraki, and all their glory. Homes burn, villagers lie in bloody heaps amidst their families, and flocks of chickens gaggle about in franticness. Large men with copper muscles stride from building to building, looting, murdering, and raping. One of them notices Jon and his army approaching and yells to the others in a language Jon has never heard before. How am I going to reason with these people—men like this—when I can't even speak their native tongue? Suddenly Davos and Edmure seemed wiser men than he gave them credit for. This might've been a mistake. There's thousands of them. My men are brave, but most of them aren't soldiers. It wouldn't be as quick as when Howland Reed ambushed me, but eventually the result would be the same. If today is the day I die, then Lord of Light be damned… The Ghost of High Heart said a savior would rise and fall three times. If I'm who she spoke of, then I'm supposed to die again.
It's impossible to say who of these men is Khal—there's too many to count, too many to focus on. More than half of them stand just as tall, or taller, than Tormund Giantsbane. Jon Snow rides ahead of the rest of his war party and dismounts his horse, holding his hands up in the air as a sign of peace. Most of the Dothraki are silent, distrustful, and gripping their swords and axes at the ready. These men have been through hell. The closer Jon gets, the more he notices how injured they all are—some have missing limbs that were tended to without finesse, while others suffer from long, disfiguring burns on their faces, chests, and arms; the markings of their former battle in King's Landing.
Jon clears his throat and yells, "Where is your Khal?!"
There are numerous grunts and snickers amongst them. Then one of the largest steps forward, gently parting the sea of Dothraki to appear before Jon Snow. His hair is jet black, curly, and hangs on each side of his face in a tangled mess. A deep, bleeding scar blinds his left eye, while his right glares up into Jon's eyes without trepidation. His muscles ripple in the firelight, the braided beard hanging from his chin sways, and his smirk suggests foul intent. He says in a deep, smooth voice, "Anha am Khal."
"Do any of you speak the common tongue?" Jon asks stubbornly.
More chuckles of laughter. Jon and his men grow more and more uneasy as silence persists, watching as some of the Dothraki stand and join the one who stepped forward, four in all. The Khal says, "I do. Enough to tell you coming here was mistake."
Jon frowns and Davos blurts in, "You know not who you're speaking to. This is the King of the North, Jon Snow."
"Snow?" The Khal lifts his brow with amusement, crossing his massive arms. "They say this sky powder is called snow."
"Snow was the name given to me for being born a Bastard. Do you know what a bastard is?" Jon asks.
The Khal roars with glee, "Bastard King. What do I care what breed you are?"
"Because my true name isn't Snow," Jon says, and he says it loudly, "I am Jon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen. By right I am more than King of the North, I am King of Westeros. You and your people are invading on my lands."
There's a shift in the Dothraki's attitude at this reveal. Jon can feel Davos watching him nervously, but doesn't remove his glare from the Khal, who says, "Daenerys Targaryen is the only Targaryen. She is the last of her kind. Her and her Dragons."
"That's what she thinks." Jon says, "I aim to take the throne for myself and rule Westeros as King."
The Khal laughs again and lifts his axe up to rest on the muscles of his shoulder. "She will not give up her throne, not to you. You and your small army of babes won't make it to Dragonstone. Your lives end today."
He doesn't care. This isn't working. Jon frowns and dismounts his horse. As he does so, he calmly removes Longclaw from its hilt. "There's no need for us to fight. I didn't come here to kill any of you. I can see you've all suffered heavy losses at the hands of Daenerys. Join me, and help me bring justice for your fallen. Join me, and you will be rewarded in land, gold, and titles. Whatever your people need, I can provide for them, if you help me."
"The Dothraki will never fight for a Targaryen again!" The Khal thunders, though Jon notices the others around him are now glaring at their Khal instead of Jon. "We fought for her and her dragons turned on us—burned my people alive! We were suffering, and calling for her help—but she never came. I watched her fly off on her dragon, abandon us to burn in the stone city like we were insects! She used us!"
"I am not like her!" Jon insists, "I don't use my men, I trust them with my life! You can ask any man here and they'll tell you the same!"
The Khal spits at Jon's feet, shaking his head and brandishing his axe. "Enough talk. I've always wanted to kill one of you Kings. I will—"
The bite of an axe appearing in the Khal's neck cuts off whatever he was going to say. Everyone gasps as the Khal splutters blood, cross-eyed, and falls to his knees. One of the Dothraki that had joined his side is standing over him now, breathing heavily, pulling his axe back out of the now dead Khal's throat. He's smaller than the Khal, skinny to the bone, but when he straightens up he stands taller than any other, facing Jon. "Are you really Targaryen?"
Jon nods slowly. "I can prove it."
Thoros hands Jon a lit torch and Jon holds it up in the air for all to see. He then removes a glove from his hand and, without hesitation, clamps his hand down over the fire. The Dothraki watch with wide, wondering eyes. Something changes in their faces, something like admiration Jon has never see before; even from his Brothers of the Watch. Jon smiles as one by one they begin to bend the knee. The one who killed their Khal is the first to bend his knee. Jon extends his unburned hand, and the Dothraki takes it. Jon says, "I will never ask you to bend the knee to me. That is my promise. You are warriors, as I am. Fight by my side, and you will be treated with the same dignity and respect the rest of my men have. I promise you."
The Dothraki nod, and the skinny one who put an end to their Khal says, "All we want is Daenerys to pay for what she's done to us."
"She will." Jon swears, his grip on Longclaw painfully tight. "I'll see to it myself."