Chapter 29

Jon

He saw the dragons explode into the sky. They burst upwards from their rocky perches, scales of all colours glittering in the bright orange sun, from deep blue to glimmering gold to pitch black. The youngest were barely more than hatchlings, the oldest a great grey and brown behemoth with a wingspan twice the size of his own.

The largest of the dragons, the dominant, perched at the peaks of the crags while the lesser dragons lingered on the hills around them. There was a structure, a feudalism almost, to the massive reptiles scattered across the cliffs. They were dragon clans, each one a pack under a single alpha ruler.

He wasn't happy giving tribute to anyone, however; he was a roaming dragon, beyond the claims of others' territory.

The waters of the mountain lakes reflected his own body. He was huge, lean, his scales a blood red. A hundred battles had marked his hide, but he was large, lean and formidable. Not the biggest of the wild dragons, but close, and vicious and strong enough to hold his own against any foe.

Every full moon, dragons flocked to these mountain ranges to mate and fight. To prove dominance or to relent, to establish their hierarchies and their clans. Some moons were more important than others: sometimes a few clans fought, other times every wild dragon gathered from across the peninsula. Each one a vicious beast eager to prove its strength – a dance of dragons that blocked out the sky.

The first of the spars was already ignited. A great plume of scorching flames exploding from one maw, other beasts meeting them in kind. Beneath them, the bleak grey mountains caught fire, until the fires lit the sky. The rocks themselves melted and burnt.

The heat and power… it was incredible. As was the force beneath his wings as he flapped upwards, a great shriek exploding from his throat.

His target was the big grey and brown dragon. The biggest and eldest, with bleak dull scales that looked starch and cold compared to the bright colours of others. The grey dragon was twice his size, but he had no intention of submitting to anyone but the very strongest.

The two immense beasts collided in mid-air with the force of a storm, meeting fire with fire and teeth with teeth. All around them, the other dragons were shrieking, crying out and flapping around their duel.

For all that he was outmatched, the red dragon held his own. He was smaller, but his flames were hotter and his jaws more determined. He snapped forward and bit down on the bigger dragon's neck – not at full strength, this was just a spar – but hard enough for black teeth to leave a mark against the hard scales.

Right now the red dragon was the weaker one, but the flock knew someday he would transcend. He was growing faster and flying further than any others, taking territory where no other dragon was brave enough. He had flown across the seas, far away from the burning mountains. The few beasts that could match him was steadily decreasing.

All around him, hundreds of wild dragons danced through the air. The sound and the heat was so immense it could have been a fifteenth flame on the peninsula.

Then, a shriek burst through the air. One of the hatchlings, crying in panic. The cry was echoed by others. At once, the dance stopped. Every dragon forgot their duel, abandoning the fights in a single moment.

From the south, he smelt a large group of more dragons approaching. Dragons that smelt of humans.

The dragon 'lords'. Dragon slavers. A bloodthirsty growl broke through the red dragon's throat. They hunted the wild dragons relentlessly; pathetic humans that were constantly eager to steal eggs or fill their cages. They had grown bold to interrupt a dance of such numbers.

Many of the wild dragons fled the humans, but not all were so easily cowed. For every two that fled in panic, one would roar in anger. A great cry broke through the tribes as the dragons swarmed to meet them.

He saw them. The tamed dragons wore great, spiked metal armour wrapped around their bodies, and they carried men on their back. The humans' dragons were outnumbered, but they flew in formation. On the ground, he smelt human armies marching with them, bringing siege weapons, nets and bolts. A trap. They prepared an ambush to interrupt the dance. The wild dragons didn't care. Dragons were the superior, not humans. This was a challenge of dominance, and the great beasts met them in kind.

In a single lunge, the great grey dragon snatched another out of the air, crushing wings in its teeth like a fly. The red dragon followed suit, lunging downwards against an armoured dragon and forcing fire into its throat. Its metal plate bubbled and melted under his breath, its body thrashing. No mercy towards those corrupted and enslaved by humans.

Humans were shouting, screaming, a buzzing of insects compared to the dragons' roars.

And yet the dragon slavers didn't relent. They fought back with flaming lances and whips of pure fire. They used arrows and nets and wires. Even when their dragons were outmatched, the armies supporting them launched great boulders and bolts into their wings. Dragging wild dragons to the ground, shredding their wings. A grounded dragon could be overpowered by their unending armies. If the dragon slavers had to sacrifice ten thousand men for one caged dragon, they would. The humans' armies always needed more dragons.

In the air, the mounted dragons focused on the weakest first, and they matched raw fury using formation and tactics. The thick smoke, the stench of burning flesh and the immense shrieks filled the air.

The red dragon fought against two smaller beasts at once. Unyielding, merciless. The dragons he could handle, but the men… the men wielded unnatural fiery whips that would lash against his hide, so hot they burned even through his scales. Their whips spun into great lengths, hissing and snarling like they had lives of their own.

And then there were the shadows, clinging to his scales. It was the men's doing, somehow. Shapeless shadows with claws, clutching at the dragons' bodies, snaking around their wings, digging inky black tendrils into open wounds and biting…

He could see bodies failing out of the air one by one. The human armies could not be stopped. Still, the dragons fought.

The grey great dragon was trembling, struggling to keep in the air, burning lances and arrows through its wings. He heard the humans chanting something, their voices were weak and meaningless.

And then a great boom shattered through the mountains. Dragons screamed and fell. Pain rocketed through his body, his wings spasming. It was a noise like the screaming of a thousand souls, lighting his very bones aflame and scorching his skin from the inside…

The red dragon fought it. He fought for as long as he could but the sound of the horn could not be matched. The whole world seemed to explode into shadow fire. Ahead of him, he saw the great grey dragon collapse, falling to the earth with enough force to shake the mountains and then everything turned–

"Wake up, Your Grace. They are calling for you."

Jon gasped, struggling to process the phantom pain in his head. Sonagon stirred as he woke up at the same time.

Wide eyes stared at him. "The host is to move out, Your Grace," his squire said nervously. "I was told wake you."

Jon gulped, still blinking repeatedly. "Urgh, aye. Aye. Bring me a skin of water to wash my face. And then prepare my horse."

"Your horse is already readied, Your Grace," Marrion bowed his head. "I will fetch water."

Jon's head was still spinning. He remembered fire, flying, and dragons clashing in the air. A dream, he told himself. Sonagon's.

Focus. The army had been marching hard, and there was little time for rest. All around him, six thousand men stirred. The sound of horses and boots filled the air.

He washed his face roughly, wiping cold water into his eyes. Too many long weeks of marching had left his body sore. Jon knew they were close and could hardly quit now, but his body yearned for rest and comfort. Weeks since he'd had a decent night's rest. More and more he found himself daydreaming of Val's dark golden hair, planting soft kisses across her neck while her…

A horse neighed. Jon shook himself alert. "I will break my fast in the saddle, Marrion," Jon called. "Any news of the Dreadfort?"

"Lord Umber says we are three days' march away," the boy reported. Marrion Manderly was a young boy of eleven, podgy and stoutly built, though a dutiful squire. "And, um, Lord Giantsbane has sent three parties ahead."

Jon smiled. His squire brought his riding leathers. "Lord Giantsbane," he repeated. "Have you called Tormund that?"

"I… I haven't, Your Grace?"

"Best not. The man doesn't need more titles."

It's a been another night, and the Greatjon and Tormund still haven't killed each other, he thought wearily. That is a success in its own right.

Jon stepped outside of his tent. The plains were thick with snow, though the camp had stomped it into a muddy slush. The weather made progress slow, but they were moving forward. He could see the frozen headwaters of the Weeping Water in the distance.

From his Dragonguard, Toregg the Tall and Gregg Sheepstealer both stood outside his tent. Jon's second squire, Bennard Locke, had his destrier ready and waiting for him. Bennard was a dark-haired and grim-faced boy of fourteen, attentive, quiet and keen-witted. He wore a surcoat with a crude stitching of a white dragon on a grey background. Jon hadn't yet decided on a coat of arms himself, but his squire proved a quick hand with a needle.

"How goes the march? Any more attacks?" Jon asked as he mounted his horse.

"Not that I've heard," Toregg replied. "But we still can't find that supply escort that got attacked. My pa has been hunting the bastards that did that for the week."

Jon nodded. They were a big host, snows were thick, and supplies were proving a problem. "We have food to last for now. We can restock when we meet the Weeper's host. Until there's an alternative we can't delay the march."

"A hungry march then."

"Not so," Gregg Sheepstealer grunted. He was a stout, fat-bellied man with thick arms. "The southerners brought horses to eat, didn't they?"

Jon grimaced. Not ideal, but my army is mostly free folk – they have survived harder marches than this. Behind him, Sonagon stirred. The dragon rested at the very centre of the camp, but all the men kept their distance. "Better get the dragon in the air, king," Gregg warned. "We don't want to be caught by any raids like the other day."

"Aye," Jon agreed. His grey destrier shimmied slightly beneath him. "Fetch Ser Marlon, Lord Umber, and Tormund. We move out quickly, and I'll send Sonagon ahead."

He closed his eyes and stretched out the warg towards Sonagon. It was accepted easily. The dragon was still tired and sluggish, but they had been bonding more and more easily during the march.

Come now, Jon pushed, as forcefully he dared. His vision blurred, his senses shifted. Fly. Hunt.

Huge wings flexed outwards slowly. The great shadow fell over the camp. Even after weeks of Sonagon being with them, there was still a minor panic every time the dragon burst into the air.

Jon felt himself rising up into the cold air, the wind howling under his wings, snow drifting across his body. All around him, there was the stink of men marching into the Lonely Hills. Jon's host of over six thousand seemed so formidable from the centre, but it was left a small shapeless blur from a dragon's eye.

Head towards the hills, Jon pushed. Find the river. Look for any armies amassing.

Sonagon flapped southwest, before twisting and circling east. Then, his nostrils flickered as a sharp scent hit him on the wind.

He heard the cries from over a mile away. Sonagon smelled the cold tang of blood. A faint slurry of snow rolled over the forests, and then blobs of figures appeared in the snow, as small as ants. Wrestling bodies in the middle of a battle between the pines.

The boom of wings cracked through the air. The men below all heard it. Jon watched hundreds of figures quiver – actually quiver – as the white shape roared above them like a hurricane.

There was no shock quite like Sonagon's roar. Ant-like figures fell down in the snow, panting desperately as if their hearts were collapsing in their chest. A dragon brought out a primal fear in all men – it could turn even the bravest into scurrying little rats.

It's the sense of scale, Jon thought. No man likes to see how little they are.

Sonagon roared. The blob scattered and broke, and a cry of victory rose from the ground. By the time Sonagon turned to sweep low across the hills, the men were already running into the trees.

He would have chased them, if it were possible to recognise ally from foe.

How can you tell which side are allies when they all look like bugs? Jon cursed. It was lucky that one side ran, because Sonagon was left useless trying to intervene in a pitched battle. I need large banners, something that even a dragon's eyes can make out.

Jon took a deep breath, feeling himself shudder as he let go of the warg. His senses blurred, and slowly he fell out of the dragon's skin. Snow whipped at his face. Beneath him, his grey destrier snorted.

"There's fighting on the Lonely Hills," Jon shouted, blinking repeatedly, trying to focus. "Bolton forces attacking our forward parties. Pass the word to Greatjon and Tormund."

"Yes, Your Grace," Marrion said hurriedly, turning to run over the snow.

A figure wearing the Manderly sigil rode towards him. "How many?" Ser Marlon called.

"Hundreds or so." Damn, it was so hard to count from above through Sonagon's eyes. "Their forces scattered as soon as they saw Sonagon."

"Again?" a free folk grumbled, by Jon's side. "Isn't going to be much of a battle then."

"Aye, but I don't want to let them get away," Jon said. The Bastard of Bolton could be with them. "Gather up five hundred mounted men, we move out quickly."

"What of your dragon?" Toregg asked.

"They've reached the woods. Sonagon can't follow easily through the trees." And they know that; their entire tactic is based around making it inconvenient for the dragon. "We need mounted men if we want to stop them getting away again."

Most of their cavalry were from White Harbour. In the host, there were four times as many free folk than northmen, but the free folk were primarily infantry while all of the heavy horses were northern soldiers. Jon heard Ser Marlon shout as he prepared the riders.

"Bloody hells," Tormund Giantsbane grumbled as he came trotting forward on a large dark pouncey. He chose a mild and comfortable mount, but he still sits uneasily in the saddle. "What are we chasing this time?"

"Skirmishers in the hills," Jon ordered. Sonagon was still in the sky, soaring through the low clouds. "I saw them ambushing one of our groups."

"The fools. How did they expect the fight to go when that dragon is in the air?" He guffawed.

"The dragon is not always in the air. If I hadn't spotted them it could have gone badly for us," Jon said stiffly. They take the dragon for granted and that's dangerous. "That warband shouldn't have went so far ahead."

"Aye, that'll be bloody Gerrick Kingsblood," Tormund snorted. "I bloody warned him not to go too far, but him and his warband were all eager for a fight."

Horses were stirring, riding from the camp. Bennard Locke brought him his helm and shield, but Jon didn't want his squires with him. He needed to move quickly. "Come on," he ordered. "I will not allow Ramsay Snow a chance to escape."

"You saw the Bastard with them?" The Greatjon growled darkly. He rode a huge, dark warhorse, with his greatsword over his back.

"No," he admitted. "But someone must be leading these attacks. It could be Ramsay Snow. I intend to find out."

"Then move," Lord Umber snapped. "He will not escape."

"Oh aye," Tormund agreed, hoisting up his maul. "This Bastard of Bolton seems like a scunner who ought to be losing his limbs."

Their horses marched out, all of them were strong northern breeds to manage the snow. Jon gave orders for his Dragonguard to bring the infantry and follow as quickly as possible.

Ahead of them, the Lonely Hills stretched out ahead of them. Jon saw the streams that led down to the Weeping Waters trickling over the landscape. The ground was thick with snow, and the sound of galloping hooves.

Sonagon swept over the sky, the huge shadow passing over the ground. Horses around Jon whinnied, and the riders had to struggle to control them. "I see them scattering south and west," Jon called. "Ser Marlon, ride around the hills, try to cut them off!"

"Of course, your Grace!" Ser Marlon called, and he shouted to split off with a hundred men.

Jon pulled on his rein looking for the officers. "Ewan Bole," he shouted at the northerner. "Take fifty men along the streams, in case they try to double back."

Ewan Bole just nodded. He was a heavily bearded man, one of Robett Glover's sworn swords. "Aye, Your Grace," he shouted gruffly over the sound of horses. "Riders, on me."

Beside him, Tormund scoffed. "'Your Grace'. Now why does it being king suddenly make you so graceful, I wonder?"

"Just go left through the hills," Jon ordered. "They're on foot and they've scattered."

They circled around, striding through the snow. Jon had his forces split again. The Lonely Hills earned their name; they were desolate and barren hills and rough and empty countryside. Large, but lightly sloping and scattered, leading down to the Weeping Water and the Dreadfort. Jon heard that sometimes the wind blowing through the hills sounded like wailing.

"If this is Ramsay Snow," the Greatjon called, riding next to Jon, "then we take him alive. We take him alive so he gets to die slowly."

Jon just nodded, casting a wary glance at the big man. The Greatjon had recovered Last Hearth a week ago. It hadn't been difficult; there had only been a skeletal Bolton force holding it, most of whom had tried to flee. The entire keep had been ransacked bare.

Inside the castle, the Greatjon found his youngest son, a boy of six, nailed to the keep's wall. Ramsay Snow had signed his name.

They had also found one of the castellans, Mors Umber, with a spear wound in his chest and on the brink of death's door. It was doubtful the Crowsfood would survive much longer. Some of Lord Umber's other family may have fled. There was no sign of Hother Umber.

Or of my brother, Jon thought with a grimace. Bran.

He could see a dark, simmering anger in the Greatjon's eyes. What happened at Last Hearth had been savage. The sooner the Bastard of Bolton is caught the better everyone will be.

They met up with Ewan Bole's force again quickly, who reported that none had slipped away towards the streams. After securing the foothills, they rode to meet up with the forward party. Jon saw the wildling warband atop the snowy field. They were cheering, celebrating. That made Jon's fists clench as the cavalry rode up to meet them.

"Gerrick Kingsblood," Jon shouted. "What the hells do you think you're doing?"

The broad, red-haired man grinned. He could have passed for a southerner, with his hair shaved and wearing chainmail and leathers provided by the White Harbour fleet. "Victory, that's what," Gerrick laughed. "We saw those bastards fleeing like cravens!"

There were bodies littering the snow. More wildlings than Boltons, it seemed. "They fled from Sonagon, ser. Not you," Jon said curtly. "And if the dragon hadn't been there, I would be burying your corpse right now."

The man faltered slightly. "But we won!"

"You let your bloody warband get ambushed. You got lucky that Sonagon was in the air, there were no guarantees he would be," Jon said angrily. "You went ahead of the main host and left yourself exposed."

Gerrick bristled. "You gave the order to secure villages around the Dreadfort, I went and did that."

"Did I tell you to walk into a Bolton ambush?" His voice turned cold.

His eyes were wide, his shoulders tense. Gerrick opened his mouth to object. Tormund pushed his horse forward. "Stop talking now, Gerrick," Tormund warned. "Bow your head and step back if you know what's good for you."

Gerrick's face twisted, but he didn't speak. Jon let his gaze linger on him quietly. "I'll handle it here. Gerrick, you are relieved," Tormund offered. "Snow, you go chase the cunts responsible."

"Aye," Jon muttered, turning his horse and signalling the men to follow. They rode down the hill, following the footprints in the snow.

The Greatjon looked at him with a scoff. The horses didn't stop their quick trot. "Your wildlings aren't soldiers."

"They know how to fight."

"That ain't the same thing." The Greatjon grunted, as he shimmied his horse away from Jon's.

From Jon's other side, Ewan Bole moved his horse closer towards his, cautiously. "Lord Umber has a point, Your Grace." the man noted, in his very rough voice. "I do not doubt your wildling's strength, but there's a reason why no King-Beyond-the-Wall has ever succeeded." Jon turned his gaze on him, but the man's tone was just observational, not aggressive. "The wildlings are not trained. They can fight, but can your wildlings hold a shield wall? Can they set battle lines and keep to them? Can they mount a siege, or brace against cavalry? Their raiding parties are fearsome, but their hosts are less so. Historically, even when the wildlings have had the far greater numbers, their armies have been bested easily enough by those of the Night's Watch or Stark."

Jon hesitated. "They can learn what they're missing."

"Then I hope they learn quickly," he warned. "Too many make the mistake of focusing on the number of men, rather than the type."

He's right, Jon thought. Bringing the northmen and the free folk together had highlighted some fairly large flaws in Jon's army. "Yes," Jon said, suppressing the sigh. "Thank you for the honest counsel, ser."

He laughed brashly. "I am no ser. I ain't no friend to wildlings, either, but I lost kin at Winterfell and then again at the Red Wedding. Between wildlings or Boltons, I know which one I hate more."

Jon could believe it; the northman had a strong, honest attitude to him. Jon had been keeping an eye on which of his men had been distinguishing themselves, and Ewan certainly had. "Joining forces will help greatly to patch our weaknesses. And good commanders like yourself will aid even more, if you're willing to work with them," he said. He tried to measure the man's reaction to that comment. "Right now, they're overconfident. We've been winning every battle we've fought, and that makes men like Gerrick brave enough to do something stupid. Or become lazy."

"You do have a dragon," Ewan noted.

"I have one dragon. And when there is more than one battle happening, my dragon can't attend them all." Jon shook his head. "The Boltons have proved they aren't willing to fight a pitched battle when Sonagon is involved, but they're still trying every other type of conflict."

"Aye, they've been a nuisance. But we cut them down piece by piece and sooner or later they run out of places to–"

The man's voice was cut off by a horn blast over the hills. Ser Marlon's men. At once Jon's riders turned to change direction. He reached out and summoned Sonagon back towards him.

The horses galloped, but by the time they arrived the battle was already practically over. Jon saw some fighting on the ground through Sonagon, but he had to hold the dragon back. Sonagon would hurt his own men as much as the enemy if he intervened in tight rank skirmishes.

"We found them," Ser Marlon called to Jon as the reinforcements arrived. The last of the attackers were being subdued. "Mostly Bolton men, some Karstark and Hornwood among them. They tried to fight, and then they surrendered pretty quickly."

It wasn't much of a battle. They had been fleeing the dragon on foot and Ser Marlon's men were all mounted. "How many?" Jon demanded.

"Sixty or so surrendered. Another twenty died in the fight."

Jon shook his head. "No. I saw at least three hundred ambushing Gerrick's men."

"Yes," Ser Marlon agreed. "But these are the only ones we caught."

Jon could see the soldiers gathered in the middle of the riders. They didn't have enough rope, so instead the prisoners were held at spear point, forced to their knees in the snow. He saw the flayed man of Bolton stitched on their hauberks. Gods, Jon thought, they all look so scared and cold. Why is it easier to think of enemies as faceless foes in uniform rather than as cold and scared men?

"We think the rest of their force must have scattered between the three villages around here," Ser Marlon explained. "Or maybe they have hideouts in the woods."

"No, it'll be the villages," the Greatjon grunted. "They run to the villages and they hide their swords and helmets; all of those soldiers pretend to be farmers and smallfolk. When you go chasing after them, they'll shrug and say "who, me?". And when you walk away they'll pick up their swords and stab you in the back."

Jon was reminded of the books he read on the First Dornish War. Dammit, I do not want that type of war. "And what do you suggest?"

"Put the Bolton villages to the sword." The Greatjon's eyes were grim. "Make sure they know the punishment for harbouring soldiers."

Jon smiled humourlessly. "Wouldn't that just encourage more villages to resent us? Give them reason to hate you and they will learn how to hide soldiers better, how to make their ambushes more effective. That is the catch, Lord Umber; you lose no matter which way you fight it." Jon shook his head, turning to Ser Marlon. "No, try to find out where these soldiers went. Question the smallfolk – carefully – but the rules haven't changed."

Ser Marlon nodded, moving off to gather up his men. The Greatjon stood stiffly on his mount, arms folded.

"We cannot punish smallfolk, Lord Umber," said Jon. "Not even Bolton smallfolk."

"I might have agreed," he replied darkly. "Except then my home was razed because my uncles were too generous in which 'smallfolk' they let through the gates."

Jon didn't reply. He turned to inspect the prisoners, the first of which were already being interrogated. Perhaps some would have useful information, but Jon doubted that common soldiers would know much of Lord Bolton's plans. And it is impossible to weed out the lies from the truth in any case, Jon thought bitterly. It's hard to trust anything they say when it might be a desperate lie or a deliberate ploy.

I have the larger army and a dragon, yet they are still making things difficult at every chance. The Boltons know how to harry a force from all sides.

"Sixty prisoners," Lord Umber noted. "That's sixty more mouths to feed out of our rations. And another delay to our march."

"We're not executing prisoners, Lord Umber. Not because they're inconvenient."

"Half-measures, boy," the Greatjon warned. "They'll kill you every single time."

The Greatjon refused stubbornly to ever call Jon king. Jon wasn't fool enough to call him out on it; their alliance wasn't so secure.

Afterwards, outriders reported movement to the west. The rest of the attackers were fleeing from the hills. Jon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and in the sky Sonagon twisted around with an almighty flap. The dragon will become irritated flying like this without hunting, Jon thought with a grimace. There was a limit to how much Sonagon would allow himself to be controlled. I cannot keep using him indefinitely.

Jon's infantry caught up with them towards dusk, as they moved over the hills. He had done his best to try and organise them, but even from a distance he could see the lack of rank and file in the sprawled, black blob of men. His host of six thousand men, mostly wildlings with some northmen mixed in, stretched over the snowy fields. Tormund had brought the wildlings south from Castle Black, and Lord Umber had rallied what he could from the Umber lands, and the rest were Manderly men that had rode up from White Harbour alongside Ser Marlon and Ser Wylis. Robett Glover and a small force of men had joined them from other houses of the east coast.

We will meet up with the Weeper's force from Karhold soon, Jon thought. The Weeper brought five thousand wildlings, some Karstark men, and five hundred giants with mammoths. The plan was to converge on the Dreadfort together, from the west and northeast. They would be over ten thousand strong. Whatever Bolton force was left stood no chance in battle.

Of course, that's little reason for them to fight a battle, he thought grimly.

Later, Ser Marlon returned. The knight was grim-faced, his horse breathing heavily as he rode towards them. "We gave chase for as long as we could, Your Grace," Ser Marlon reported. "We only caught ten of them. The rest slipped away. There was little luck scouring the villages."

"Chasing bloody ghosts," Tormund spat, grumbling as he walked towards Jon. "They'll have us chasing our tails at this rate."

"But they are folding," Jon insisted. "They are losing ground, and the worst they can do is slow us down. They can't stop us. We are days away from the Dreadfort, and they don't have forces to even try to stop us."

"Aye, and am I the only one who thinks that's queer?" Tormund folded his arms. "We've been marching all the way through Bolton lands and not a single bastard is even trying to challenge us."

"So the wildling has some wits," the Greatjon grunted. Tormund glared at the lord, sizing up against him. The Greatjon was over head and shoulders taller, while Tormund was short and stocky. "He's right, we haven't even seen a tenth of the opposition we should expect."

"They're scared of the dragon," said Jon.

"If they're that scared, then why don't they surrender?"

Jon didn't reply, but there was something bothering him too. It was only at the hour of ghosts when he learned what. Outriders arrived from the east, reporting a battle on the banks of the Weeping Water. The Weeper's host, the one that had been coming down from Karhold. Ambushed as they tried to cross the river.

The Battle of Weeping Water was over before Jon or any others even heard of it.

It was too dark and cold to safely move men at night, but Jon readied their mounted men to head out at first light. He brought his Dragonguard with him, and summoned Sonagon to follow. He could see the frozen banks of the Weeping Water in the distance; in spring it was a long, slow and gloomy river, but now it was frozen scar cutting through the snowy plains. Jon smelt the smoke and blood in the air before their horses even got near.

"It was a bloody distraction," the Greatjon growled, echoing Jon's thoughts. "They ambushed your outriders and led your dragon on a merry chase to the west. All the while a larger force ambushed your second host while the dragon was busy."

"Aye." They're learning. Testing us, poking for weak spots.

Jon saw the bodies littering the valley. There were corpses with arrows in them, half-buried under the light snow. They spotted a bloodied corpse of a mammoth, with spears through its hide, as it lay collapsed through the ice in the trickling river.

Jon saw the smoke of the Weeper's camp, surrounded by wooden spike fortifications in a typical wildling defence. Besides the mammoths, the Weeper's force was on foot. Thousands of men all huddled together in the bend of the water. Likely around four thousand, Jon thought. Maybe less.

Their army wasn't moving, the camp felt bloodied. Wounded. Horns blew as they approached, and the Weeper met Jon and the riders as they rode into the camp. Jon saw the shadows of giants, sniffing in the air cautiously. Wildlings lowered their heads or bowed to Jon as he passed.

The Weeper didn't bow. Even in steel and hard leathers, the man looked just as hard and worn as ever. His armour was grimy, and blood trickled down his cheeks.

"About bloody time you arrived," the Weeper grumbled as Jon pulled his horse to stop. "I was thinking I would have to win this whole bloody war by myself."

"Weeper." Tormund spat the word. "Why aren't you dead yet?"

"You think anyone has the stones to kill me?" The Weeper's voice turned taunting. "Fucking 'Giantsbane'. You've lost weight. Did the crows not feed you after you lost the battle at the Frostfangs like a–"

"Enough!" Jon snapped, glaring between the Weeper and Tormund. Old wildling grudges. "What happened here, Weeper?"

He grunted. His scythe was covered in dried, cold blood. "The flayed men ambushed us crossing the river last night. They came from all sides, with arrows and horses."

"How many?" Jon demanded.

"Five hundred. Maybe more. I could only count the corpses, but enough of them ran away. We fought them off."

"So we won?" Ser Marlon asked. Jon didn't look too convinced.

"And how many losses did you take?"

The Weeper's eyes flickered. Dammit, Jon cursed. The camp stunk of blood, weariness and wounded. He saw giants with the stubs of arrows still sticking out of their furs.

"Where the bloody hells was that dragon?" the Weeper demanded. "We could have used him here last night."

"Distracted," Jon replied icily. Lured away. "Sonagon can't be everywhere. I didn't even receive news of the battle here until it was too late."

The Boltons are learning, trying to find weak spots in my campaign. They're learning how to fight around the dragon rather than face it.

"How many managed to flee?" the Greatjon demanded. "And who was leading them? Was it Ramsay Snow?"

"Hundreds or so," the Weeper grumbled. "And I didn't bloody have a chance to ask."

"You let hundreds escape?" Tormund guffawed. "You must have had five times their number."

"Aye, five times as many weary and tired. They were fucking prepared," the Weeper snapped. He glared angrily between them, bristling aggressively. "I gave chase and they hurt my men coming over the hill for it."

The battle would have gone poorly from the beginning, especially as the wildlings were struggling trying to cross the river. The Weeper was a ruthless and capable leader, but of course he would always attack. When a prudent man would have fallen back, the Weeper must have tried to lead an assault up the valley.

Wildling warbands didn't have formations – in open skirmishes that wasn't so much of a disadvantage, but in any fortified clash it was disastrous. From the state of the camp and the battlefield, Jon expected that at least ten wildlings fell for every Bolton man. Maybe thousands dead. We only 'won' because of numbers.

"What of prisoners?" Jon demanded.

The Weeper's lips twitched. The grin was bloodthirsty. "What prisoners?"

Dammit. But not now. "Where did the Bolton men retreat to?" Jon demanded, quickly changing tack.

"South. The southerners ran back to their little castle."

"Then we follow them," Jon ordered. "The plan hasn't changed; we bring our hosts together and march on the Dreadfort. We split our mounted forces. Tormund and Ser Marlon, return to the camp with half our horses. March on the Dreadfort from the west. The Greatjon and I will stay with the Weeper's forces and march from the northeast."

"Yes, Your Grace," Ser Marlon bowed in his saddle. His men turned and rode away, along with Tormund.

"'Your Grace'," the Weeper sneered, glancing at Jon. "So while I've been fighting a war, you've been getting those southern dipsticks to bow at you?"

"Just be careful with the way you speak to me," Jon warned. He kept his voice very low. "I will only tolerate so much."

The Weeper only snorted.

He's been fighting more battles than anyone, Jon told himself. He's weary and grim. As gruff as the Weeper was, Jon could hardly ask for a better front-line commander. The Weeper had fought off both Umber and Karstark forces ever since the crossing at Eastwatch, and fought all the way down to take Karhold itself. The Weeper's four thousand men were all battle-tested and worn. And this battle has likely been the worst casualties he's suffered.

"We need rest for our horses," the Greatjon grumbled, glaring around the wildlings. Jon noticed how nervous many of the northmen were at the sight of giants. The Weeper motioned and waved for one of his men to handle it.

"To me, my lord," a deep voice called. Jon saw a short burly man with a balding head and a mouthful of broken brown teeth step forward. He wore thick iron plate, carrying a large, ugly longsword over his back. "I will arrange for them."

Jon's eyes narrowed. The man did not sound like a wilding. He had a southern accent. "And who are you?"

"I am Ser Clayton Suggs, Your Holiness," the man bowed. He had a white stone on his chest. He smiled, but there was no humour there. Eyes like a pig. "Formerly of King's Landing."

A knight? Jon paused, making the connection. "You served Stannis at the battle of Hardhome."

"To my shame. I was deluded by false gods and fake prophets." Ser Clayton was respectful, but Jon didn't like his expression. "I see the truth now. For the glory of the ice dragon, Your Holiness."

"Indeed," he said, icily. "You converted fast."

"Lord Weeper vouched for me." Ser Clayton Suggs' grin widened. "He said that I have talent. Talent better served on a battlefield rather than a prisoner. I serve faithfully, I swear it on my honour."

Jon didn't reply, but he dismounted and let Ser Clayton take his horse. The southern knight's eyes lingered on him. Looking around, Jon was surprised to see that quite a few of them weren't wildlings.

Karstark men. Most averted their gaze, but he followed their eyes towards a group of four men, huddled together.

The only one who met Jon's stare had the look of a lord. He was a strong man past fifty, with brown hair, a beard and thick moustache, wearing dishevelled clothes. Jon stepped forward.

There were bloody dark bruises over the lord's face, Jon noticed. Some of the bruises were old, others fresh. Gritting his teeth, the man lowered his head jerkily. "King Snow," the man choked. "I am Lord Cregan Karstark of Karhold."

Ah. "Thank you for supporting our cause, my lord."

His jaw clenched. "I will do what is best for my family," Lord Karstark said. He was a strong man, but his voice was strained. "And for my house. Your Grace."

"Your family," Jon repeated. "Tell me, where is Lady Alys?"

Lord Karstark's gaze was dark. "On a ship heading to White Harbour. Along with my brothers, sons and nephew."

"And yet your father Arnolf Karstark is at Winterfell, allied with Roose Bolton, I believe?"

"Aye." Jon could see the anger and emotion hiding behind a faint layer of civility. Civility reinforced by fear, though. Karstark has not been treated kindly. "And I fought against the wildlings that invaded my lands, I did. I will not lie and say I would not do it again, even. But I will act as is best for my house and my people – and if that means resolving this war with you, gods forgive me, I will do it. I will fight alongside you and so the name Karstark will survive. My lands, my castle, my family will be kept safe."

"I see." There's no loyalty with this one. The only reason he is with me is because he knows he will not survive being against me. But perhaps that is enough?

From the looks of things, Lord Karstark was being kept under very close supervision by the wildlings around him too. It didn't escape Jon's notice that Cregan Karstark was missing a sword on his waist.

"That was the pledge you forced from me, Your Grace," Lord Karstark spat the words. "And I will even uphold it. However, should anything happen to me or my wife, then the whole realm will know you a liar and oathbreaker. Just like your accursed brother – a man that would wipe his ass on vows and loyalty. So just keep your dogs away from me and my men."

Jon had to consider his words very carefully. There was a long pause. "Thank you for your loyalty, my lord," he said slowly. "Although I would advise you to consider your words more thoughtfully. And respectfully."

The man's face twisted. He had to close his eyes, and force the words out of his throat as if they were bile. "I apologise, Your Grace," Lord Karstark growled, taking a gasped, deep breath. The words seemed to physically pain him. "I will mind my tongue."

How many times must the Weeper have beaten the man to put that sort of fear into him?

He looked around the camp. The free folk were loyal, even the White Harbour men had come willingly, but the other northerners that were filling their ranks? How many have only joined because of the same fear?

The thought felt like a lump of iron lodged in his chest, making him scowl.

Jon walked around the free folk, trying to recall the names of the leaders that left with the Weeper. Everyone was worn and tired, but he still saw many wearing white stones. Jon's squires looked terrified at the sight of giants and mammoths lumbering near the water. Several giants approached to stare at him, and in the Old Tongue he heard them muttering, "King, King."

He met the Weeper by the water's edge, washing the blood off his face in the icy water. "I got headcounts from the war chiefs," the Weeper called. "We lost two thousand in the battle last night."

"Then we must find the men to burn the bodies. Leave none untorched," said Jon. "They've bloodied our noses, but this is still a Bolton defeat. Combined, we will still be nine thousand strong. We will take the Dreadfort, and then the Boltons lose their seat."

"Nine thousand strong," the Weeper grumbled. He was bare-chested as he washed, but he didn't seem to mind even despite the freezing cold. His back was covered in scars. "And most of those free folk. You've got what, two thousand southrons with you? Less?"

"For now. The northern lords are still rallying."

"And so are the free folk. I hear Rattleshirt is mustering another host from Eastwatch. Sigorn of Thenn is doing the same from the Shadow Tower. We're still getting refugees trickling south through the Wall, and they're likely coming through faster now that we've got all three gates. There could well be an army of over fifteen thousand free folk fighters gathering for you."

"What's your point?"

"Fifteen thousand." His voice was low, warning. "Just remember which side you need more, king. In a choice between these southerners and the free folk, I expect you to choose the free folk."

"It doesn't have to be a choice. It's not us versus them."

"And once again you prove yourself a fool."

He still sees all southerners as enemies. Jon met his gaze. "What did you do to Lord Karstark, Weeper?"

He scoffed. "That filth? I bent him over and I showed him the butt of my scythe a few times. Maybe more than a few. The man was stubborn."

Jon's fingers twitched. "You did what?"

"Hells, you told me to convince Karstark to declare for us," the Weeper chuckled. "I convinced him to declare for us."

"And can you not show restraint?" Jon snapped.

"He's still got a head, doesn't he? That was my restraint." He pulled himself up by the river's edge, scowling. "That scum should count himself blessed he's still breathing. I would have happily killed him, except I knew you would have a hissy fit over it."

"And how do you ever expect his loyalty after bloody beating him?"

"Who the fuck cares about his loyalty? I don't need him. He shouldn't be alive," the man snarled. "Cregan didn't have any choice but to join me. At every fight, I put Karstark men on the very front ranks. I don't trust any of them, I don't give any of them a chance to betray us. You can sure as hells bet I have men ready to kill them at a moment's notice if they even look treacherous."

Jon thought of Ser Clayton Suggs. The Weeper recognised 'talent'. "And how do you expect that's going to work in the long run?" he challenged. "We will lose if we try to rule by fear, Weeper."

"Fear is the only thing men like Cregan Karstark understand," he grumbled. His hands twitched as he turned to face Jon. Without his armour, Jon could see the ugly, bloated red scars across his neck from the white walker's grip.

"And fear will only sow more hate," Jon muttered, stepping forward. "We will not do it. We will conquer the northern way, not the wildling way."

Weeper's bulging eyes narrowed. "You see, that's what concerns me," he growled. "Consider this a friendly warning, Snow. It surely as hell seems like you're abandoning the free folk in favour of your new southron friends."

Jon stiffened. "What are you talking about, Weeper?"

"I hear you've been selling free folk daughters to your 'noble houses'," the Weeper spat. "Your marriages."

"And I've been buying highborn brides for free folk warriors," replied Jon. "They are alliances that help bring us together."

"And also rewards for those that serve you," he sneered. "Making proud warriors want to be treated like dogs. Forcing them into all your northern games for what? Your favour?"

Jon didn't reply. There had been only five confirmed betrothals so far – two of Old Man Harwick's granddaughters to minor lords of the White Knife, Ygon Oldfather's son to Lord Forrester's third daughter, Gerrick Kingsblood to Lord Holt's eldest daughter, Soren Shieldbreaker's daughter to Lord Bole and Baldor Icewall's daughter to Ser Ian Poole – but the news had spread and there were two dozen other potential matches up in the air.

The Weeper rolled his shoulders as he stepped up from the riverbank. "Me?" the Weeper muttered. "I might start wondering why I should have to be given a woman at all. Why not just take one?"

"That would be a mistake," Jon warned darkly. "There are still more of them than there are free folk."

"Oh aye. And I've followed your rules, I've kept these free folk in line. You ordered 'no raids', and, hells, I've followed. Not a single warrior has pillaged from my warband without losing his own head for it, I dare you to find to find living soul that can say otherwise." The Weeper grinned. "But now I'm starting to wonder what I get for all my efforts."

There was an edge to his voice. "What do you want, Weeper?"

"Karhold. I took that castle, I get to keep it."

"Karhold is the seat of House Karstark."

"A family that betrayed and fought against you, from how I hear it," the Weeper said. "Now why should a bunch of traitors get to keep a castle like that?"

Jon's lips pursed, but he nodded. Good allies needed to be rewarded. "I can make no promises right now," said Jon. "But I will bear it in mind."

"And I also want the girl," the Weeper called. Jon stopped. "She's a pretty girl. Alys Karstark. I want her."

His eyes turned hard. The Weeper folded his arms. "Is that not how you southerners do things? You marry the right woman and you take the castle?"

"Alys Karstark," Jon said stiffly, "is already married."

"Not because she had anything to do with it. I spoke to her. If you take that Cregan cunt's head, I imagine she'd be cheering the loudest in the crowd."

"Lord Cregan Karstark is an ally now. He agreed to support us."

"Not willingly. He conceded only because we didn't give him a choice."

"That's not the point." Jon took a step forward. "There are rules here. When a lord surrenders to you, you can't kill him afterwards. Otherwise no lord will ever surrender again. How do you think the northern lords would react if I executed a prominent northern lord and gave his wife away?"

"Fuck them. Cregan Karstark is a nasty little parasite. World would be better off if he never had a head. I should have killed him already." He folded his arms, shaking his head quietly. "Did you know that Alys asked me to? Back at Karhold – she suggested it. She wanted me to kill him for her, and I wanted to do it. But I decided to be really reasonable," he spat the word, "and wait for your permission. This is a simple one, Snow; let me kill the sod and take the girl."

No, Jon thought, not so simple at all. There was a nasty glint in the Weeper's bulging eyes. Jon twitched. "And why," he asked slowly, "why do you want Lady Karstark so badly?"

"I told you. She's pretty."

"I heard what happened to the last woman you stole, Weeper. The fisherfolk's lass," Jon said icily. "Tormund told me the tale."

"Fucking Tormund. He talks too much. But so what? Aye, I've had wives before."

"And the last one was a girl of seventeen. You cut out her eyes."

The Weeper's smirk only grew. "Well, she had pretty eyes. I've still got them somewhere, I think."

It took everything Jon had to keep the revulsion off his face. His hands clenched. The Weeper is not a good man. He's never been good. Even among the free folk, the Weeper is feared for good reason. He's an evil psychotic fiend who just so happens to be my strongest ally.

"Why?" Jon growled. "By the all the gods, why would you do that to a girl?"

He only scoffed. "What, can't a man do whatever he likes to his own wife?"

And I argued for amnesty for all crimes north of the Wall. I defended all of the wildling's crimes.

A castle was one thing, but Jon couldn't give the Weeper a wife like Alys. The Lady Karstark didn't know what she was asking for, calling on a man like Weeper to help her. That was a disaster waiting to happen. Jon's nostrils flared. "You will not touch Alys Karstark," Jon warned. There was no anger, his voice just turned cold. "You will not harm any woman. Any rapes – any missing eyes – and there will be no peace. No peace between us, no peace between the lords." He shook his head, unblinking as he met the man's gaze. "I will not tolerate it. Ever."

The Weeper took half a step forward threateningly. "Boy," he muttered. His voice turned low and his eyes bulged. "If I wanted Alys Karstark, I could have taken her. Maybe I still will."

"You won't." Jon shook his head. There was a pause, and then he turned to walk away. "I've got to believe not even you are that mad."

"I could have fucking killed you in those woods!" the Weeper snapped. "I could have killed you at Hardhome."

"Yes," Jon muttered, not turning around. "You could have."

"If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't even be here! You would never have made it this far!" the Weeper shouted. "Just remember that, boy."

Believe me, I am. I am.

It took a long time for Jon's temper to cool. He needed deep breaths, trying to shake the image of the Weeper cutting out a young girl's eyes from her skull. I will raise commanders and officers from White Harbour amongst the free folk, he thought finally. Men who could be trusted to watch the Weeper carefully, and enforce order. But for now, I can't risk reprimanding and alienating him. The Weeper scowled when he saw Jon later, but neither of them said anything. He knew the matter was shelved, but not forgotten.

It was snowing when the host set out again. They used mammoths to carry rations, and the crowds of wildlings with spears set out over the Lonely Hills. They spent a full day marching hard along the branch of the Weeping Water, and then the next morning they saw the high red walls and triangular merlons, like sharp teeth, appearing over the hills.

The Dreadfort was a strong and squat castle of light red bricks that appeared pink in the weak sun, with thick walls and high, looming towers.

A castle as old as Winterfell, Jon thought. A strong and formidable castle by any measure.

The Weeping Water joined streams by the castle, and water from the Lonely Hills gushed over the frozen banks. A large town, a mill and farmland scattered around the Dreadfort, but it all looked eerily abandoned. There was a sour tang in the cold air.

Jon saw Tormund's men and the Manderly host already in position. The armies surrounded the castle from the east, north and west. Jon called Sonagon towards him again, but from the first sight he knew that there wouldn't be a battle here; the Boltons had already retreated. The gates were sealed and the castle was fortified against a siege instead.

The moat around the Dreadfort was filled with spikes. The drawbridge was raised. There were men on the walls hidden under wooden huts, shield walls already in position. Jon caught the glint of scorpions scattered around the keep and walls, and faint shapes of what looked mangonels in the courtyard. All of the scorpions were angled upwards towards the sky. They prepared themselves to face off against a dragon.

Sonagon would still win, of course, but there was a more of a risk here. A small risk, perhaps, but not one that Jon was comfortable with.

The Weeper gave orders to prepare stakewalls and spikes for defences, while Jon headed into the town. It stunk of old smoke. The Boltons burnt the town and the homes rather than give us any advantage, he realised. Scorched earth warfare. Ewan Bole and a small escort met him with word from Robett Glover, that the commanders were waiting for him.

Jon met the Greatjon, Ser Marlon Manderly, Ser Wylis Manderly, Robett Glover and half a dozen others again in the ruins of a mill they took for a command centre. The walls and ceiling were charred black from the fires, but the structure seemed strong. Lord Karstark wasn't present, but Jon knew that lord had no place in their war council. Or within earshot of it.

"My lord," Jon nodded at the Greatjon. "How goes it? Were there any attacks?"

"A few stragglers, nothing of note." Lord Umber shook his head. "My guess is that the battle at Weeping Water was their last attempt to try and drive us away. We've got the larger army and they know it."

"How many men are holding the castle?"

"A small garrison, by the looks of it," Ser Marlon replied. "The majority of their forces have already fled. If it was just us I would wager they'd be more likely to stand and fight, but…"

"But they're scared of the dragon. They won't risk devoting large hosts of men to battles where dragonfire would obliterate them."

"The skinless man has no spine," the Greatjon grumbled.

"Does that not make them more dangerous? Spineless creatures are often the most venomous," Jon sighed. They won't make it easy, the Boltons seemed insistent on taking whatever victory they could get. "Will the garrison surrender?

"I very much doubt it, Your Grace," Ser Marlon admitted. "I am told it is being held by a man named Steelshanks, and manned by old, hard veterans. I sent an envoy to the drawbridge under a banner of truce, and they put four quarrels in the man. They will not negotiate, Roose Bolton wouldn't have left them if they would."

"And they've have had weeks to prepare for us," Robett Glover noted. "I've rarely seen a castle holed up so tightly before. They burnt their own lands and hoarded whatever they couldn't flee with inside that keep. No, there will be no negotiation here."

"So as far as I see it, we have two options," the Greatjon said. "We either siege the castle or storm it."

"It's a strong castle. A siege could take months." Jon frowned.

"And a storm will take hours." His eyes narrowed. "Can you dragon raze it?"

"Of course."

"Then let's bring the beast here," the Greatjon ordered. "Turn the cursed place into ruin. Show them a storm."

Jon lips tightened. The thought of what he had seen at the Twins had not left him eager to repeat the experience. But if they will not surrender then what choice is there?

Ser Wylis grimaced. "Your Grace," he said hesitantly. The son of Lord Manderly was a large man, but he looked worn and haggard in platemail that didn't quite seem to fit. "I would urge you to not."

"Is there an alternative? We cannot leave the Bolton's seat of power intact. The Dreadfort must be secured before the march on Winterfell."

"We have enough forces that we can safely dedicate some towards a siege, Your Grace," Ser Wylis argued. "Their garrison cannot threaten us. We secure the area and leave behind, say, two thousand strong to starve the castle and we continue our march."

"And how long would that take?" the Greatjon protested.

"No, it will leave us too vulnerable," Ewan Bole said, shaking his shaggy head. "Our men will be exposed."

"It is better alternative than destroying a castle entirely," Ser Wylis countered. "The Dreadfort is an ancient northern castle. Even despite its reputation, it's an historical and influential seat. To raze it into ruins will not endear anyone to our cause. The Dreadfort is valuable enough to be worth a siege. Let us take it, rather than raze it."

"It would cost us time," Robett Glover said quietly. "But there is little risk to our own men."

"Little risk?" another said incredulously, to the support of others. "Are you mad? What of storms? Or starvation? You want to leave men hungry and cold outside a castle like the Dreadfort."

Jon hesitated uncertainly. The Greatjon folded his arms. "Bugger that. You want to devote two thousand men to a siege like this? We will need our forces against Winterfell."

"We have a dragon. Surely our armies are already secure."

"No, a siege is folly," the Greatjon insisted. "Just bloody blast the damn thing."

"All the while the Dreadfort stands, we risk Roose Bolton taking back his lands," Ewan Bole nodded. "And it weakens us in the process."

"He won't take it back. How could he, when his forces are amassed at Winterfell?" Ser Wylis objected.

The Greatjon shook his head. "No, we should turn the castle into rubble. Demonstrate just what treatment Bolton scum deserve. Demonstrate power."

Ser Wylis eyes flickered towards Jon. "Or you could demonstrate patience and restraint instead." He lowered his head quickly. "Your Grace."

Jon didn't outwardly react, but he looked to the mood of his allies. The Greatjon wanted destruction, but most others seemed to agree. Ser Wylis was the only one who really seemed to object. I want to destroy it too, Jon admitted silently. But

"There will be hostages inside the Dreadfort, Your Grace," Ser Wylis said finally. His eyes kept flickering to Jon. "There will be prisoners from the sack of Winterfell. Bolton dissenters as well. Their dungeons are vast."

Ah, that's why the man is so hesitant. "How many hostages?"

"I cannot say. But all of the smallfolk from this town must be somewhere."

"The Boltons are expecting us to destroy the castle," Ser Marlon noted. "They only left that garrison behind to ensure that we will not benefit from their loss. They are trying to make our victory as bitter as possible; maybe they've filled the castle with smallfolk, but there will be no important hostage inside. They would left no one that might drastically help our campaign should we recover them."

"Aye," Ewan Bole agreed. "Lord Bolton is a ruthless man, to leave behind his own seat as a sacrificial goat."

"So you would support razing it, then?" Jon demanded, turning to the knight.

Ser Marlon grimaced. "It would be a logical decision, Your Grace."

Ser Wylis was the only one vocal about a siege, the rest strongly opposed the idea. Robett Glover looked like he may agree with Ser Wylis, but he didn't speak out loudly in support either. The discussion continued for some time. Lord Umber snapped at the heir of White Harbour as if he were a fool, and Ser Marlon had to try and mediate between them.

"Could your dragon breathe at the castle with more care?" Ser Marlon suggested finally, looking for a more moderate path. "What if your dragon demolished the gate and walls only, such that men could then assault the keep?"

"Sonagon is a dragon, ser, not a siege engine. He has only one type of attack." Jon shook his head. "No, I cannot restrain him, and I must attack with overpowering force or not at all. To do anything less puts Sonagon at risk from scorpions and iron bolts, as I'm sure Meraxes could testify."

Jon remembered the battle at Hardhome, and how poorly that battle had turned because he tried to hold Sonagon back on the initial strike. No, a dragon's greatest advantage is overwhelming power without restraint. So why am I hesitating?

Ser Wylis was still arguing. White Harbour was a crucial ally and Jon had no wish to dismiss Ser Wylis' opinion, but the whole room was stacked against him. Jon didn't even need to ask to know that Tormund and the Weeper would both object to a siege too.

"Please, Your Grace," the knight said, looking to Jon, "the prisoners inside don't deserve to die. Even just as a statement, we could show the realm…"

He hesitated. Show the realm that I'm not a monster. Jon bit his lip.

I really, really want to destroy that castle. The majority of my commanders agree that it is the tactical move, and they're right.

Still, the image of the Twins, and all those frozen corpses flickered before his eyes. No, he's right, Jon thought with a sigh. The smallfolk inside don't deserve to die.

That made Jon's decision. "I did not have choice but to raze the Twins," he said finally. The room muttered. "But there is a choice here. We will siege the Dreadfort with men rather than using Sonagon."

The Greatjon cursed. "That will take months, boy. Months."

"We have the resources to spare," Jon said firmly. "What sort of commitment will be required?"

"I would wager three thousand men would be a good number," said Robett Glover. "The old Kings of Winter proved that it is a difficult castle to siege."

"But it is the good option," Ser Wylis insisted. Nobody else looked convinced. "When the starvation kicks in and they see our intent, men inside will trade whatever prisoners they have for leeway."

"For three thousand men, it will have to be a mix of free folk and northern soldiers."

"I… I see. And who will lead them?" Ser Marlon asked. "Your man the Weeper?"

"No." Jon shook his head. The Weeper would be the worst possible commander to lead a siege. He briefly considered Tormund, but Jon wanted to keep Tormund by his side. A siege required patience and discipline, a free folk would not be ideal. "Ser Marlon," Jon said finally, turning to the face the knight. "Will you accept the command?"

Ser Marlon blinked, off-guard. The commander of the guard at White Harbour had proven himself capable, level-headed; a good, patient man for a long task. "The– ah, yes, Your Grace. I will." He bowed.

"The free folk will follow you, I will ensure it," Jon promised. "And there will be reinforcements from Eastwatch led by a man named Lord of Bones shortly. The dragon will return regularly to support the siege. The rest of our forces must continue onwards, west to Winterfell."

"I will take the castle for you, Your Grace." Ser Marlon bowed. "For my house and my realm."

The Greatjon spat on the floor in disgust. There were a few unhappy objections, but Jon's tone left no room for argument. Jon looked at Ser Wylis and tried to imagine what it what it would be like to be trapped in a prison for all those months.

There was more talk: who else would have command, their forces that would march. They had much ground to cover and they agreed to split into three hosts: Ser Marlon's force to stay at the Dreadfort, the Greatjon to lead men to secure Hornwood, while the Weeper would lead his force west towards Long Lake. Jon insisted on integrating the northmen alongside the free folk, so that Tormund would keep with Lord Umber while Robett Glover and Ser Wylis would move with the Weeper.

They would need to spread themselves and secure as much area to fight against the skirmish attacks, and Jon wanted the giants and the mammoths with him as they hit Winterfell. It was to be a pronged attack against Winterfell supported by reinforcements from the north and south.

"What of you, Your Grace?" Robett Glover asked. "Where will you be heading?"

Jon grimaced. Where was the most urgent priority? It seemed like he was needed absolutely everywhere recently. "I must fly back to White Harbour with all haste," Jon decided finally. "Lord Manderly should be informed and I must see to our alliances."

Above him, he heard the flapping of great wings as Sonagon circled above. There were faint cries from the walls of the Dreadfort, and arrows were feebly fired upwards.

The Bolton men inside should know how fortunate they are that they're not being scorched in dragonfire right now, Jon thought foully.

All around him, the camp churned. Ser Marlon was talking about setting up fortifications and catapults, but Jon only nodded. Across the plains, Sonagon dropped into the river, crashing through ice with enormous thud and clawing at the water. Sonagon is getting antsy, Jon thought with a grimace. He's hungry and there has been poor hunting across these hills. I must leave quickly before Sonagon's patience burns out.

Still, Jon lingered long enough to watch their siege take formation. He had to arrange supply trains and set commands, and twice he had to interfere between Tormund and the Weeper butting heads. It was getting late and his scouts warned of bad weather, but Sonagon wouldn't tolerate being used much more and Jon had to leave.

There were only a few hours before dusk as Jon climbed onto Sonagon's harness. For once, Jon travelled alone; both of his squires were too young to risk riding Sonagon, and he left them with his Dragonguard to represent him in his absence.

At the first red rays of dusk, the dragon burst into the sky. The ground shrunk beneath him, and suddenly the imposing Dreadfort turned so small. All around him, he could see the plumes of smoke scattered across the Lonely Hills as his army marched out to secure all the surrounding villages and towns. Jon could smell the tang of blood in the air.

Sonagon was restless. They made good time, and it wasn't long before Jon saw the pale cliffs of White Harbour nestling in the distance, and the sea wind blowing over the Bite. There were ships in formation across the harbour, and overflow camps stretching out of the gates of the city. Despite the late hour, Jon heard a bell ringing as soon as the dragon was spotted.

Sonagon has come to the city two dozen times now, and every single time they insist on ringing the bell, he thought with a grimace. They would wake the whole city for his arrival. The dragon's wings whooshed as he soared down towards the Seal Rock jutting out of the ocean.

There were torches already moving from the rock. The old ring fort was a crumbling, circular structure of ancient stones, but they had cleared the centre and set up tents for the garrison. There were crude wooden structures nestled between the ancient stones, and barricades and fortifications carved into the rock. The top of the Seal Rock stood thirty feet out of the water, and they built a rickety wooden staircase sprawling across its side down to a single dock by the waves.

It was a very good roosting spot for a large dragon, Jon thought. The Seal Rock was high, secure and defensible, but large and open. It was isolated enough that the dragon couldn't cause disturbances in the city, and that nobody could disturb the dragon either. It even overlooked the harbour – an ideal position for Sonagon to sit protectively should they come under attack.

Occasionally, Jon wondered if the ancient ring fort from the First Men had been designed specifically to house a dragon in its heyday.

As soon as Sonagon dropped, he curled onto the exact same spot that he had left, right down to the grooves he had carved into the stone. Jon heard voices, and saw men pushing carts of meat towards the dragon. Very little warning and yet they are already prepared to meet Sonagon's needs, Jon thought approvingly. My Dragonguard has become very efficient.

He saw men dump the contents of a cart onto a marked spot on the ground, and then quickly backed away. Sonagon sniffed, snorting cold mist hungrily.

"Get the second cart ready!" Jon heard a voice shout as he lowered himself. "Drop the food and get out of there – this dragon doesn't like waiting for his meals!"

He saw the big man standing by the barracks. Hatch wasn't wearing armour, but he still wore his cloak. Jon saw Urwen, Black Maris, Mo and Harle all rushing and giving orders. His Dragonguard didn't have any uniform, but they all wore something white to signify their rank: such as a white cloak or white stones stitched into the shape of dragon on their hauberk.

More and more wildlings from the Wall were arriving in White Harbour by ship. Galleons would ship food supplies to Eastwatch and return carrying refugees. Jon had sent Sam and Grenn back to Castle Black, while the Dragonguard that he left behind had arrived in White Harbour recently.

"Hatch," Jon called. "How goes it?"

"Aye," Hatch grumbled. "The city is in a right state, but we're keeping this rock for you."

"Not a luxurious place," Jon admitted, looking around the gloomy torches and bleak, wind-beaten stones.

"Hells, I've lived in worse," he said with a snort. "And we're Dragonguard, right? Glorified nannies to a giant monster."

Jon smiled wearily. "We should prepare carts three and four," an eager voice called, rushing up to Hatch. "Two of the last five times, the dragon has eaten four carts after long trips. We still have that cut garron that will likely turn rotten shortly, and then there'll be two carts of fish in reserve to break the dragon's fast on the morn, next delivery after that."

"Aye, get to it then," Hatch ordered, and the young man nodded quickly.

"Harlow," Jon greeted.

Harlow grinned as he saw Jon, and then flustered and bowed quickly. He had a white stone on his chest. "Your Grace."

"At ease," Jon said with a wry grin. "You have good response time to Sonagon."

"The meals were prepared in advance, Your Grace," Harlow explained quickly. "Last time the dragon arrived very hungry and… well, the delay was not well-received. Since then I try to keep five carts loaded and ready to be served at any hour."

"It is appreciated." Behind him, Sonagon gouged into his meal with sharp black teeth, his hard tongue scraping the rock. They didn't bother unpacking the food, instead Sonagon just ate the sacks as well. Even a huge sack was a tiny morsel to Sonagon's size – it was little wonder that whole carts were needed.

"It is my honour, Your Grace." Harlow bowed again. Now how can I convince him not to keep doing that? Jon mused. The young man never even met his eyes – he always looked to the floor in Jon's presence.

Hatch was bellowing orders for the men to gather to remove Sonagon's harness. Jon notice there was something in Harlow's hands. He was fidgeting, glancing back to where Sonagon had already finished his meal. "What is that?"

"Um, just a parchment, Your Grace," Harlow admitted sheepishly, handing the rough animal-skin parchment to Jon. "I have been keeping a tally of how frequently your dragon eats and drinks, Your Grace, and which meals he seems to like more. To plan."

The parchment was rough with flint scribbles and markings. Harlow couldn't write, but he used crude sketches and tallies to keep notes in messy columns. It must make sense to him. Jon looked at it curiously, while the man seemed abashed.

"The dragon eats five parts of stone and rock for every one part of meat," Harlow explained, eyes twinkling. "And four parts grain and veg to fill out the size of the meals. And a larger serving of meat after the dragon has been flying for a long time. It's usually fish, sometimes livestock too. There are seven butchers and fishmongers in the city that have been hired to prepare solely for the dragon."

Slowly, Jon started to make sense of the scribbles. There were columns for servings and rows for days. Gods, how much does my dragon eat? It never failed to impress him how gluttonous Sonagon could be. "And the stone?"

"Mostly the white stone from the cliffs. Chalk, I think. The dragons seems to prefer soft rock to bedrock, usually. It really likes these yellow rocks, I guess they must be tasty for a dragon? Sometimes the dragon likes chewing on iron or steel as well, but I'm not sure how often…" he grimaced. Jon could see him trying to stop himself from rambling. "Well, they've brought across barrels of old rusted swords and such as well, just in case the dragon is peckish."

"This… This is good," Jon said after a pause. "Talk to a maester. Have him transcribe your logs into a proper form. And then have the maester send letters to Eastwatch, Castle Black and any other place Sonagon is likely to visit. Make sure they reserve at least a good day's worth of supplies for Sonagon at all times."

Harlow blinked. "Your Grace?"

"His diet is important. It's what keeps him placated. We need to know how to best feed him." Perhaps if I fed him properly, would there be forty-three people at Mole's Town still alive? Jon wondered. I must wear every mistake I make on my chest, and resolve to never make any of them ever again. "This is good work, Harlow."

"I… Thank you, Your Grace." He bowed again. Jon had to stop himself smirking lest the man think he was mocking him. "It is my honour, Your Grace. I would likely be dead in the wilderness if not for you. However I can help."

"Good service must be rewarded. Yours has not gone unnoticed," he said with a smile. I shall have think of a rank or boon to grant.

Harlow rushed off to prepare Sonagon's meals. "Oh aye, he's good for feeding and cleaning the dragon, that one," Hatch agreed, stepping back to Jon and motioning at Harlow. "Bloody useless with a sword, but eager enough."

"Well, you said it yourself that the Dragonguard are glorified nannies," he mused. "A squireship would be good for him, I think. Perhaps Furs would take him on."

There were men rushing around Jon, all looking between him and the dragon. The Seal Rock was garrisoned by fifty men, but Jon's Dragonguard had command. When Jon had left, it had been a rough military outpost, but it had quickly been established and better fortified. New wooden outhouses had been built between the great slab of rocks to the house men, supplies and arms, and there were at least two dozen scorpions overlooking the rocks pointing down to the water. There were bowmen perches and gates built around the fort. Good, proper defences to guard Sonagon while he roosted and slept. Jon had placed Furs in command before he left, and it looked like he had done a good job.

"Where is Furs?" Jon asked, glancing around.

"Lord Manderly requested him in the city," Hatch replied. "I think there was talk of recruiting stonemasons to rebuild the Seal Rock entirely."

"Good. The Targaryens built the Dragonpit for a reason. I will fully support as much security built around Sonagon as possible."

"We're on a raised outpost in the middle of sea with a fleet of ships stationed around us," Urwen noted. "How much more defence could there be?"

"That depends on whether or not we can trust the fleet," Hatch snorted. Jon sent him a hard glare to mind his tongue, and the large man shifted.

"Your Grace," a Manderly man said, bowing his head as he approached. He was dressed like a sailor. "I have a small boat ready by the port. We can escort you into the city itself."

Jon shook his head. "No. It is late and I am quite tired." And doubtless Lord Wyman will insist on seeing me straight away. "I will rest here for tonight and travel across in the morning."

The man's face paled. "Your Grace, we… Tis a barren outpost here, we have little hospitality to offer you."

Jon could have laughed. "I think I shall survive sleeping rough, ser." And I shall be grateful for it, compared to that hideous suffocatingly soft bed in the castle. "A tent and a blanket will serve just fine."

As it happened, the commander of the garrison insisted on clearing out a storeroom for Jon's sleeping quarters. The building was a cramped and narrow outhouse built at the edge of the rock, previously used to keep their lumber and arrows out of the damp and salt air. It stank of dust, and there were bugs skittering in the corners. Honestly, Jon would have preferred to sleep out in the open sky, but he didn't care enough to make it an issue.

He could hear the waves gushing and crashing against the rocks, rocking him to sleep. There were bells from the nearby ships. Often you could hear the seals shuffling and barking as they gathered on the rocks below as well, but Jon guessed that Sonagon had quickly scared those away.

As he slept, he saw the world through a direwolf's eyes, pacing and scratching at a narrow barge. Ghost was on a ship too; confined in a narrow hull and rocking with the waves. He could smell stone, smoke and earthy scents drifting on the sea wind.

Dawn came too soon. Jon was already up with first light, and he washed his face in cold salt water to wake himself up. Early morning, and a large ship came to ferry him across into the city. Ser Alek met him on the rickety, tiny port built onto the Seal Rock, and he left Sonagon to Hatch's care, bringing Urwen and Harle with him into the city.

There was a crowd waiting for him on the Inner Harbour of the city, but there were no riots at least. It was quiet. Jon glimpsed free folk wearing white stones lingering in the crowd. True to his word, Lord Wyman had been ferrying wildlings to White Harbour. The free folk huddled together in small groups, and the cityfolk kept their distance. All wanted to see Jon, but there were different moods mixed in the crowd.

"How fares the city?" Jon asked Ser Alek.

"White Harbour is prepared for war, Your Grace."

"That is not what I asked, ser."

"It is strained," the knight admitted. "Winter looms closer than ever, rationing has been introduced, and our stores are already suffering. The refugees are already overflowing the city, and there have been disturbances between the wild– the free folk and cityfolk."

"I see," Jon said, keeping his voice firm.

"But we are prepared for war," Ser Alek insisted. "Our forces have been mustering; nearly every house on this side of the White Knife is with us. More and more noble houses are joining the coalition."

"Yes," Jon mused. "Tell me, are they joining because they support us, or because they are too scared of the dragon and the wildlings to do otherwise?"

A brief grimace flickered across the young knight's face. "Does it matter? They are still joining."

Jon smiled hollowly. "Do not act the fool, ser. You're not very good it," he said with a sigh. "It matters a great deal."

The whole atmosphere of the city seemed so different from what it had been a few weeks ago. He saw grey camps and grimy tents set up in the middle of the white streets. The trip up to the New Castle was short and tense.

Jon met Furs at the top of the Castle Stair. He wore armour fit for a knight, but he kept his bone spear. Furs had a lanky body shape, though he still strong. Strangely, Furs bowed low as Jon approached. "King," he greeted. "How was that bow? These southerners have been teaching me to bow properly."

He smiled softly. "Very well. How goes it, Furs?"

"Oh aye, we've been minding the keep sure enough. How is the real war going?"

"Making progress. It's not over yet."

There were nobles and guards milling around him. Jon struggled to remember all the names and faces. "I wish you told us to expect you," Furs noted, "this place always goes in a right panic whenever you just fly in."

"I was I knew myself. I come back only when I have a chance," Jon muttered. "Have the free folk been settling in?"

"Oh aye. I don't think your southerners know how to handle so many free folk filling up their fancy castle. You know these guys use four knives and forks during meals?"

Jon smiled, but before he could reply he recognised a familiar face. "Galbart," Jon called to the Master of Deepwood Motte. "It is good to see you."

The taciturn man nodded, with a short bow. "Your Grace," Galbart Glover greeted. "How fares my brother?"

"Robett is quite fine. Any news of the hostages from Deepwood Motte?"

"None." There was a grim look in his eyes. "Little news at all of my family."

Too many families have been split in this war. "We will recover them, Lord Glover," Jon promised. "The Dreadfort may not have fallen, but it is lost. When we push against Winterfell, the Boltons will sell their hostages to save themselves."

"As you say, Your Grace. I linger here to aid with White Harbour's defence, though we will join the force against Winterfell's walls."

He turned to walk down the hallway. Galbart walked with him. "Although, I'm glad to speak with you," Jon said. "I was intending on offering Ewan Bole, one of your house's sworn swords, a place in my Dragonguard."

Galbert looked surprised. "Ewan? Aye, I know the man. Loyal and steadfast, but he hails from a minor and unremarkable house."

"I care more for the quality of men than the name they bear, my lord. During the march Ewan Bole proved himself more than capable. I am looking to fill the ranks of the Dragonguard," he explained. "I was also planning on offering Ser Alek the same."

"Ser Alek is a good knight. The son of a landed knight in White Harbour. He's young, but brave. He was the first to volunteer to ride after your dragon on the plains." Galbart frowned, looking confused. "But your Dragonguard will have more influence if you were to name sons of old and great houses. Few highborn will respect such a… mixed grouping."

Jon shook his head. "The Dragonguard needs little status or ceremony, my lord. I care for skill, loyalty and bravery in its ranks."

"Then you should still recruit from good houses. You cannot expect common blood to breed noble qualities," Galbart Glover said as if it was obvious. "Noble families are reliable, their heritage breeds loyalty – they can be trusted. The commonfolk have no past, they must be treat with caution."

"I'd disagree. I find that highborn most certainly have no monopoly on any of those traits," said Jon. There were too many who constantly misunderstood what his Dragonguard was. "I will happily recruit men from low birth too. Months ago, I found a hunter in the woods of no standing whatsoever, but Harlow has continually impressed me with his dedication and resourcefulness. I would more than happily invite many of the same – I have no wish to reward good service anything less than the appreciation it deserves."

Galbart frowned. He didn't understand, Jon thought. Many lords wouldn't. Perhaps it was a bastard's trait. "Your Grace, if you want this rank of Dragonguard to be respected, then you must fill it with men who can be respected. Not commoners."

"Not so," argued Jon. "In the Night's Watch even those of low birth could rise to high positions and influence. All the way up to Lord Commander in many cases. The sworn brothers appreciated their duty and the skill of those who uphold it more than any name. They appreciate stewards and caretakers more than just fighters. I mean to follow suit."

"So you would fill your guard with farmers and stable boys?" Galbart asked, baffled.

Jon smiled coolly. "Should they earn it, then yes, happily, my lord."

Glorified dragon nannies, as Hatch phrased it, Jon mused. Still, Jon was considering splitting his Dragonguard into two ranks, perhaps dragon guardians and dragon keepers? Jon couldn't expect the stewards and caretakers to fight, and it was a waste of the fighters to have them constantly looking after Sonagon. Perhaps the keepers under Furs could be responsible for Sonagon's care and wellbeing, while the guardians led by Hatch would be the fighting unit responsible for defence? It was something to think about – his Dragonguard were already taking on far more duties and responsibility than he had originally conceived. All of them are good men and women well-motivated to prove themselves.

He excused himself from Galbart, and Jon was met at the stairs by Leona Manderly. The plump woman curtsied towards Jon. He motioned for his guards to stay back. "Your Grace," she greeted. Lady Leona's eyes looked red like she had been crying. "Lord Manderly would see you at the earliest convenience."

"I thought he would. Please, I will see the lord now."

Jon knew the way and Lord Manderly rarely left his quarters, but Lady Leana escorted him nevertheless. Jon noticed how stiff and brash her posture was towards him, even despite the forced courtesies. "Your husband rides with the army, my lady," Jon said, lowering his voice. "I spoke with Ser Wylis only last night."

"That is good to hear," Lady Leona replied curtly. "And yet once more my daughters and I must wait for him to come home again."

There was a quiet hurt in her voice that caused Jon to wince. "There is little danger to him," he said lamely, trying to reassure. "We have won every battle we've fought, my lady,"

"So did the Young Wolf, Your Grace."

They reached the corridor towards the lord's solar. Without another word, Lady Leona curtsied and walked briskly away. Jon stopped to stare after her, before shaking himself off and walking towards the solar.

As he approached, he heard voices from the room. They sounded polite but strained. The voices were too low for him to make him out, though Jon caught a few snatchets of words; "… rightful and just liege, m'lord… bring the realm to ruin…"

There was something that sounded like a short, sharp dismissal. The door opened, and Jon saw a short, greying and stout man, looking unnerved. Lord Davos Seaworth's eyes widened in shock and horror as he saw Jon standing there. There was a pained pause, and then Lord Seaworth bowed and quickly walked away. Jon watched him go, before stepping inside the solar.

The fat lord stood to meet Jon as he entered, wheezing for breath slightly. "Your Grace," Lord Wyman said. The circles around his eyes seemed darker. "I have just received the raven from our forces at the Dreadfort. You should have come straight to me last night."

"Sleep is underrated attribute for kings, it seems," Jon said dryly, as he took a seat opposite the desk. The chairs were oak with velvet cushions.

The lord laughed humourlessly. A steward brought wine and pastries into the room. "Yes, too many waking hours do creep up on you. And you have a dragon. Has there ever been a commander who can move around the realm half as fast as you do? Where most men must rely on the use of ravens, you could arrive just as fast in person."

"Aye, it's useful, my lord, but also taxing."

"Indeed." Lord Wyman's voice softened. "And how fares my son?"

"Ser Wylis is a strong man and a capable commander," Jon reassured. "He led the rear flank competently, and is a valuable voice at the war table. Ser Marlon will command the siege of the Dreadfort, and Ser Wylis is secure in a force many thousand strong."

"That is good. His captivity was a long and arduous thing, I admit I was concerned about his health and his recovery. And his wife, and daughters, have dearly missed him so," Lord Wyman sighed. "It was a painful and terrible thing, Your Grace, to watch my son leave for war once more. I am unable to follow him; my body has become my prison. I know that Wylis must go, and yet…"

There was a quiver in his voice. Lord Wyman usually sounded so strong and booming. For a second, Jon was left unsure what to say. "Your son is at the centre of a large army," he said finally. "He is secure, and wily enough not to put himself at risk. We have soundly won every battle we have faced."

"We both know how quickly wars can turn, do we not? Make no mistake; Roose Bolton has been allowing himself to lose ground. We have the larger armies, yes, but he is not surrendering and he is not fighting back in force. There have been no true battles; only Boltons harrying us and slowing us down. He will be preparing his own campaign too, though what exactly he intends I cannot say." Lord Wyman shook his head, multiple chins wobbling. "No, this is no time to become complacent. I shall not rest easily until both Roose Bolton and his bastard have their heads on spikes above Winterfell."

Yes, Jon agreed. For all the difficulties, their progress so far had been unnervingly unchallenged. "I had hoped to face Ramsay Bolton at the Dreadfort," Jon admitted. "But there was no sign of him."

"I have had no word either," said Lord Wyman. "Concerning Roose Bolton, at least, I can be reasonably confident he is at Winterfell, but Ramsay has seemingly disappeared."

Along with my brother. Damn Ramsay Snow. First my sister, and then Bran? The Bastard of Bolton must be brought to justice. The mood over the desk turned grim.

"What of the search for your brothers, Bran or Rickon?"

"There has been no news."

"Well, it is still early days."

"And yet they must be recovered to unite the realm."

"We have other options, it is still…" His voice paused, and then Lord Wyman shook his head again. "No, enough of this. Obsessing over ghosts and what ifs becomes pointless. I cannot lead any battles, so I will trust the command of our armies to you, Your Grace. In return, I hope you can trust me to manage affairs of state and politics. You lead from the battlefield, I from the city."

"Happily, my lord."

"With the Dreadfort under siege, House Bolton's lands are effectively ours. That means that Houses Umber, Karstark, and, very soon, Hornwood will be under our control. Most of the east coast, while House Bolton gathers still holds power and allies in the west." He paused. "Can we expect more forces from the Wall mustering for us?"

"Some. The Lord of Bones and Sigorn of Thenn will both be readying to assist," Jon hesitated. "Though I dare not reduce the defence on the Wall much more. There are other threats to consider than just Boltons."

Lord Wyman straightened slightly. "You mean your white walker?"

"Aye. Malvern we call it. Just the one, but it has proven itself too strong and too cunning to be tracked. I can't commit entirely to this campaign so long as Malvern is a threat to the Night's Watch castles."

He looked uncertain. "Just for one of these fiends?"

"Malvern has proven itself capable of fighting and defeating a hundred men singlehandedly, my lord. Its power is not to be underestimated. It has been haunting holdfasts and farms in the Gift, killing any party small enough to be taken easily and hiding otherwise. Perhaps I am lucky that Malvern was left so injured in its crossing through the Wall, because I fear that it is capable of doing much more." Jon grimaced with the thought. How many had Malvern killed already? At least hundreds, but they hadn't found most of the bodies. "Though the good news is that so long as my hunting parties are hounding it and my castles are fortified, the walker's options are limited too. It still cannot face an army. I need only keep on the pressure, and sooner or later an obsidian arrow will find its mark." I hope.

"And you sound concerned."

"I am very concerned. But there is naught I can do about it," Jon confessed, his gaze twitching. "Malvern is an extremely dangerous creature and one that I don't know the location of. I prefer my enemies where I can see them, my lord." And this war is proving a poor one on that front.

"Yes," Lord Wyman said with a sigh. "If there is anything I can provide–"

"Obsidian, my lord. Dragonglass. Do you have a means of purchasing obsidian? We require large quantities."

"I cannot say that I do. Obsidian is usually used in trinkets, not typically needed in bulk. I will make inquiries," he promised. "I must speak with merchants in the city, and find captains willing to scour the free markets on our behalf."

"Are there any?"

"Not many," Lord Wyman replied, reluctantly. "Most independent merchants and captains have shunned White Harbour's docks ever since the dragon appeared in the harbour.

"Of course they have." Why couldn't anything just be simple?

"It is not yet dire, but our trade is being stifled."

"Can I assist?"

"Not with force. A softer hand is required to secure trade, I think."

He nodded, and conceded the task to Lord Wyman. I trust Mance to guard the Wall, and the Weeper to lead his raiders. I must trust Lord Wyman to his duty too. Still, Jon paused, and then frowned. "Mind, what was Lord Seaworth speaking to you about before?"

"You, of course," replied Lord Wyman. "The Onion Lord tries to convince me to support Stannis Baratheon instead."

"Ah. Lord Davos is a loyal man."

"His loyalty cannot be faulted." Lord Wyman nodded. "Neither can his earnestness. Both are traits that I admire, except it is his sense that I question."

"What arguments does he make?"

"The same ones that I hear several times a day. He says that our alliance is doomed for collapse. That the wildlings will not recognise authority, or accept laws, be controlled. He says that this war will schism and ruin the north in the worst possible way. He urges me to return to the fold of the Seven Kingdoms. Lord Seaworth then supports and defends Stannis Baratheon and his actions, but that is the point where his bias becomes apparent." The lord paused. "Still, it is rare to see a man who chooses to act from loyalty rather than fear."

Lord Wyman sounded mildly impressed. Perhaps Lord Davos made more of an impression than he realised, Jon wondered. "Lord Davos is a good man," Jon said finally. "I have no wish to let him suffer unduly. I took him as a hostage, but there is naught needed from him and no family to ransom. His continued captivity seems pointless, perhaps he should just be released and allowed to return home."

"Perhaps. Though Lord Seaworth is still held in high regard by Stannis Baratheon. If Stannis' campaign musters support and gains strength once more, Lord Seaworth could still be a valuable piece."

"How likely is that to happen?"

"Unlikely," he admitted. "But who knows? Stannis has been doing remarkably well in the battles he's been leading. In any case, to release Lord Seaworth now would be folly: there are many wars and outlaws about, the crownlands are in turmoil, Dragonstone is under blockade and he has no means of travelling safely. He would likely not make it home to his wife. No, the Onion Lord is being treated fairly in New Castle; he can remain here until a better solution appears."

"Very well," Jon conceded reluctantly. Lord Davos was a good and loyal man, though Jon knew that he would never be loyal to him.

Lord Wyman picked up a pastry from the platter. "Another of your associates has reached out to me from across the Narrow Sea. One Salladhor Saan of Lys."

Ah, now he was the opposite of Davos. An untrustworthy man that was their ally. "A pirate," Jon said with distaste. "A pirate lord, he calls himself."

"I am aware. But the man is ambitious and eager enough to ally himself with us. The man has been quite capable too, and well-motivated to earn influence to rebuild his former fleet and wealth. I received a letter; Salladhor is in Braavos, and he approached the Iron Bank on our behalf."

"A pirate dealing with the Iron Bank?"

"Oh, the Iron Bank never turns away potential customers. They are the greatest pirates of them all, in many ways," Lord Wyman said with a scoff. "But yes, Salladhor Saan was largely dismissed in Braavos, until you flew south, then the word spread and there could be no doubt that we truly have a dragon. In the wake of that news, I imagine the pirate was looked upon in a different light by the Braavosi."

"I allowed Salladhor Saan to sail free on the promise that he would broker trade and supply for me," Jon said, slightly sourly. "Has he?"

"I believe so. It is a planting that might provide fruit. I cannot understate how useful the Iron Bank's support would be, if we are able to secure it. I have hope; the news of a dragon causes stirs, and perhaps a savvy banker would rather be on the right side of that wager."

"But you don't sound convinced."

"From what your pirate writes, there is a conflict of interests," he explained. "The Iron Bank has already entered a contract with Aegon Targaryen, financing him to claim the Iron Throne. It was to be expected; when the Lannisters burnt that bridge, the Iron Bank sought other ways to reclaim their debt."

"Ah. And I am in conflict with this Aegon." As indirect as it is. "The Iron Bank can't support me without jeopardising their interests in their chosen champion?"

"Just so. A difficult position for them. However, the Iron Bank does not like being on the losing side. The deal they made with Aegon was agreed upon before your presence was widely known, and suddenly the young Targaryen does not seem such a promising wager, since there is a dragon stacked against him. A new loan could perhaps be negotiated."

"For how much gold?"

"Enough gold to establish a new kingdom in earnest," Lord Wyman said with a nod. "The price will be steep, but such a loan is not to be dismissed. It could pay for food all winter, to repair the damage after so much strife."

Jon leaned forward in his seat. "And what must I do?"

"For now? Nothing. I only wished to alert you to the possibility. After Winterfell is secure, taking your dragon to Braavos may be a useful thing. I cannot afford to bankroll this campaign on my own indefinitely."

The conversation continued for some time. The lord quizzed him on every step of the campaign. Lord Wyman drunk wine, but Jon didn't. The lord insisted on the servants bringing more platter of pastries or dishes of stew for such meetings, and Jon was beginning to realise why Lord Wyman was so fat. As the talk turned to alliances, Lord Wyman called for two scribes and his castellan.

"Where is your steward, King Snow?" the lord asked. "The Tarly boy."

Jon shook his head. "Sam is not my steward, he has been appointed the Lord Steward of the Night's Watch. He left to return to Castle Black along with Grenn." Jon paused, hesitating. Sam had a duty of his own to see to – to search for more information on the white walkers. Sam had left from Eastwatch escorting Mance's wife and babe to the Wall. "I have been debating whether to send Sam to Oldtown, in truth," he added. "The Citadel may be the greatest source of knowledge in the world, and I need someone to scour it for information for us."

"I would strongly advise against it," Lord Wyman said. "Not while the ironborn still reave, it is too perilous a journey."

Jon agreed. Too many duties as king, too little time. Ser Wylan brought a stack of letters that the lord insisted on going through with Jon. It was already noon. Jon reluctantly resigned himself and took a glass of wine.

There were five more acceptances of the betrothals from northern lords that Jon had to sign off. There were petty lords that needed promises of safety and protection from Jon before they agreed to the coalition, and a dozen other matters that needed attention

Lady Maege wrote from the Flint Holdfast in the northern mountains. The northern mountain clans had been reluctant to join with wildlings, but they had strong relationships and respect towards Houses Mormont, Umber and Glover. The letter said that Lady Maege was having success where Jon did not in persuading the mountain clans to declare alongside them. They were eager to fight for Ned's girl, even if it was alongside wildlings too.

There will be more promises made before the day is done, Jon thought with a grim sigh. But there is nothing for it; the mountains clans are another three thousand strong that are sorely needed.

As he added up the numbers, the force of their combined, deployable fighting men started to reach over twenty thousand. And rising.

The discussion turned towards Hornwood lands. Even though Ramsay Bolton claimed to be the Lord of the Hornwood, whatever hold he had on the lands disappeared quickly. The minor lords previously under House Hornwood were all too quick to declare against House Bolton.

"Your Grace, Lady Hornwood was my cousin, and fine woman," Lord Wyman said, pushing the paper to one side. "I offered myself as a suitor to Lady Hornwood once. House Manderly has close ties to the area, and it is a tragedy that their house has gone extinct in this war. I suggest that Hornwood lands and titles be granted to House Manderly, to secure their loyalty."

Jon paused, frowning. "You would take the Hornwood for yourself?"

"I have a strong claim to it. A cadet branch of House Manderly could be formed," he explained. "And who has staked more on this cause than I? It seems a fair reward."

Except the Hornwood is an extremely large, rich and valuable area. It would leave House Manderly as undoubtedly the largest and most powerful house in the north. To take another great house's holdings in their entirety is a bold demand.

"I cannot make such a decision here," Jon said eventually. It may upset too many others. I cannot afford any schisms right now. "It is a matter to be decided by a rightful liege, once Winterfell is secure."

"Very well. Although I do intend to push my claim. I will look after the future of my house, Your Grace."

"It seems too early to consider such while the war has yet to be won, my lord."

"You can be sure that others are doing the same," Lord Wyman insisted. "The easiest way to win this war is to ensure that it is in the best interests of all parties that the war is won. The Greatjon will want security for his lands, Lord Glover will want security for his family. And I have high hopes that Lady Maege will marry her daughters to the strongest of your free folk leaders, such that an alliance could be made and Bear Island could start providing ships to evacuate the Frozen Shore. More will follow suit. Even Lord Karstark decided to support us, when it was made clear that was the only way he could keep his lands."

Jon paused. The thought of the Weeper's words came back to him. "Lord Karstark," he said slowly. "You hold his wife, do you not?"

"Alys Karstark is being transported to White Harbour. She will be kept safe in my castle."

"I hear that Cregan Karstark only claims lordship through his marriage to Alys Karstark – was the marriage legal?"

Lord Wyman paused. "Perhaps," he admitted. "Lady Alys was the last of the main branch of the house, and with her father's death her uncle Arnolf became custodian. He was within his rights to marry her to her cousin Cregan. Legally married? Justifiably so. Happily married? Most certainly not."

"My… my commander, the Weeper. He said that Alys asked him to kill Lord Cregan for her."

"Hmm. Unfortunately, that does not surprise me. She is a girl of sixteen and Cregan is, from what I hear, a hard and brash man of fifty. She is now his third wife, he has buried two previously. It was hardly a desirable marriage for her."

How bad could any marriage be if she would prefer the Weeper over Cregan? Jon thought foully. The Weeper is the most psychotic man I know.

Lord Wyman looked at him, measuring his expression. "The marriage could, perhaps, be annulled," the lord said carefully. "If there was an alternative."

Jon grimaced. "And how divisive would that be?"

"Potentially problematic. But Karstark only nominally supports us as is; they still have forces from Arnolf Karstark alongside Boltons," Lord Wyman mused. "And this 'Weeper' of yours is a strong candidate for the same marriage betrothals we are offering others. With Lady Alys' agreement in the matter, we could–"

Jon shook his head. "No, Alys does not know what she is asking from the Weeper. I trust the Weeper to lead my armies, but I've never deluded myself concerning what sort of man he is. He is liable to cut her eyes out himself if she even looks at him the wrong way. No, when Lady Alys arrives in White Harbour, we must keep her well out of sight from the Weeper." I do not trust him not to become obsessed.

"As you say, your Grace. And what of Lord Cregan?"

His jaw clenched. There was a moment of painful indecision. "Lord Cregan Karstark is a vicious and unlikeable man," Jon said finally. "But I cannot dispose him of his lordship. He has committed no crimes that would justify me so."

Lord Wyman frowned. "House Karstark has many crimes to their name, Your Grace."

"Oh yes. His father is a traitor who sided with the Boltons," Jon said foully. "Even his cousin was a child-murderer who helped doom Robb Stark's cause. But that does not matter because I can't punish any man for acts of other members of his family. Maybe killing Cregan Karstark would be the right action, but it wouldn't be lawful. The law must work both ways."

"There is one offence to Cregan Karstark's name. He did fight against you," Lord Wyman noted. "He led his forces to attack your wildlings."

"And in that he was well-justified to defend his lands." Jon shook his head. "And the Umber lords did the same. If I punished House Karstark for fighting wildlings, I would have to do the same against others."

"That would be unwise," Lord Wyman said with a grimace.

"Aye. And I cannot make up laws to kill a man just because of a grudge." Jon shook his head. Damn being king. "For now, Cregan has little option but to support us. He is being kept under close supervision." It was a bitter thought. Legalities or no, Cregan Karstark was an abusive brute who forced Alys to marry him. "Perhaps we should do something concerning his marriage later, but for now let us not risk causing problems."

"Very well," Lord Wyman said, though he didn't sound in agreement. "Although, it occurs to me, that there is another marriage that deserves consideration."

"Whose?"

"Yours, Your Grace."

There was no immediate reaction. Jon felt his hands stiffen. Lord Wyman sucked his lips. "I have considered it. You do not have lands, house or rank in the north, Your Grace, and it would be beneficial for your status and our cause if you did. I offer you my granddaughter's hand in marriage, and an alliance between us stronger than steel."

"Your granddaughter." There was no reaction or emotion. Jon kept himself like stone. Do not react until you have figured out how.

"My son's eldest, Wynafryd. She is of an age with you, Your Grace, and a more fair, brave and capable girl you could not hope to find. Have you given any thought of what should happen to you and your dragon after this war?"

"The end of this war will be the start of the next, my lord."

"Preparations must still be made," he insisted. "Your dragon is the greatest advantage the north has, it should not stay in Winterfell. Winterfell would struggle to house Sonagon, and struggle further to feed it. Winterfell may be the heart of the north, but I see little advantage of keeping a beast like that close to our chests." The lord placed his goblet on the desk of papers. "However, when the north becomes an independent kingdom, it seems only fitting that White Harbour should be the capital city. A dragon would be a great boon in White Harbour, and we have the resources to support it."

Jon blinked, struggling to understand. "You… you want me to marry into House Manderly?"

"I considered it, but no. It would not send a good message. Far better to create a new house; a house of northern dragonlords," he explained. "Take a new banner – a white dragon, perhaps. This is my proposal; I will grant you lordship of the Wolf's Den in the city. It's an ancient castle with a long history of serving House Stark. It was once named to House Manderly, but truthfully it has been neglected ever since the construction of New Castle. Right now it is used only as a prison, currently under the custodianship of an old and had knight who once served me well.

"I will provide the funds for the Wolf's Den to be renovated to its former glory," Lord Manderly offered. "Likewise, your dragon appears quite comfortable upon the Seal Rock, so I shall name you the lord of that too – to turn the Seal Rock into our version of the Dragonpit and to provide defence of the harbour and kingdom. And if you were to marry my granddaughter, then that would be the beginning of an alliance that could see the north in very good stead indeed."

"And Sonagon will reside in your city."

"What other city has the trade to provide for it?" he challenged. "You will become a great and influential lord in White Harbour. I hope that this alliance will prove greatly beneficial to us both."

But especially to you. White Harbour would benefit immensely. The kingdom of the north would be created by the dragon, and the dragon would be at the centre of it. "And your granddaughter?"

"Wynafryd. She is precious to me. Both my granddaughters are. My youngest Wylla is willful and strong, while Wynafryd has always been determined, brave and dedicated. I do not offer her hand in marriage lightly, Your Grace."

Marriage. Jon remembered seeing the granddaughters, vaguely. Wynafryd had looked a few years older than him; she had been holding the hand of her little sister tightly. The youngest girl had dyed green hair, while Wynafryd was tall and full-bodied, with brown hair tied in a long braid. Not the most beautiful woman, but fair and comely.

Politics relies on marriages. I always knew it would be on the table, even for me, but

The thought of Val's golden hair flashed before his eyes.

Jon shook his head. "I cannot make any such commitments now, my lord."

"I do not expect you to. I am not Walder Frey, Your Grace; I will not pressure you into an unhappy marriage. I hold my granddaughter far too dearly for that. Consider the options in full, and I will discuss and treat with you honestly and fairly," he said with a nod, leaning back on his chair. The wood groaned. "However, I do hope that you will consider the benefit it might bring to us both. Spend time with Wynafryd, if it pleases you."

"And is your granddaughter aware of the proposal?"

"I broached the subject to her, briefly," replied Lord Wyman. "I spoke to her mother in great length. Leona eventually agreed that it was in our family's best interests. My son does not know, he left before I could talk to him about it, but he will agree."

Jon didn't reply. Lord Wyman is an ambitious man. He fought for House Stark, but he was most certainly looking after his own house's interests too. A marriage to bring a dragon into White Harbour could certainly be a huge boon to his standing.

Though he makes good points. It would benefit me and my cause too. He would give me a castle. The dowry would be great. In return for a wife.

But I haven't even spoken to the girl before.

There was a long moment of silence. The lord tried to measure his expression. "Nothing need be decided now," Lord Wyman said finally. "As you say, Your Grace, there is a war to be won first."

There was more small talk after that, but Jon grew more and more reserved, and distracted. How did I think it was going to end? Sooner or later I was always going to have to marry to solidify my standing.

Which standing, though? My standing with the free folk? Or my standing with the north? With the Seven Kingdoms? Should I be considering gold, influence or martial strength? Too many different concerns, all of them reliant on marriage.

And how can I rank my happiness compared to matters like these?

By the time they retired, Jon was left feeling worn and gloomy. Lord Manderly would doubtless insist on feasting tonight with the highborn, but Jon was already feeling bloated just from the pastries served. It was all too easy for lords to lose control of their gut. Is it queer that one day in this castle makes me miss weeks of hard marching through the north?

Jon left the solar walking stiffly. He asked a servant about sleeping arrangements, and then Lady Leona Manderly came to escort him to his quarters. "Your… um… household has been settled within the castle, Your Grace," the lady said, curtseying. She still didn't quite meet his gaze. "The west wing has been reserved for you and your court."

"And have there been any issues?"

"Few. Your pet, the shadowcat," her voice was haughty, "proved troublesome to relocate."

"Phantom can be stubborn," Jon said with a grimace. The ship journey moving the shadowcat from Eastwatch had not been a pleasant experience for anyone. "Provided she has her privacy she is no trouble."

"The cat has a room by itself, by yours. The windows barred and the door locked from the servants." Leona's tone was slightly icily. I wonder, has any noble castle ever hosted a shadowcat before? "And I directed your paramour towards your chambers."

Jon stopped. "Excuse me?"

"Your… Lady Val of Whitetree. She was placed in the other room adjoined to yours," she explained. "Is that suitable, Your Grace?"

Val has arrived in White Harbour already? His heart pounded.

My paramour. For a moment, Jon was left fazed. "Um, yes. Yes, thank you, my lady."

Is Val really my paramour? His instinctive reaction was no, but then… well, they weren't betrothed and they were together. Though the word 'paramour' implied that Jon was a highborn lord, and that was a concept he was still struggling to get his head around.

Paramour. Mistress. Is that what they will view Val as?

The wildlings looked they had made themselves at home in the west wing. Tapestries were missing from the walls. Jon passed a sketch of a dragon drawn on the wall in chalk.

Lady Leona's eyes lingered on the crude marking. "There was a… a conflict at the Sept of the Snows last week," she said, breaking the quiet. "A mob of free folk tried to burn the statues of the Seven. They tried to raise up a totem of the dragon instead."

Jon didn't reply. He didn't know how to. Lady Leona just kept walking.

His Dragonguard were waiting for him, sprawled out before the spiral staircase leading upwards. The wildlings kept weapons in their hands constantly. Lady Leona looked scared by their presence, shuffling and averting her eyes.

Jon noticed that his own chambers had been marked with a white crown. "If there is anything else you require, Your Grace," Lady Leona said, with a stiff curtsey.

"My lady," Jon asked. "You know of the betrothal Lord Manderly offered me?"

"I do." Her arms were tight at her sides. Still she didn't meet his eyes.

"I would like to know what you think of it? Do you support it?"

She hesitated. Jon heard the quiver in her voice, like she wanted to say something else. "I support stability for the north, Your Grace," Lady Leona replied. "I want to see the north and my family brought to order again. The Seven knows that there's so little left in the north these days. Goodbye, Your Grace."

Lady Leona turned and left. She's scared, Jon thought. She's scared in her own castle.

Jon hesitated for a good while before placing his hand on the door and walking through. Val is here.

The first thing he heard was a low growl. A bloodthirsty snarl. "Close the bloody door, will you?" a voice called. "Last thing you want is this girl bolting away."

Jon blinked. Val was in the room, standing at the far end. She's wearing a dress, he realised. A white and blue samite and silver-lined dress, with a cream ermine shawl, highlighting her dark golden hair. She wore her long hair pinned upwards in a southern style, with only a few locks coiffed down from her crown. With her high and sharp cheekbones could have easily been mistaken for highborn. She would have looked right at home in any southern court in the Westeros. She was beautiful enough to draw every gaze in the hall wearing that dress.

No, Val would draw gazes no matter what she wore, he thought with a shallow breath. She could be wearing rags and look like a queen. Wearing finery made her so attractive it seemed unfair. She still kept a sheathed sword on her waist.

Jon had to blink as he realised she was holding a slab of raw, bloody meat in her hand as she turned to him. "Well," Val chided. "You've finally got here. I was wondering how long it would take you before you deigned to pay me a visit, King Snow."

"I didn't know you had arrived."

"Well, you do now." Val turned back to her task, carrying the meat towards the adjoining room. Jon heard that growl again. He recognised it instantly.

"Careful, Val!" Jon called, but she just tutted.

In the doorway of the guest bedroom, he saw a pair of pale blue eyes staring back at him. Phantom had a whole chamber for herself. There were velvet blankets over the mattress, but the shadowcat had shredded the pillows and clawed the sheets to shreds, before curling up underneath the four-poster bed. The room was dark; the servants must have blanketed the double windows so the shadowcat would be more comfortable in the gloom.

Phantom was growling as Val threw the cut of bloody meat, and sharp teeth flashed hungrily. Val just watched curiously, already pulling out another cut from a platter the kitchens must have provided.

Jon could have reached out into Phantom's skin, but he didn't. "Careful, Val," he warned. "She's not tame."

She looked at him curiously, raising a perfect eyebrow. "Would you expect her to be?"

"I… I suppose not."

Val threw another slice of meat at Phantom. "She's just a cat," she said with an affectionate stare. "A beautiful cat too. Her fur is lovely but I don't dare touch it. She wants to eat, she wants to hunt, she wants to be kept safe. She might attack me, though so long as I don't threaten her and I keep her sated I don't think she will."

"And if she does?" Jon took a slow step forward cautiously.

"That's why I have a sword, Jon." Her other hand never left the blade, he noticed. "I'm not stupid, but neither is she, so it's fine."

Phantom gulped down the meat with a hungry growl. Val watched, entranced, as she threw down the last of the meat. "You control her, don't you?" Val asked curiously.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "I can take her skin, or share her senses. But most of the time I don't, I can't – I don't have the concentration to spare. She's still a wild animal, and it only works so long as she's kept contained or isolated any time that I'm not present."

"Well," Val said, "that's where the similarities between her and me end, I suppose."

Phantom took the last of the meat in her mouth back to her lair under the bed. The shadowcat disappeared into the dark. Jon could hear the shadowcat gulping down the meat. Phantom seemed comfortable enough not to lash out. He felt himself relax.

"She has mellowed somewhat," Jon admitted. "When I first found her she was feral, I dared not let her close to me unless I was in her skin. For a while I couldn't even bring her into camp. But she has grown more comfortable around people, I think. She doesn't lash out so much. I can leave her alone for longer periods."

"And you're still nervous to be in the same room with her?"

"She's still a shadowcat."

"True."

Very cautiously, Val stood up and moved to close the door. The door thudded, and Val latched it shut. There was a splatter of blood from the meat on the stone floor. Val wiped her hands clean on her dress.

Then, without a word, she reached across and pulled Jon into her. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then their lips touched. The kiss caught him off-guard and her touch… he could feel her hands moving across his chest, causing his whole body to tremble. She tasted warm, fiery, alive.

"I'm glad you're back," Val whispered as the kiss broke.

Gods, she was beautiful. Everything about her was beautiful. She was slender, toned and full-bodied, the type of body shape that was universally stunning. Dark golden hair and pale grey eyes. Even just being in her company left Jon feeling nervous, hesitant. He tried to reply, but the kiss stole his words.

Val looked at his expression and smirked. There was a playful glimmer in her eyes.

"Have you been treated well?" Jon managed finally.

"I have indeed." She turned to look around the room. "These southron castles do not lack for luxury, I'll give them that. I even wear these dresses that they insist on placing on my bed, but you should see the queer looks they give me when I wear the sword too. And at every feast your fat lord insists on parading me through his court."

"Lord Manderly does that? Why?"

"To show off the savage wildling dressed like 'proper' folk?" Val snorted. "Every meal it's always one knight this or noble lord that who tries to approach me."

They think you are my paramour. Jon could almost understand it too, looking at her now. He wondered how many of those in the Merman's Court could only see the beauty, and not the strength underneath. "Should I be worried?" Jon asked.

"What of? Of me entertaining one of them or gelding them?" Val laughed.

"The latter more than the former," he admitted.

"I'll have you know, I have been the picture of grace, Your Grace," she chided, with a smile. You always are. "I've been sharing their smiles, even using all of their little titles. A few have asked me to dance, but I always decline politely." She rolled her eyes. "Isn't that why we are here? To make all of these kneelers like us?"

"I am sorry for the torment you've endured. It sounds horrible."

"Well," she said with another smile. "I am sure you can make amends for it."

Jon really, really wanted to step forward and kiss her again. Gods, how I've missed her. Even the weeks of being apart had left him craving her touch. Her voice. Her scent. Her taste.

Still, he hesitated. They call her my paramour. I was only just offered a marriage betrothal by the lord of the castle who is hosting me, and here I am with another woman. It felt wrong, disrespectful, even, but….

Val paused, stepping forward. "You look tired," she noted. "How goes the march?"

"Long. Too long. If every man had a dragon to ride upon we would have reached Winterfell by now. But we are winning."

"You don't seem triumphant about it."

"It is hard to feel triumphant when the battle is not over," said Jon. "They have not been good victories."

"Ah." That word seemed to linger in the air. Val took another small step closer. "How long until you must fly out again?"

"Not long," he replied with a grimace. "Too soon."

"Very well then."

Casually, Val pulled her dress off her shoulders. In a smooth motion, she twisted her arm out of the sleeves, and her shawl fell to the floor. And then the dress itself fell too. She was not wearing any smallclothes. She bit her lower lip, a smirk playing across her eyes.

Jon was left staring at her bare breasts, mouth agape. Her skin was smooth, soft and unblemished, with full breasts. Her nipples were erect. Val quietly pulled off her belt and kicked off her dress. Jon could see the bush of dark blonde hair beneath her legs. Val's pale grey eyes didn't even twitch away from his.

There was a long moment of quiet. "Perhaps I can stay a bit longer," Jon said dumbly. Val only laughed.

He stepped forward to hold her. Their kiss was much more forceful, aggressive, hungry. Her naked body pressed against his armour. Jon's clothes had never seemed so restrictive.

Whatever hesitation, doubt or worry seemed to just vanish. Perhaps Val dragged it out of his mouth. No, Jon thought, there is absolutely nothing wrong with this right now.

Fumbling hands tried to unfasten his belt and chainmail, clumsy trying to strip his clothes off him without breaking their embrace. His cloak fell off him, and then his belt. Dark Sister clunked to the floor. Val fumbled to unfasten his breeches, yet Jon held her off.

Instead, he kneeled down onto the cold ground, his lips trailing downwards from her breasts, kissing down her navel. He could feel Val shivering as he lowered himself towards her moistness.

He could smell her. One hand was on the back of his head, pushing him into position, the other hand rubbing her own breasts.

"So," Jon whispered. "Kneelers, huh?"

"Oh be quiet," Val gasped. "And don't stop."

Jon grinned as he pressed his mouth towards her lips. Val was shivering, muffled groans from her throat as she pushed his tongue forcefully towards the right places. Jon pushed her backwards onto the bed, and she fell on her back, her thighs wrapping tightly around his head.

She was all he could taste. It was a bitter, sweaty taste that he hardly noticed. He loved that moment where she lost control, her body convulsing and the cry breaking her lips. She was normally so stiff, tight and composed, and at that moment when he pushed her to the point of breaking down… that felt special.

Val didn't scream, instead she just gasped. She would bite her lip trying to restrain herself, and all that would come out were short, raspy groans and moans, building in pitch. Jon loved that sound.

At some point, Jon's breeches were lost and he climbed into bed, into a tangle of limbs and hungry kisses. It stunk of sweat and sex, but he didn't care. He could have spent an eternity wrapped with her wrapped around her, and it wouldn't have been enough.

By the gods, how did I ever go so long without this?

Nobody disturbed them. Vaguely, he was surprised that no summons came for him from Lord Manderly, he supposed his Dragonguard must have heard the sounds and held the servants back. Perhaps that was disrespectful to his host, but he couldn't find it in him to care.

By the time it was dark outside, they were both left gasping for breath. Jon could hear Phantom scratching at the wall in the adjoining room.

She was laughing. He didn't know why, but Val was left chuckling throatily as she gasped and shivered. "Have I amused you?" Jon asked, feeling the grin spread.

"Somewhat," she replied, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. Her hands were on her breasts as she stretched outwards across the bed. "So if you're a king and you kneel in my presence, than what does make me?"

"A goddess?" Jon leaned across her to take another kiss.

Val flicked his nose. "Flatterer," she chided, and then kissed him again.

Jon was left grinning like a fool. Something about her face, the sweat dripping from her breasts, that moment, he couldn't stop chuckling even as he kissed her again. Trying to breath, kiss and laugh all at once felt painful, but he couldn't help it.

All of the weariness and achiness from the march felt like it was creeping out of his bones. He hadn't even realised how tense and stiff he been until now, until her.

Val's long, long leg wrapped around his torso and pulled him closer, her foot stroking against his back. It felt so comfortable, with her muscles squirming softly beneath him and the scent of her skin all around him.

"I want you with me," Jon whispered in her while as he kissed her neck. "Val… will you come with me when the host sets out?"

"What? To warm your furs at night after a long march?"

"If you'd like," he spoke between the kisses. "I don't like being apart from you. And I want to show you Winterfell."

She paused, and smiled. "Aye. Alright, let's go see this castle of yours, Jon Snow."

He froze. There was a slight shiver down his back. Those words… it made him think of Ygritte. Then Val kissed him and that thought disappeared from his mind.

"And in return," Val whispered. Her cheeks were still blushed red. "I expect more of those king's kisses of yours, Your Grace."

"Happily, my lady," Jon grinned.

Her fingers traced the scar on his chest. "I'm sure," Val whispered, smirking. With a gentle push, she shoved him around and onto his back. Val pulled herself up from the blankets. "But I can take the hint."

"Where are you…" She stood up and walked around the four-poster bed across to his side. And then she kneeled down by his legs. "Oh."

Val was still smirking. Somehow, that smirk was even more enticing that her breasts. He felt her fingers playing around his groin, running through his hair. He could already feel himself turning stiff again, and then the sight of her moving downwards between his legs, and her mouth, and her lips…

Jon groaned. His fingers clenched, and clawed at the mattress. "So…" he said, strained, as he took a deep breath. "… you lose all right to criticise southerners for being kneelers."

"If you make that jest again, then I'll bite you," Val warned, but they were both grinning and giggling like fools.


Author Notes:

Of all the chapters that I've written so far, there have been a few that I haven't been that satisfied with. And then there is one. This one has been a pain...

From now I'm hoping to get the next few out weekly. Next chapter is mostly written, and after that I've got a quite a few bits and pieces of the next five or so.

Oh, and also I've just noticed that Dragons of Ice and Fire now has it's own TV Tropes page! Google "Dragons of Ice and Fire serpentguy", it's one of the top links. Special thank you to whoever created it, I wish you told me.