Westeros: Shadow Beyond the Wall
The blood of kings holds a great power within. The Others know this. They did not know just what power Jon Snow's held when it was spilt by his own brothers, accomplishing through blind idiocy what they had failed to do for so long. Winter is coming, carrying death with it.
I do not own Game of Thrones or A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own the Middle-Earth video game series or Lord of the Rings.
To those who benefited from the World Health Organization's aid, particularly in the US in the midst of the current pandemic: my hopes and prayers go out to you.
Xxx
Chapter Twenty-Four: Into the Light
12th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
Queenscrown, the North
Mother Mole awoke with a strangle gasp, clawing at the air overhead. Hands grasped her wrists and kept her on her back.
"Easy, Mother Mole." Val whispered.
"Val-" Mother Mole coughed and felt a water skin lightly pressed to her cracked lips.
She drank her fill and felt a hand massage her throat.
"You collapsed." Val said. "Screaming of darkness and fire, same with many Wargs."
"Aye, I remember." Mother Mole whispered. "Snow found it, he did. On that cursed island. I felt its rage. I felt death stretch its arms out across the land to sweep it clean. And then…gone."
"Jon?" Val asked with a hint of concern.
"Nay. The fire, the shadow…it is all gone." Mother Mole chuckled softly. "I see it now, like a fog has been lifted. A White Wolf howls over its grave. Jon Snow will come home to you…and he won't be alone."
Xxx
15th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
Ashcrown, Skane
There was no body to bury for the Weaver's funeral.
After returning to find naught but his staff left near his usual resting place the people of Ashcrown had dug an empty grave and begun to place Daemon's most treasured belongings there. Old baubles, childhood toys and mementos either found, crafted or traded across the course of his hundred-some years were brought forth and set within the depression. Several men and women in long robes and wearing bronze masks with points resembling a ravens beak sang a low, sorrowful melody.
The other fallen Skani, men and women who in life had been indistinguishable under their green cloaks and masks, were adorned in robes and buried if there were any remains to be found, or had their spirits laid to rest with their belongings like the Weaver. In similar graves dug around the base of the Heartree similar ceremonies were held by friend and kin. Of nearly four score who had joined in the attack on the black fortress less than half remained, but most had been in their elder years and left behind both widows and children grown who celebrated the end of their lives and the heroic deeds they'd seen through with their last breath. The few younger rangers among the fallen were mourned for all the years that they could have lived.
"My son lived longer than most men get to, and yet died far too soon." Nettles clutched her son's staff in both hands as she gazed up at the Heartree. "I am to blame for that. I left here as a bitter and angry woman seeking revenge…and in my own blind, reckless hate…I abandoned my boy."
She sank down to her knees and lowered the staff into the grave. "And for that I've reaped a price greater than any torture could inflict, the kind that I would not wish for any true mother to suffer. I never got to hold him one last time, to take him flying over Skane or swimming down by the sea. I was never there to see him be wed and widowed, nor was I there to hold my own granddaughter on the day of her birth. And I've no one to blame for that but myself."
At that she dropped a handful of dirt into the grave.
"I failed him in life." Nettles uttered, accepting a walking stick of knotted weirwood from Rhae. "I will not fail him in death."
From a fair distance away Jon watched the Skani in silence. Rhae had thought to invite him so he could say his own farewell, but he'd politely declined on the grounds that for however much help the Weaver had given him, they had still not been close enough for him to feel right about intruding. Even here, among people who didn't care for whether he was Stark or Snow, there was some barrier that only Jon could see which kept him separate from them, an outsider looking in on a loving family just as he had been as a boy.
"You left rather quickly." Jon looked over his shoulder to where Rhae was hiding in the shadows of a weirwood archway.
"Couldn't stay." She murmured, her mask down over her face to hide the tearstained cheeks and red rimmed eyes that he had seen her storm away with. "Can't look at her. Can't talk to her."
"I know." Jon joined her. "Which is why I won't make some argument about her being family. I'd have no right to talk about family. I ran away from mine like she did, though her reason seems to at least hold more legitimacy than mine. I was just a boy full of self pity who couldn't stand being reminded of what he is. It took the sage wisdom of a short man, the counsel of an old man and the love of a woman to break me of that. Dying probably helped give me perspective as well."
"Death does that." Rhae agreed. "Could we walk? Sheep will worry if I wander off on my own."
The Sheepstealer was holding his vigil on the edge of the crater to give room for the funeral to proceed without the need to navigate around him.
"Yes, but not far. She wants to speak with me after." Jon offered her an arm which she took, leaning into his side. "If I'd known what would happen, if I could have changed anything about that day…I would have saved your father."
"There was no saving him from himself." Rhae let her hood fall and removed her mask, showing flushed fair skin and violet eyes ringed with black. "He made his choice. I just wish…that we'd had time. I know we had more time than most, but when I heard-" She sniffled.
Jon winced at the memory of the battle's aftermath. He had been so fixated upon the ring that Rhae had not crossed his mind until he'd found her away from those collecting the dead and wounded that had not been engulfed in fire, unleashing her fury upon an unfortunate tree which fell under Dark Sister's enchanted edge. Nettles had tried to approach her, but Rhae had come to view the older woman with a sort of resentment, having found out that the cause for a great deal of her father's sadness and despair throughout her life had been false.
"The last time that my father spoke to me, he said that we would speak of my mother the next time we saw one another." Jon came to a pond and gazed at the mirror-like surface, taking in the sight of what many had said was Ned Stark in his youth. "I used to dream of riding back down to Winterfell, a proud ranger of the Watch. He'd tell me her name, I would feel content with my place in the world and for many years I would be the uncle who would come back to tell an army of nieces and nephews of my adventures beyond the Wall until death took me and my Watch ended."
Rhae kicked a pebble into the pond and shattered the reflection. "We aren't so lucky as our parents are. We aren't the children we were."
"You were never the child you were." Jon japed. "You fussed over him like he was your child instead of your father."
She snorted and lightly slapped his chest, but lowered herself down to sit by the pond with him. "He didn't make that easy. Liked to play his games with others as age began to creep up on him."
"He knew he had you to hold him up." Jon picked up a stone from the bank and tossed it into the water. "He might have liked Maester Aemon, for all their differences. They looked so much alike that I mistook him for the Maester's twin at first sight."
"What was this Maester like?" Rhae picked up a stone and flicked her hand, skipping it across the water.
"Old. Not as old as your father, perhaps, but he'd lived twice or thrice as long as most men get to." Jon tried to mimic her motion but splashed his next rock in the middle of the pond. "And yet his mind was as keen as a man in his prime. He was blind, but could see better than I could what went on around me. Before he died I came to him for counsel, as I was set to embark on a task that I knew would turn many of my brothers in the Watch against me. Kill the boy, he told me, and let the man be born."
"Did it work?" She asked, skipping her next rock as easily as the first.
"At first I didn't think so." Jon remembered the grimaces and glares that had greeted him upon his return, the icy steel that sank into his heart. "I made my choice and was hated for it, but thought the results would vindicate me. Instead I was betrayed, which led to me becoming as I am now."
"They killed you." Rhae said softly. "Dangling between life and death, just like father said. How did you come back?"
Of all the mysteries that Jon had encountered since that night, that was something that should have been priority and yet had been pushed back in favour of more immediate concerns. Tar-Medine's words were the closest he had gotten to figuring out anything about the Bright Stranger.
Bright Usurper the Balrog had named him, as well as implying him to be a mad dog whose master had put him down and predicted his return.
Yet for all this, there was nothing material for him to work from.
"I don't know…yet." Jon tried again and fumbled, dropping the rock to splash by his feet.
Damn.
"But after I awoke, everything had changed for me." Jon reached for another. "Something in me was different, some part of me that governed my sense of right and wrong. I would not have done to them what I did before my death and rebirth; I would have beheaded them and then burn them to grant them peace. Instead I hung them…" Another fumble, another splash.
Crap.
"And now they serve the realm more faithfully than they did in life. And to achieve it, I had only to desecrate the dead." Jon said before he felt Rhae's hand take his wrist.
"Here. Let me show you." She knelt down and searched until she held up a flat stone. "Your problem is that you were just tossing any rock you found. You need one that's flat."
She went on to correct Jon on how to hold it, then guided him through the motions needed and the angle at which to throw it. Before he had been moving his arm in more of an underhanded swing, but with her guidance he found his wrist flicking sideways, mostly parallel to the surface. When he felt ready she gave him the stone and watched it dance across the pond, bouncing several times before it landed on the opposite shore.
"Well that's a first!" Rhae chortled. "You're sure you've never done this before?"
"Never." Jon insisted, grinning despite himself and holding up his hands innocently. "Although, to be fair, I am much stronger than before because…" He patted his chest. "Gravewalker."
"I thought so." Rhae passed him another stone and competed to get hers across the pond. "You used to care more about honour, you were saying."
"I still do care." Jon watched his second bounce off of a tree on the far side after skipping a half dozen times. "Just not enough to put it before reason now."
Rhae's eyes narrowed considerately as she lightly tossed another stone up and caught it again. "Good." She decided and skipped it most of the way across. "Honour is fine and dandy among its own kind, but it never hurts to temper it with some awareness."
"Once, all I wanted was to be seen as honourable as my father." Jon admitted. "To not just be a stain on his name. Now…"
Now he wanted the seas to run red with Lannister blood, to see Casterly Rock crumble and the Westerlands to forever remember the price the Lion's ambitions.
He wanted to erase the Bolton name from all living memory, to level the Dreadfort to its foundations and salt the lands around it every year so that no life would flourish there.
He wanted to tear down the towers at the Twins and hang every living Frey, be they man or woman, old or young from the bridge as a lesson to the next ten generations that some boons came at too great a price.
He wanted to see Stannis sit the Iron Throne if only so that none of those who had collaborated in or benefited from his kins' tragedy and misery could have it.
He wanted to howl over the graves of every last incestuous whore, ill born bastard, marauding reaver, scheming Lord and usurper who dared to make enemies of the Direwolves. To hear their widows weep and watch their children live in fear for the rest of their lives for this wrath being visited upon them, should they ever think to rise again. To have the Seven Kingdoms remember that while other dynasties come and go in the blink of an eye as they play their games to glorify treachery and greed, the Kings of Winter endure and return from the brink of oblivion as certainly as winter itself must return.
"…I want so much more." Jon whispered, crushing the next stone into dust. "And I have so much to do before I can even begin to achieve it."
Rhae skipped one last stone across. "You won't have to do it alone. You've got a lot of people behind you, lot of orcs too."
"I still need more." Jon tipped his hand and let the dust drift away over the pond. "Before he died, one of the men who killed me told me something…that I would be fighting their wars forever. I wonder if he was more right than he knew."
"Then it's a damn good thing you're shunting those feelings about honour into a box." Rhae pointed back away from the pond, along the path they had come from. "Your next task is approaching."
Nettles hobbled towards them on her lonesome, grunting with each rise or fall in the ground that she had to step over or around. "I swear, sweet boy, you let this place go." She muttered, a harsh contrast to the spirit of vitality who had run from Balrog fire days before. "Oh, to live and regret is worse than any death."
"My lady," Jon bowed his head slightly. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry for Daemon's choices." Nettles shook her head and motioned with her walking staff. "Come, children."
She took them back to the Heartree, where all but one grave had been filled. Something was different about the weirwood which made the air around it feel lighter, as if something had gone from it.
"The dark mother and her children rest now." Nettles tapped her staff against one of the twisting roots that bulged and twisted upwards in a low arch, forming a seat for her. "Good. They always gave me jitters, the bug-eyed little bastards. No offence."
"Peace, my lady, such words hurt me no longer." Jon looked to the gaps in the roots. "His bones rest in there now?"
"What little remain of them by now." Nettles nodded. "The gods of the forest are, in some ways, like the Drowned God, and in other ways they are not. They accept the unwilling sacrifice of enemies, of those whose actions offend their sight such as kin or guest slayer. But it is in willing sacrifice of those with a touch of power in their blood that the greatest boons are earned. Daemon made that sacrifice for your sakes, children. Never doubt that it was worth it, or that sacrifice will have been in vain."
"I will neither forget or doubt." Rhae whispered, staring forlornly into the underbelly of Ashcrown.
"The North Remembers." Jon said solemnly. "And it shall remember him."
"Good." Nettles set her staff aside. "There are truths to be shared. You have rid us of Tar-Medine, so honesty is the least of what I can give you. If you would still seek answers, then join me and walk as the gods do."
She set her hand upon the weirwood root. "Join me and see as the gods do."
Rhae and Jon knelt and reached out, shedding their gloves and pressing their hands to the pale bark. Jon felt it pulse with the same power as days before, the primal energies directed by will and bloodshed. Then he left his body behind and delved into the Weirwood Web as he had done time and time again.
Only this time, he was not alone in the rippling void. Rhae was there, staring at a dark skinned woman who stood before them in familiar robes…
"Oh." Jon stared at Nettles as she had been several lifetimes ago: young and strong, lean with dark hair pulled into many thin braids and her nose intact. She was no great beauty like some he'd seen or heard of, all sharp features, scars and muscle, yet his time with Ygritte and Val had given him some appreciation for the less superficial.
"Don't be shy, Snow." Nettles smirked as Jon averted his eyes. "Rhae, turn around and try not to scream."
Rhae looked over her shoulder and gasped, moving towards her grandmother in a hurry. Jon looked and was greeted by the Bright Stranger's perpetual scowl.
"So you're the one who the boy is bound to." Nettles put her hands on her hips and looked the Stranger over. "Definitely a Stark in life, I'd wager."
"Is that-" Rhae looked between Jon and the Stranger.
"Aye." Jon nodded. "He and I have been bound together since my first death."
"Who I was is none of your concern." The Stranger replied sharply to Nettles' observation. "What matters is your help in the wars to come. Tar-Medine was but one enemy of many."
"Yes, yes, I know of what you speak, spectre." Nettles waved a dismissive hand. "We may discuss that in time, but now I am paying one debt to Snow. Accompany us if you so wish, else hold your icy tongue."
The Bright Stranger replied with silence, glowering at her expectantly.
"Ask your questions, Snow. None may spy upon us here." Nettles turned away from the Stranger's glare.
Jon could not easily decide where to begin. "Sheep. Tell me of him."
"Ah, good choice. Where else should any story start but in the beginning?" Nettles said as the void around them took on new shapes: great mountains spread out across a vast expanse, a sky filled with winged shapes and the cry of creatures that the world believed gone forever.
Dragons by the hundreds swept through the mountain range, nesting in great caves, hunting from lakes and streams or plucking larger prey from mountain paths and forests.
"Long before Valyria, there were dragons to be found across Essos." Nettles gazed up fondly as one youngling flew down and stumbled into the dirt as it landed, its brown scales gleaming in the sun after it shook itself clean. "And long before Balerion the Black Dread, there was sweet little Sheep."
The Sheepstealer in his infancy was barely the size of a pony, a gnat compared to some of the colossal shapes that cast their shadows across the plateau where the four witnesses now stood.
"But there were also those who coveted the power of dragons." Nettles frowned as shapes emerged from nearby rocks and bushes, masked figures who peeked out and crept towards the young dragon, who was more occupied with dislodging some dirt from his mouth. "For the greed of man is as old as man himself."
Sheep did not notice the danger he'd been in, but a larger shape crashed down upon the hunters, crushing two of them and setting fire to the rest with a stream of emerald fire. Few managed to flee before this onslaught, and Sheep coiled up in a frightened ball until he was nudged. Looking up, he met the green eyes of the black dragon that had come to his aid. It growled and took to the skies, followed by Sheep who resembled a meek child who had just been chastised.
"Most were lucky enough to evade the fate that awaited them, others not so much. Dragons in their youth or dragon eggs were snatched away and taken to a city of sorcerers who sought to bend the forces of nature to their whims." Nettles pointed off in the distance, to where the sea glittered in the sunlight by the base of a mountain…and where a city of dark stone rested. "Asshai, before there was ever a shadow. From across the world, those who were touched by what you and I call magic gathered to experiment and learn the limits of their powers. They saw the raw, primal power of dragons and sought to steal it for themselves, and in doing so they spawned a new race of dragons, pale shadows of what was wrought by nature. These became the dragons of Valyria, bound by blood magic to forty dynasties."
"What became of the old dragons? Sheep's people?" Jon asked.
"…when there were enough Valyrian dragons to fill the skies, more than had ever been born in the mountains of Essos, the sorcerer-kings saw the true dragons enslaved or swept from the world." Nettles sighed. "For a time their dragon riders made Asshai the seat of what could have been an Empire spanning the world. But then greed saw these dragon riders covet the sorcery of their masters and learn it for themselves. They broke away and found a new home among the shepherds of a peninsula to the west."
"Valyria." The Bright Stranger said. "And from that was the Freehold born."
"And the aspirations of the sorceresses-kings were torn away." Nettles continued. "But in the midst of this carnage, some dragons escaped to the far flung corners of the world. Three went as far as the island of Dragonstone where they made their nests."
They stood upon a grassy cliff now, overlooking the Narrow Sea and in the shadow of the Dragonmont which belched poisonous smoke in a coiling black pillar that reached high into the air. A shape broke through it and howled as it swept down to the sea, snatching a wriggling shape out of the water. It came up and landed nearby, revealing Sheepstealer many years after his tumble, feasting upon a shark.
"Some escaped unscathed, but others…" Nettles looked up with sad eyes as a shadow fell over Sheep.
Sensing danger, the brown dragon hurried and took off before emerald fire swept over the cliff, incinerating the shark carcass. The same dark dragon from before, now much bigger and bearing scars across its dark scales, landed and shrieked.
"…emerged broken." Nettles said as the Cannibal took off in pursuit. "This one had been imprisoned by the Valyrians for a time, driven mad as they tried to break him into a willing mount. He escaped and followed Sheep into the west, tracking him as far as here."
Before the Cannibal could catch up to the smaller dragon, a third shape dove down and knocked it away. The grey scaled dragon chased the Cannibal away as Sheep circled, then both flew out to sea once again.
"Fortunately, he had a new protector by then, but the Grey Ghost would grow old and weak with time until he could no longer contend with that upstart runt." Nettles face the group. "From there, you all know what befell the Valyrians. After this point they develop a means of cloaking their empire from the green sight, so much of what happened is lost to me. But when the Fourteen Flames erupted and the Doom consumed their heartlands the veil was dropped and the Century of Blood began. How it happened, be it natural or the result of magic gone wrong, I cannot say. But as you know…not all of the Valyrians had been consumed in fire."
She pointed into the east where dark sails could be seen. A small fleet of ships bearing the red dragon of House Targaryen was on the approach…with several dragons flying overhead. Upon the largest of them was a figure adorned in dark armour with a winged helmet, guiding them to the island's shores where he dismounted upon the beach below. He removed his helmet to show a head of silver hair which blew in the wind.
Aenar Targaryen, remembered as Aenar the Exile, looked up at the face of the dragonmont where he would build his family's seat. Joining him with their own dragons were a younger man and woman, Gaemon the Glorious and Daenys the Dreamer. With them came their household, fortunes and slaves from half a world away.
"Aenar chose this island because of the presence of wild dragons. As a lesser Dragonlord he had little knowledge of the methods to produce new dragons like those he commanded, and feared that time and conflict would whittle them away. He still possessed enough magical talent to forge his castle and stave off the effects of inbreeding, which he passed to his children. But even that was lost after a time."
"After that…I'm sure you know what followed. Aegon's Conquest, seven Kingdoms becoming united, massacre and tragedy building upon one another as Targaryen Kings and Queens were born madder or greater. All of it culminated in the Dance of Dragons and the decline of the Targaryens."
"Good riddance to the lot of them." Rhae muttered.
"You have their blood in you too, young lady." Nettles said sharply, arms crossed with a stern expression. "And your great grandfather wore that name proudly."
"And they were still a bunch of mad inbreeders who took your nose and tried to take your head!" Rhae replied. "And they aren't the only Valyrians that you or I claim descent from."
"Hush, girl! I'm trying to tell things in order!" Nettles hissed. "Snow?"
"I'm satisfied thus far." Jon said. "But how did you come to ride Sheep? He has a long memory, he had to remember Valyrians hunting his kind."
"And he does." Nettles nodded. "He didn't choose me for my blood, but despite it. People think that dragons, even the Valyrian brood, are naught but mindless, savage murderers. They grow, they learn and most of all they mature like you or I. If all human infants could fly and breathe fire the world would be ablaze. Tell me, what do all children desire more than a friend?"
They were still on Dragonstone, only elsewhere towards the far side from the port and castle. Like the maw of a beast great enough to swallow a galleon whole the mouth of a cave stretched upwards before them, bones strewn about before and within it with some patches scorched black. Tattered rags from cloaks and twisted scraps of armour could be seen also, the remnants of those who'd dared to enter.
And yet a small, thin figure stepped into the cave, unflinching even as a growl reverberated from the depths. They led with them, by way of a chain and collar, a sheep which they secured to a post driven deep into the ground. Stepping back slowly, the hooded figure tilted their head back as the bulk of a fully matured Sheepstealer slowly entered view. A single breath from the dragon knocked back their hood, revealing Nettles as she was then: nose unblemished and her whole body shaking as the dragon glowered down at her. Then his eyes turned upon the sheep, which struggled to pull itself away from the post, bleating wildly in terror.
The dragon's head dipped, and with a single short blast of fire the sheep's wails fell silent and the Sheepstealer feasted. After the crunch of bones had faded, the younger Nettles made to exit the cave completely but was rooted in place when the brown dragon extended his head towards her. She swallowed and remained still as his snout hovered inches from her face.
"I don't know what possessed me to do this next thing." Nettles chuckled as she watched her younger self reach up with one shaking hand and rest it upon the Sheepstealer's snout. "But I suppose most miracles arise from foolishness."
The Sheepstealer hummed and lowered his head down, resting his entire body upon the ground and crushing hundreds of bones beneath his bulk. The younger Nettles gasped but remained where she stood, slowly rubbing her hand back and forth.
"And that's what I found that day." Nettles recounted sweetly. "The truest friend in all the world."
The isle of Dragonstone dissolved like mist in a breeze and returned them to the void.
"And if not for that wretched bitch of a cousin of mine, things might have turned out better." Nettles scowled, speaking bitterly. "She bought into and, through her own stupidity, fed many of the rumours surrounding my father and I."
"Your father…" It clicked in Jon's head. "Daemon, the Rogue Prince."
"Who begot me from a Summer Islander with a Valyrian ancestor, a mistress he hid on Driftmark descended from a bastard seed of Aurion Caltaris, the would-be Emperor of a Valyria that never was. The fool had the decency to send them off to the Targaryans before embarking on his conquest, bribing Aenar the Exile with a betrothal between their offspring if he succeeded, giving the Exile blood on the throne of a new Freehold…or a worthless bastard when he failed." Nettles grinned wryly and brushed a hand over her mutilated nose. "The Half-Year Queen thought that I would seek to supplant her because Aurion's blood was more prominent in the Freehold's glory days. She made her distaste for me known."
"Another lie told by the Maesters, then." The Bright Stranger grunted. "The chronicles of Maester Eustace would have us believe you received that for thievery."
"It wouldn't do well for morale if people knew their Queen and one of her dragon riders were at odds." Nettles shrugged. "I always wore coverings for my head when in public up to that point. It helped hide how scared I felt around highborns. But after she did this I let the world see it and judge for themselves. I never flinched in that woman's presence again, and it drove her mad to know that all she'd done was give me resolve…and drive away the man she thought I was fucking."
"You wore it like armour." Jon said.
"Aye, that I did."
Jon felt a spark of a kindred spirit in the old woman.
They stood somewhere new, warmer than the wind swept cliffs and caves of Dragonstone. It was a keep nestled within a sizeable town upon the shores of a bay and surrounded by stone walls, with an army camped therein waving the banners of Riverland houses prominently among others…but not so much as that of the three headed dragon.
"You're a terrible maester, Norren, but a good man." Through the keep's courtyard strode a man with Valyrian colouring, clad in black and red while accompanied by a maester. In one of the Dragonlord's armoured hands was a crumpled slip of parchment.
"I've been told as such before." Maester Norren bowed his head slightly, though the tone of his words spoke of a cordial familiarity between the two. "What will you do?"
"Today, nothing." The Dragonlord shook his head. "If we obey my wife's command and take her head here, Sheep will rampage throughout Maidenpool. Tell Lord Mooton to prepare a site a fair distance from the town for tomorrow and that by my strict command he will speak of this to no one."
"You know he won't obey the Queen's command. Aside from being fond of you both, he refuses to break Guest Rite." Norren reminded him.
"He's a good man in a bad position. Should anything go wrong, I would at least give him plausible defence against any charge of treason." The Dragonlord tossed the parchment into a brazier lining the path through the yard and watched it coil and crumpled into cinders. "…I thought that telling her would ease her suspicions, yet it only made things worse."
"Her Grace hasn't the most consistent history of sound decisions." Maester Norren shrugged. "Although I could see the hands of her council guiding her in writing that."
"I'll feed them to Caraxes for sewing this dissent in our ranks." The Dragonlord vowed. "But first I must bring an end to my nephew's rampage. Then, finally I can begin to…" He faltered in his steps and leaned against a knightly statue.
"Daemon?" Maester Norren reached out in concern but was waved off.
"…how did it come to this, Norren?" Prince Daemon Targaryen whispered, sounding so very tired. "The things I have set in motion…Helaena's boy, Rhaenyra's children, all this death and chaos over that chair…I've helped shatter my own family and now I'm about to kill more of them. This might be the beginning of the end for House Targaryen."
Norren sighed and folded his arms over his chest. "I'm not a very sagely maester, Daemon. Aye, you and half your family helped see to it that this dance would befall Westeros. Aye, you've done things that I cannot defend. Many things. But you and that lass are the only dragon riders who aren't missing, dead, injured or fucking insane by this point. That makes you best suited to taking the first step in setting things right. You've spent your life rarely caring for anything, so use what time you've got left to show your daughter that's changed."
Daemon eases himself off of the statue and looked at the maester with a half-smile. "…thank you, Norren." He whispered. "You're the worst maester I've ever met, but if I'd had you by my side then much bloodshed could have been averted."
"That's usually the way of things in Westeros." Norren nodded. "But there's no use lamenting what could have been."
"No, there isn't." Daemon agreed. "…Whatever happens, my Nettles shall not die here. Not today."
The scenery was replaced by the shores of a vast expanse of water. At first Jon though the was staring at a sea, but soon recognized that it was really a lake so large that its far shores were obscured by distance and a mist hovering over the blue and green waters. Further along the shore was easily the largest castle he'd ever seen, eclipsing even Morgund'dur in scale with curtain walls like mountain cliffs, five towers higher than all but a few man-made structures and an expanse that would make Winterfell seem tiny in comparison.
But his attention was quickly torn away from the dizzying scale of the architecture to the lake itself, where the waters would flash gold and orange. Overhead, dragons danced and champion of the divided Targaryen dynasty clashed. Prince Daemon upon Caraxes, Dark Sister a match for his black and red armour, clashed against Prince Aemond astride Vhagar, once the steed of Visenya the warrior-queen.
The two dragons were locked together, a clump that tumbled head over tail as they plummeted towards the God's Eye. It was said in history books that Caraxes' jaws were closed around Vhagar's neck while the larger dragon's talons ripped into his wings. Just before they completed their descent Daemon would leap from his saddle and heroically drive Dark Sister through his nephew's hollow eye socket before the collective mass expelled water to such heights that the tallest tower in Harrenhal would briefly be equalled by a frothing, white spire.
But what did Maesters know, hearing everything second hand?
What did Smallfolk know, telling things as their minds interpreted it and changing their tales to become more epic and memorable?
Daemon did leave his saddle, but not willingly. Vhagar's claws knocked him free and sent him spinning away. Jon saw Dark Sister fall from his grip, tumble aimlessly through the air…and sink through Aemond's eye, freezing his triumphant expression in place before he, the sword and both dragons were consumed by the depths, not to be found until years later. The pillar was not quite as great as had been embellished, but beyond it Jon's eyes spied another winged figure vanishing towards the centre of Westeros' largest lake.
"You were there." He stated.
"To save my father." Nettles made no denials. "And I did, barely. We fled to the Vale where we took shelter high in the mountains so that he might heal."
"Until the Arryns found you." That much had been confirmed by men who hadn't been observing event from hundred of feet away. "But they never saw your father."
"Hard to see anything when you're running for your life as your friends roast in their armour." Nettles smirked. "The Painted Dogs served us well in keeping hidden to that point, but after that we both knew that there was nowhere in Westeros safe for us. We intended to fly east, take our chances in far Essos, but we barely reached the Bite before Sheep felt a familiar calling in the far north. His former protector and tormentor was carving out hunting territories within the Shivering Sea, a worrying prospect. We never found the Cannibal…but we found Tar-Medine."
Prince Daemon, now dressed more humbly and visibly several years older with a mess of white hair and an untrimmed beard to show for it, knelt before a group of beings little taller than children. Adorned in clothing of red leaves, eyes black as coals and smiles reminding Jon of unsavoury individuals who'd looked at him as if imagining his disemboweling at their hands. Nettles stood further away, resting a hand on the Sheepstealer's snout as the dragon glared at the children.
"And more."
Prince Daemon accepted a wooden bowl filled with a white and red paste which he ingested without complaint. When he opened his eyes they were clouded over.
"A pact was formed: the shelter of what became Ashcrown in return for protection against the enemy we'd driven away to his seat in the north. We were taught the magic of the Children, aided by our own natural affinity carried within our Valyrian blood. Our lives were prolonged and our gazes were broadened to show just how little we knew. It was a bitter reminder of how much had been forgotten, but it also made many things possible that would have been beyond even the reach of a dragon…including Blackfyre."
In a distant land under a star filled sky, the Rogue Prince stole into a sea of yellow tents. A man in golden armour recognized him to be an interloper and moved to confront him. The intruder lifted his hooded head and his eyes became a milky white mirrored by the sellsword, who quickly forgot why he'd begun to abandon his post and hastily returned before his absence could be noted. The Rogue Prince repeated this feat several times more, glamours of magic woven to alter sight, sound and mind removing him from the perception and recollection of any with a will too weak to resist. This carried him to the tent marked by, alongside the banner of the Golden Company, that of a horse with the wings of a dragon upon a golden field.
Therein he was met by a dark haired and grizzled man deep in his cups when he took notice of the intruder. Violet eyes ablaze with fury, he turned and drew steel, bellowing for his guards. Neither they nor anyone else would hear him, not with the magic of the Children deceiving their minds as easily as it had their ancestors in antiquity. Daemon met this man head on instead of simply enchanting him, disarming him in several strokes by leveraging his greater experience over the man's brutish strength and ferocity.
"Mediocre." Daemon grunted as he guided Aegor 'Bittersteel' Rivers' downward stroke to cleave into the fine rug underfoot, then placed a foot upon the great sword's crossguard and pressed down while driving his elbow into the Targaryen bastard's face, knocking him back bereft of his blade. "It would be mercy to take your head."
Bittersteel bellowed and lifted a chair up with one hand, flinging it at Daemon who side-stepped it and cut into the larger man's leg. He crumpled to one knee with a growl, still mustering the strength to fight as Daemon retrieved from a chest the ancestral Targaryen blade and then held it, unsheathed, at the Captain-General's throat.
"Mediocre." Daemon repeated. "Yours and the Blackfyres' greed have stained bastards across the Seven Kingdoms. Generations from now they shall suffer for your treason, from the Sands of Dorne to the Snows of the North, all of them held to your level. You do not deserve a clean death. No, instead you shall live on. Failure has been the foundation of House Blackfyre and your Golden Company, and so shall failure be their legacy."
"Who…are you?" Bittersteel hissed, and gasped when Daemon's hood fell away.
His features had still changed despite his longevity, showing the prolonged prime years of the Targaryen prince slipping into the earlier stages of old age. Yet the Rogue Prince had still aged with some grace, as befit a man hale and hearty in their elder years. His beard was more roughly trimmed and braided, same with his hair which had adopted an almost northern look. Yet his heritage could not be denied for all of this as he stared down at his base born kin with as much respect as he might have had for a mangy, wild dog.
"One who has failed more than a thousand men put together." The Rogue Prince said, striking his foe on the skull to render him unconscious. "My mistakes are innumerable and helped to birth your wretched line, but tonight I shall help to correct at least that. Perhaps one day a Blackfyre will sit the throne, but never shall they wield this blade again."
He stole away into the darkness, returning to Skane victorious.
"Bittersteel needed years to collect enough Valyrian steel and make his mummer's blade." Nettles chuckled as events sped by, showing Daemon II Blackyre's ill fated and short lived rebellion, which had lacked Bittersteel's aid and ended almost as quickly as it began. "He couldn't let the world know that he had lost the symbol of the Blackfyres' perceived claim. With time, patience and no small amount of luck he forged a new symbol and passed it on as the original, but he carried the shame with him through two more failed rebellions and died fighting some forgotten war in the Disputed Lands."
And so ended the tale of how Blackfyre had come to reside on Skane.
"But Dark Sister came to us a different way. Not to be reclaimed from usurpers, but instead given as a gift."
The Wall was as imposing decades ago as it was now. The lands to the north, where Jon stood now, were not covered in thick layers of snow and ice but were instead more like those just south of the great rampart. There was still a bitter chill to be found in the air, even in the memory of this place, but Jon could see a certain appeal to the untamed wilderness when it was not in seemingly perpetual winter and infested by the undead. He could imagine carving out a quiet life here, worrying only for food, warmth and safety without the layers of pageantry and rigid hierarchies found in the Seven Kingdoms.
If only…
"Here he is." Nettles said softly as a figure rode through the north facing gate of Castle Black. "The greatest bastard in all the world."
He had both the Targaryen features and colouring, advanced in age but undeniable. His flesh was almost as pale as his hair, save for the blot of red across his cheek and throat on one side and made his lone red eye stand out more. A cloak mantled by black feathers adorned his shoulders, and he wore the leathers and furs of the Night's Watch.
"Brynden Rivers." Jon recalled artistic depictions which had shared the same distinct features of the man who had been perhaps the most feared in Westeros in his time. "The Bloodraven."
"He who threw aside honour to save the realm from further conflict." Nettles confirmed. "But he also sacrificed his freedom for it."
Seven and sixty years ago, in the wake of Maekar I Targaryen's passing and amidst a growing uncertainty as to who would sit the throne, Bloodraven had offered safe passage to the next in a line of Blackfire pretenders: Aenys, only to take his head the moment he set foot in King's Landing. Aegon the Unlikely ascended the throne but could not abide the dishonourable actions, never mind how it had perhaps spared the realm another Blackfyre Rebellion if Aenys were to use the opportunity to forge alliances with lords still sympathetic to him and his kin. But the Bloodraven, for his service, was given the choice of taking the Black and was said to have gone to the Wall with many of his elite Raven's Teeth bowmen where he took the mantle of Lord-Commander.
It had been a guilty pleasure of Jon's to hear this tale in his youth. The idea that a bastard, even a royal bastard could rise to help safeguard the inheritance of their rightfully inheriting kin, had been inspiring. Some part of him had dreamt of being Robb's Bloodraven, his watchful right hand who sought out his family's enemies before they could strike first. Then he learned of the dishonourable actions that had been done to those ends and had been torn, raised to prize honour above all else.
And now he looked this man in the eye as he set off into the Haunted Forest. He was in no great hurry and acted as if he expected no danger to befall him, guiding his horse with the ease of one on a relaxing countryside ride.
He went as far as the same Weirwood that Jon would kneel before many years later, and found that someone was waiting for him.
"Hail, Brynden, son of Aegon." A petite figure with green flesh, large eyes and a childish figure uttered as she peeled out from behind the pale tree.
"Hail, Brynden, Lord-Commander of the Night's Watch." A second appeared from the surrounding trees, male by their build and voice with a darker brown complexion more akin to wood than greenery.
"Hail, Brynden, kinslayer, oathbreaker and condemned." A third, this one more closely resembling the dark eyed and pale creatures met by Daemon and Nettles, hissed as it crept along a branch overhead.
Bloodraven kept his horse steady and brought it to a halt. "I have come as beckoned." He said, one hand upon the hilt of Dark Sister at his hip. "What would the gods demand of me?"
"Your aid." The first Child whispered.
"Your service." The second Child spoke more boldly.
"Your destiny." The third Child dragged a black tongue across its cracked lips. "You are an avatar of the eldest, a Weirwood in human shape. Great in power, yet fleeting as the summer. You are not long for this world, oath breaker, but the gods have great plans for you yet."
"An eternal vigil, passed from one watcher to the next." The first child approached Brynden as he dismounted his horse. "The first, last and greatest defence against the forces of darkness. The memory of this entire world embodied within flesh. That is your destiny, Brynden Rivers, but you may only claim it if you relinquish that which ties you to your old life."
"What is there left for me to relinquish?" Brynden snapped harshly. "My freedom? My love? My family? I have given everything in service to the realm."
"Not everything." The second Child asserted. "Not yet."
"Perhaps," another voice called from behind the Heartree, "he might respond better if you were a little more direct in your proposal, my friends."
Bloodraven pulled Dark Sister free. "Who goes there?" He demanded. "Name yourself!"
"Oh put it away before your heart bursts." Prince Daemon stepped into view, not much different from how he had appeared in the Golden Company's encampment but dressed more warmly.
"Who are you?" Bloodraven asked warily. "You appear Valyrian, yet I know no tribe among the Wildlings who carry the blood of Old Valyria."
"Because I'm not a Wildling, just a visitor." Daemon unsheathed Blackfyre, causing Bloodraven to take a step back and adopt a defensive stance before the Rogue Prince laid the weapon sideways for him to see. "I'm also your kin, Brynden. I know you haven't had the best experiences with family, but believe me when I say that you need never fear me."
"I…know that sword." Brynden whispered. "How came you by it? The usurpers' beast, mine own Aegor-"
"Had it, then lost it." Daemon interjected. "Not that he would let anyone know. We Targaryens, true-born or not, are a prideful lot and don't usually take defeat with dignity and grace." He returned Blackfyre to his hip and then leaned it, scabbard and all, against the Heartree. "I don't like it much, to be honest."
Bloodraven similarly disarmed himself and stood across from Daemon. "You did not answer my question."
"Forgive me, it seems I'm feeling a tad hypocritical today." Daemon grinned ruefully. "Daemon Targaryen, once King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea and Prince-Consort to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the first of her name, rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms..." He trailed off. "Did they invent anymore titles to stick onto the tail end?"
"Impossible." Bloodraven shook his head. "Daemon Targaryen lived and died well before my time."
"Lived, yes." Daemon agreed. "Died…not exactly."
He turned and beckoned with one arm. "Come on out."
Bloodraven gasped and actually fell to his knees as the Sheepstealer's head slowly poked into the clearing, causing some trees to groan as they were forced to lean away by the dragon's horns and neck. The three Children of the Forest gathered around the Heartree, regarding the dragon warily and the dark eyed one of their number even hissing aggressively towards him.
"Now," Daemon held out a hand to Brynden. "Let's talk."
"And talk they did." Nettles swept away the scene. "Of what, it is not my place to say. But by nightfall Dark Sister joined her brother on Skane and Bloodraven met his destiny. For a time, all that I knew was the happiness of living freely with my father, building a new home and a new family among the Skani." Her face darkened. "But like every summer…all good times must come to an end."
Fire danced in the sky as the Sheepstealer and Tar-Medine clashed over Skane. Jon stood not far from where he had slain the Balrog, now a mere spectator to a precursor of that fateful battle. Instead of him, the Rogue Prince rode Sheep into battle, clad in the same black and red armour he'd worn against his nephew Aemond.
"My father knew that Sheep, while long lived, is not timeless like Tar-Medine." Nettles explained. "Older and weaker he would grow while the Balrog would remain untouched. Time became our enemy, so he sought to strike the demon down first."
Sheep shrieked and recoiled as Tar-Medine cut him across his back with a blade of fire that severed Daemon's saddle. He was flung away from his mount and plunged to the forest below.
"And I was not there to save him this time." Nettles looked away as her father vanished into the trees.
Rhae approached and pulled her grandmother into a warm embrace. "I'm so sorry…" She said, able to appreciate the pain of losing a father.
"What is past…is past." Nettles said. "But I had not learned from my father's mistakes. I was angry, reckless…I vowed before the Heartree, before the gods themselves that I would go to Morgund'dur…and that I would not leave until I had reclaimed my father's remains…and taken what Tar-Medine loved most as penance for taking my father from me."
"The ring." Jon said.
"That blasted ring." Nettles agreed. "I left my son behind for it, and now the folly of my decision has run its course. The rest of my story is known to you, for you have written its most recent chapter. Jon Gravewalker, Jon Demonsbane, Jon the Sunderer I name you. Even if the world does not know or believe all that transpired…"
The youthful façade melted away, and Jon found himself back at the exact spot where he and Rhae had been before being taken into the annals of history, hands pressed to the weirwood root.
And Nettles, ancient and grey haired, smiled as she kissed his brow. "…you shall always have the gratitude of this old hag." She proclaimed. "Now go. You must prepare for your return trip. We shall speak again before you depart, but for now…" She took Rhae's hand. "We shall celebrate the memory of both Daemons."
Xxx
The surviving expedition members had been allowed to set up camp outside of Ashcrown, and had long toasted their victory. Now they just sang for the fallen and basked in the peace while it lasted, aware that they would soon enter a much larger war. Jon was greeted as 'Lord Snow' or 'Demonsbane' by several before he found Tormund, who was surrounded by a semicircle of Skani who had been permitted to roam the camp.
"I saw him riding that thing!" The Giantsbane's voice was slurred.
"We all did." Ser Davos was sitting close by, looking on in amusement even as he tossed in the comment.
"No, I saw him. Riding that thing." Tormund insisted.
"That's right, you did." Davos shrugged, seeing that there would be little to be gained in pointing out the obvious.
"That's why we all agreed follow him." Tormund looked to a nearby Thenn, who nodded silently in agreement. "That's the kind of man he is. He's…" He held up one hand to show an empty space maybe an inch wide between his thumb and index finger. "small."
Jon couldn't contain a snort.
"But he's strong." Tormund pressed on. "Strong enough…to make a friend of an enemy…" He patted himself on the stomach. "And get murdered for it!"
That was hardly something that Jon was proud of. It was a harsh reminder that Melisandre of all people had counselled him to keep some guards or Ghost close to him before the mutiny had happened. Whether or not it was better in the long run that he hadn't was still to be decided.
"Most people get murdered for it, they stay dead!" Tormund boomed. "But not this one. He gets right back up," he swept one arm upwards, then brought it down like a hammer, splashing the contents of his mug on some of his audience. "And he keeps fighting! North of the Wall, Skagos, fuckin' Skane! He keeps fighting! He keeps fighting!"
He pointed at the sky. "He climbed on a fucking dragon and fought some more!"
Jon distinctly remembered spending more time in Sheep's claws than on his back, but he wouldn't stop the man at this point.
If I'm not careful even I might start believing everything he says about me. He mused silently.
"What kind of mad fucker gets on a dragon?" Tormund asked of his audience. "A madman? Or a fucking hero!"
He was met with applause from both the Skani and any nearby who listened to him.
"A real hero! Right out of the old tales!" He continued. "Not those southern knights in their big castles and shiny armour, but the likes of those who fought the Long Night before! They didn't do it for riches or titles, they didn't do it to be recognized or remembered. They did it because that's what real heroes do: they fight monsters so folk like you don't need to."
And what if they become a monster? A sliver of doubt crept into Jon as he remembered Daemon's warning.
"And there he is!" Tormund had spotted him hanging at the back of the crowd, which turned and quickly split as the Giantsbane stormed up and slapped Jon on the chest before shoving a mug in his hand. "The Demonsbane!"
"Demonsbane!" The chorus went up, and Jon reluctantly drank his fill before guiding Tormund away from the festivities.
"We're leaving tomorrow." He told Tormund once they had some semblance of privacy, wandering through the less crowded sections of the camp. "Back to Skagos to find Rickon, then back to the mainland."
"Ah, right, the King of the Kneelers still needs us." Tormund grunted. "Almost forgot all about that y'know. Feels like a whole different world out here on the sea. Almost sad to leave it."
"You can return one day." Jon told him. "We have flayers to kill first."
That prospect seemed to cheer the bigger man up a little. "That'll be some good fun. Time to show your southron friends how Free Folk kill."
Jon didn't bother to point out how it was the exact opposite. By this point the Free Folk had several weeks of drilling in formations for countering cavalry charges and heeding commands in the heat of battle. That still put them at having far less experience than many levies in fighting as a united army, but their prowess as individual warriors would help to make up for it. When armies clashed and order broke down they would become terrors in the ensuing brawl. Before his first death he would have once feared a Thenn to any ten regular men, and would have preferred to face twenty over fighting Tormund.
"Lord Baldric will need time to call for a Moot once we return to Kingston." Jon said.
"A what?"
"A Moot, a…gathering." Jon explained. "Of Lords and Chiefs. That is how he will bring Rickon into the open. He is King of Skagos in all but name, he will be there."
"Why would he care?" Tormund asked. "From the sound of it, he hates them all equally and stays in the woods to avoid them. Can't say I blame him."
"Baldric gained his favour, or at least he didn't gain his disdain. He said Rickon has come before, mostly to just watch and at the behest of the woman caring for him." Jon defended his plan. "That's when I can talk to him. But it will take days to arrange it."
"The war will be over before we get back." Tormund grumbled.
"Even if the weather breaks enough for armies to march across the North, it will take weeks for any of them to get anywhere." Jon replied. "Longer if it picks back up mid-march and leaves thousands of men and horses snowed in."
"Wouldn't find the Free Folk scared to march by a little snow." Tormund snorted. "We march day and night over snow and ice that make your southern snowfalls look like drizzles."
"That's why Stannis wanted your help so much." Jon pointed out, eliciting a chuckle and a begrudging nod from Giantsbane. "And why the flayers will learn to fear the Free Folk. Men and women crazy enough to march when it's cold enough to freeze a normal man's cock off, and sturdy enough to come out of it whole and ready to kill."
Tormund barked out a laugh. "Aye, that they will!"
"I pray that you leave a few left for us, Giantsbane."
Jon and Tormund stopped as they came to the edge of the camp bordering Ashcrown, where Tar-Medine's severed head lay on display upon a cart. It had been set this way so the Skani could see that their long-time tormentor, viewed with equal parts hatred and terror from childhood to deathbed, was at last vanquished. Now there stood an assembly of several dozen Skani rangers in their green cloaks, white weirwood longbows in hand with Rhae standing at the head of the group, similarly dressed and armed.
"Rhae." Jon looked over the men and women at her back. "I thought you would be worth your grandmother."
"I was. We were all mourning, but that can only last so long." Rhae nodded. "Skane owes you a debt that cannot be repaid in even a lifetime, Snow, but I won't let anyone accuse us of not trying to repay it all the same."
"You intend to go with us?" Jon asked, surprised. "But…what about your people? You are Sheep's rider."
"Sheep can never leave Skane, else he will die." Rhae answered directly. "His wounds were so great that even…whatever my father did could not fully repair what they did to his body. He is nourished and may yet live a great many years, but either Skane or the Shivering Sea shall become his grave. That cannot be changed."
The dragon who had seen so much of the world, experienced so much of it…doomed to die on a little island far from home and without the company of others of his kind. There was something about that which made Jon feel melancholic.
A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.
Could the same be said for dragons in general?
"He cannot aid your King's war even if he wanted to…but we can." Rhae continued. "You fight against the Long Night's return. My father told me of the dark things that walk under the sun now, of the ice demons dwelling past your Wall. Tell me if you can think of a better way to repay our debt than by joining the only fight that will ever really matter."
Jon couldn't conjure any substantial argument to this, but still tried. "You might die far from home."
"We are all ready for that." She said, resolute.
"We might fail long before you ever see the White Walkers, much less fight them."
"Do we look like the sort who care for glory? If we die fighting men south of the Wall today so that the monsters north of it can be put to the sword tomorrow, so be it. And if we fail? At least we tried."
Rhae smirked. "Face it, Demonsbane: we're going with you."
"And if Stannis reacts poorly to news of Sheep? Or to your…heritage?" Jon asked.
"What will he do? Waste time, men and ships to chase down a sickly, dying dragon who can't be of use to him? Or put a blade to my throat when I've knelt to him, called him king and kissed his arse so much he could see his own reflection in it?" Rhae challenged. "And if you and that onion man advise him against it, could you see him trying?"
That was difficult to give a real answer to. Stannis was a pragmatic man at times, most of all where Seaworth's advice got through to him, but he could also be stubborn, driven and…somewhat entitled to what he felt was owed to him. He may also see Rhae as a threat, given her Targaryen ancestry, but if she were to openly bend the knee to him it could assuage any fears he may have…
Maybe he would accept, maybe he would be royal ass about it; Jon wasn't following him for his personality, but if Stannis became a threat he'd have to consider dealing with him as needed.
"I suppose we'll have to find out when we next see him." Jon shrugged. "A most interesting conversation that will be, I'm certain. We leave at first light tomorrow. I'll try to get room for your people, but until the Skagosi can send more ships we can only take a few with us."
"We've waited centuries to just be able to walk freely on our own land, we can wait a while longer to walk freely beyond it." Rhae tapped her longbow against the ground and a Skani man approached with something wrapped in burlap. "But first: a gift for your service to Skane."
"I need no gifts, Rhae." Jon insisted.
"Ah, don't argue, Snow." Tormund lightly slapped him on the arm. "When a woman like her offers you a gift, definitely don't argue."
"It's more of a gift from Sheep, truthfully." Rhae said as the object was unwrapped, revealing a surface of scaled pattern forming a round…
Gods old and new.
"Is- is that…?" Jon's hands shook as he slowly reached out and accepted the gift.
"A dragon egg." Rhae nodded, seeming to be amused by his reaction as Jon held up the bronze egg in both hands. "Sheep has laid many here, and felt you deserved one."
"How can- but isn't Sheep-" Jon's mind raced.
"Dragons, be they the pale Valyrian bastards or true Elder Dragons like Sheep, are not bound by what humans consider natural." Rhae brushed a hand against the egg. "Call them He or She, they will lay their own eggs without any partner involved, and their offspring will go on to do the same. For as long as one stands, they are legion. And unlike the Valyrian dragons, these need no pageantry or blood magic to hatch, merely sufficient heat- usually their own parent's flame. Sheep withheld this for fear that Tar-Medinae would see a hatchling as too tempting a prize to not risk an attack on Ashcrown."
Jon could agree wholeheartedly that the idea of a Balrog commanding a dragon was something he would be glad to never see.
"Will this one…hatch?" He asked.
"Not likely, no." Rhae shook her head. "He laid this one long ago, when he first settled here. The longer an Elder Dragon waits to baptize their egg in fire, the less likely it is to ever hatch. You're welcome to try if you so wish, I wouldn't weep to see another Elder Dragon return to the world and dispel the reputation set by the Valyrians and their pets, but Sheep had good reason to not offer you a more recent egg."
It was better that way. Even as a petrified rock a dragon egg could be worth enough to buy entire armies or feed a kingdom for years. Jon preferred food for the North over another incarnation of winged death, even an offspring of the Sheepstealer.
"And if I wish to sell it to buy food for my people?" Jon asked. "The North has suffered harshly and the coming winter will be the longest in living memory."
"Then that is your right." Rhae answered. "It is a gift without condition, Snow."
"This could save many in the North from starving and freezing." Jon wrapped the egg up. "I promise that I will not barter it away hastily."
"Just don't sell the next thing I intend to give you." Rhae warned.
Another gift?
"Rhae, I can't accept any further gifts."
"It isn't a gift. It's what you call an investment." Rhae produced Blackfyre from under her cloak. "Grandmother agrees that until you wielded it, Blackfyre saw little use in any worthy pursuit. As your own sword is shattered, we insist that you carry Blackfyre into battle. I will retain Dark Sister so that these twins may finally do some real good for a change."
Jon almost dropped the egg. He had felt privileged, honoured even to carry Blackfyre into battle, even for a time. But to be offered it a second time, with no guarantee that he would be able to return it?
Longclaw's fragments had been recovered from the ruins of Morgund'dur, stashed away with many riches that Tar-Medine had hoarded over the course of his reign. Those pieces were safely aboard the Sea Dragon by now along with the hilt and remaining portion of the blade he had used as an improvised dagger, set to be returned to House Mormont at the earliest convenience. Jon had resigned himself to falling back to use of castle forged steel or worse, making the offer all the more tempting…
"I might break it too." He warned her.
"I might kill you if that happens, but you'll just come back anyways." Rhae shoved the sword against his chest. "You lit the fucking sword on fire and killed a demon with it, Snow. If that isn't a hint that you're better suited to wielding it, I don't know what is."
"Then I'll wield it proudly…and try not to break it." Jon fought down a smile.
"Only you'd ever have to promise not to break dragon steel, Snow." Tormund snorted.
Xxx
16th Day of the 11th Moon of 300 AC
Skagos
Shaggy was watching the big den on the eastern side of the island. There had been a lot more noise than usual from there, a lot more two-legged ones coming and going. None of them had troubled him, but he couldn't entirely suppress the curiosity that all cubs were born with. While Osha kept watch he slipped into Shaggy's skin to watch the den from a cliff on the same bay.
For a long time, long enough that he grew bored and returned to his own skin a few times, all he saw was the two-legged ones making noise and moving around erratically. But then as the sun reached the middle of the sky he saw something appear out on the water: the same things that had carried him, Osha and Shaggy here, only bigger. Two of them, wearing the symbol of the Alpha of the big den, were met by a thunderous roar as the head of something…big and dark with large horns was carried off of one of the ships.
A flash of white caught Shaggy's eye, and they both growled as they saw their silent brother racing through the den. They held back from racing down there to finish their fight from before and establish just who was the new Alpha of the Pack, Osha's stern words from the last time coming back to him and reaching through him to Shaggy.
The silent brother raced to the shore where the big den's Alpha greeted his pack-mates, but raced straight past him to a figure in black that was climbing off of one of the big floating things. Just before the blur of white slammed into the man, he saw something familiar in the man's face…
Pack!
A member of the Pack! The Pack that left him alone in the dark, alone with the monsters!
TheDark hair, the grey eyes, the face…somehow the Old Alpha was back!
Shaggy snarled and Rickon was flung back into his body, waking up on the floor of the latest cave to become his den.
Come back Shaggy! He cried. Come back!
With some resistance, Shaggy complied and abandoned any idea of attacking their silent brother or the Old Alpha. Rickon curled into a ball and waited for Shaggy to reach him, trying to make sense of what he saw.
Pack. Part of the Pack is here. But the Pack is dead. The Old Pack is gone! They left me!
Hot tears burned his eyes. Shaggy whined and nuzzled the side of his face.
"Left me. They left me…" Rickon whispered, weeping into Shaggy's coat. "They left me alone…papa left me alone…"
Xxx
End of Chapter
A/N: There we go! I'm back in the saddle again, and churning out the biggest exposition chapter I've ever done! Hope this answered any question you all had about how all these Targaryen looking people, artefacts and a whole dragon wound up on Skane!
'For so long as one stands: we are legion.' A somewhat paraphrased quote from Legacy of Kain, one of my favourite videogame series that I never got to play myself.