Istind Hearthome had been asked to become king thrice in his eight and twenty years of life.
The first was asked of him by the Jarls of Skyrim, during a great council held atop High Hrothgar. There, they were meant to discuss the issue of dragons, and make to halt the hostilities between Stormcloak and Imperial until Alduin was defeated. Ulfric Stormcloak himself asked Istind to wear the Jagged Crown. But Istind was not even twenty at this time, and little learned besides. He'd more interest in his adventures than he was a court, and so Ulfric was rejected.
The second was after Istind journeyed to Solitude and halted Potema's resurrection. General Tulius was hoping Jarl Elisef would become High Queen, but felt her claim needed a stronger backing than the Empire – he was well aware that the Stormcloaks rebelled for a reason. All that was required of Istind was to take her to bride and he'd rule Skyrim as High King. He was Archmage at this time, learned and all, and would be a greater match than any other man could claim. Alas, he'd married Camilla Valerius by now, and she was great with Astrid, their first child. He'd no intention to put her aside, for he loved her truly, and so Istind too rejected Tulius.
Perhaps the most surprising of request of kingship had been the last of them, from Titus Mede himself. Istind had been summoned to the elderly emperor's personal ship, where the man asked a match between Astrid and one of his sons. He'd further proclaimed that should Istind accept, he'd name the Dragonborn his heir and allow him the Ruby Throne, so long as Istind's own heir be born from Astrid's loins.
It was surely tempting, far more tempting than the previous two offers. But Istind rejected it all the same. He'd missed much of his family during his adventures, and the politics of being Thane were already taxing enough. An emperor was like to be worse. And then there was the matter of Titus Mede's sons.
That none were trueborn, that they were all bastards carrying the mark of Medeborn, mattered little to Istind. What mattered was that the youngest of them was two years Istind's elder, and Astrid was barely three. He would not have her suffer such a husband. Titus Mede would have no Hearthome blood in his line.
Nords cried out their despair, wanting nothing more than a Dragonborn to sit the Ruby Throne, just as Talos himself did. Istind's Dovahsos too cried out, wanting nothing more than to rule. And yet, Istind tempered it. The nature of a dragon was domination, not allowance. If he'd the intent to become king, he'd become a king all his own. None could tell him to do so, and none that requested such were within his council. The more they asked this of him, the more he refused their advances.
This was not to say Istind hadn't thought about becoming king, becoming emperor. What Nord boy did not dream of sitting the throne of a warm keep or castle when the winter chill was harsh and biting? When brigands and bandits passed through town squares, pillaging and plundering and raping all the while? But later, as age and experience and family came into play, he thought better of such. Each man was their own, bound only to their kin. They'd only duties to others had they meant to do well, and Istind Hearthome had done that and more for Tamriel.
And now, Jon Snow was asked to be king.
And just as before, just as Istind Hearthome had thrice spoke, Jon's answer was a resounding: "No."
The smile of Brynden Rivers was quick to leave. His visage grew stern, weary to the same. "Then you'll not have my wares, Jon Snow."
"I will." Jon said, idly taking Daedrend from Twig's hand. The Child did not seem to care, quiet as he was.
"You would steal from us?" Acorn asked, her voice high and tone bracing. The sadness that filled her being was strong once more, defeat making up her person.
"No, I've no need to steal. I'll have your trinkets still."
"You shall not," Brynden denied, shaking his head. Wispy trails of white followed the movement, longer than some tree branches. "My terms have been stated, I will not barter them. The Others must not have further fodder for their ranks. Become king and lead those beyond the Wall to salvation."
"And why must I be king to do that?" Jon asked. "My father complained plenty during my last year in Winterfell about them. Raids south of the Wall have lessened in the past few years: they're gathering by the masses. He feared a King-Beyond-the-Wall has already been claimed. Jeor Mormont confirmed such, a former black brother to salt his crops. They've no need of me when they've a king of their own, one of their own choosing."
"You would treat with Mance Raydar?" Brynden asked, honestly confused. "You've power beyond him, beyond any of them. The Free Folk would rally to you, would leave him easily. He would rally to you."
"Because they are his people," said Jon. "Not mine."
Jon knew little of the wildlings. Of that which was known to him, much and more was lost. They elected their own leaders, wished to go south of the Wall, and kept to their own. That was all he knew. No king could last if they knew not of the people they wished to rule. It took time to learn a culture, time Jon wished to spend elsewhere.
No. For Jon to become their king, he'd need to bend their wills. He held little issue in bending an enemy to his will, Garamun being a clear showing of such. But the wildlings were not his enemy, not truly. He had no desire to do such, and thus had no desire to keep with them.
"They could be your people," Brynden hedged. "Join with them and they will know your worth. They will flock to you."
"I've no interest," denied Jon, growing tired. "Instead, I've a question. You say the Others will march south. When? In a year? Two? Ten? If we've time before the danger is upon us, would it not be better spent preparing those south of the Wall?"
The greenseer was quiet, his single eye narrowed. He took on a ponderous slant. His eye went white, then red, the Orb beneath him glowing a similar color through its cage of roots.
"…They begin their march in full come six years." Brynden said, five minutes of silence passing. "In two, Wights will be sent south to scout for advantage. This will not change, no matter your actions."
"And if I were not involved at all, when would Rayder go against the Wall?"
"Five years," sighed the elder. "He will light the trees just outside the Wall aflame when his attack is at foot. You think to convince him a better solution within five years? It would be cleaner to be king."
"Cleaner? I'd need to challenge for that, and when I win then I'd need to hold my post by beating and killing all of mine own challengers. That is not clean, that is cruel. Cruelty they will not take to. Convincing Mance of a better solution is clean as they come."
"And what is this solution you've to your name?" Acorn asked scornfully, her tone biting.
Jon shrugged, facing her. "I haven't one, not yet. But I've five years to think on it, don't I? Should nothing come to mind within that time… I'll just open the door. Most of the castles along the Wall have been abandoned, they've tunnels through each side."
"Tunnels that were sealed with ice and stone, thicker than a mammoth."
"Simple enough," said Jon, rolling his shoulders. "I'll open a tunnel and have them through."
"And the North?" Brynden carried. "The Starks? Your family? How would they act to your bringing an army of over a hundred thousand on their door?"
Poorly, Jon knew. They'd chop off his head and feed it to the dogs, family or no. Which was why Jon was intent on looking for a different path before doing this. There were lands aplenty that the wildlings could claim, lands that were little populated. Sothoryos and Ibben and Ulthos and Mussovy came to mind. Even the Shadowlands and the Dothraki Sea would work. But the question remained on how to get them there.
The Thu'um was powerful, this was obvious. But the Thu'um could not do all. There were no Shouts that allowed Jon to create portals or move others, none that he knew of at least. He could not just bring the wildlings to these lands on a whim, he'd need strategy and stubborn wit. And ships.
"…You said that I was to be King in the North," said Jon, ignoring the question. "And yet I was also Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. How can I be a great man when I break my vows and usurp my family?"
"And now my watch has ended. You died, Jon Snow. Risen from the grave by the call of Red. And of your family… there was little family left to usurp." Brynden said, grimly. "Eddard and Robb and Rickon lay dead, Bran a cripple, Arya an assassin and Sansa traumatized. You did not take the crown, you were given it by the peoples of the North."
Jon grimaced, the threat of the Army of the Dead truer and nearer to him than ever before. The Starks were his family, and he'd see them live past what is to occur.
"Teach me," Jon demanded, standing. He marched towards Brynden and stood not even a foot from his face. The Children reacted to his movements accordingly, weapons at the ready. "Teach me all that I need know. All that I asked of. Show me what I must do, so that I may aid my ken."
The roots 'neath Brynden opened once more, the Orb of Vaermina open to view, its pulsing red glow distorting Jon's vision from so close.
"Touch the Orb," said the greenseer. "Touch it and learn."
Jon did, and the world went red, then white, then black, and then the colors of all things became his to see, the world his window.
Brynden being Champion to a Daedric Prince brought about many memories for Jon. Memories he'd thought buried, only to be resurrected by a scant few words.
Three months he'd spent with the greenseer. Three months spent using the Orb of Vaermina to scry his pleasure.
Jon was no greenseer. He'd not the gift nor the desire to bring it about. Such a thing would mean he'd not be able to glean of the world, but the Orb allowed much. With it, Brynden could see farther than any greenseer before him could, and with it Jon could glimpse Brynden's experience.
He learned of the Valyrians, how they gained dragons and forged their empire and fell to the Doom. He learned of the Others, how Azor Ahai bested them thousands of years ago and how dragonglass and fire were their downfall. He learned of Westeros, its inception and its many many wars and its conquering by Aegon I. He learned of how the Targaryens rose and fell, the Blackfyres and their hopes for the throne, of Rhaegar and his elopement with Lyanna Stark. Jon had honestly thought himself a bastard, and so the realization that he was a true Targaryen stunned him. Aemon hadn't told him such. He'd still no desire for the throne or to change his name, however.
He learned all he wished and more, and yet there was something missing. Jon yearned for it, wished it dearly. Brynden's being Champion to the Dream sparked this desire, and now it was like a burning flame that had no pyre to rest.
Jon wished to talk to somebody.
It was a simple want, childish even. But he wished for it on a scale that was deeper than the tunnels the Children of old sung into the earth.
He wished to speak to somebody that knew of Tamriel. Somebody that he could share his past with, somebody whose experiences he could understand. Whether they were man or mer or beast, Jon hadn't a care. He wanted this badly.
But the oldest of the Children did not know what the words Dwemer and Nirn and Tamriel meant. The elves that the Daedric Princes brought to this world interbred with humans and died off. The beastkin were hunted to the last by the dregs of this world. None knew of Tamriel, none knew of Nirn.
Jon was alone.
His Dovahsos craved debate. Needed it. A dragon went mad when left without for too long. Jon would never have this issue, for this was a task that occurred over hundreds of years, but it still unsettled his soul.
And then, he remembered something else. Something that changed things. Nocturnal came to him in a dream those three months ago, stating that she hid him and his actions from the gaze of the Princes.
Which meant there was no consequence to his action. That he could truly do as he pleased and hold nothing back. It was not even a year ago that he could use a full Thu'um, and he'd held off since. But now…
Now, Jon was trembling with hope.
Garamun and he were two miles from the Children's hovel, west towards the Fist of the First Men. Acorn had come along with them, intent on keeping him in sight. They'd grown close over these past months, close enough that she was willing to trek with him. Brynden had told him how unusual this was, for the Child that once held Dark Sister was closed off even to her race.
"Why bring us here?" asked Acorn. She'd climbed a tree when they settled and made chair from a thick branch.
"I know not if this will work," Jon admitted. "I wish it dearly, but I know not. I thought it wiser to attempt away from your home."
"Is it your magic?" Acorn had been interested in the Thu'um since he'd used it to disarm her. Sky shouting, she called it, the partner to earth singing.
"It is."
"Then you were wise indeed."
Little else need be stated. Garamun backed away and Acorn climbed higher atop her tree. Jon was alone, breathing deeply. He meditated on his words and knew what he wished.
"Od… Ah VIING!"
His voice was the crack of lightning, the roll of thunder.
And yet, there was no dovah to answer his cry. Odahviing did not appear as he wished, nothing actually happened save for birds and squirrels making away from him for his loud noise.
Jon had hoped for his old friend to heed summon, but he understood. A dragon answered a summon from the sky, not from another plane. He could not summon Odahviing from Sovngarde, and so too could he not summon him here. It stung fiercely all the same.
They left the clearing then and returned to the heart tree home.
.
The next day, in the same clearing, Jon began again.
"Hun… Kaal ZOOR!"
Hero. Champion. Legend.
The Thu'um he'd gained from Tsun, the ancient god of trials, shield-thane to Shor, keeper of the whalebone bridge after defeating Alduin. With it, Jon was able to call champions who feasted in the Hall of Valor for a time, to do battle with. Rare was it that this Thu'um was used, for Jon little liked messing with the dead, but he felt his need strongly in this instance.
Unlike his attempt to summon Odahviing, something did happen. A figure of fog appeared, ghostly in truth. It was a man of fair stature, wearing a translucent gear of silver armor held with a white cape. The symbol of a three-headed dragon was emblazoned on his chest, and Jon knew he'd failed then.
"Wha-" the man began in disorientation. "Where am I? I should be dead. I am dead. How has this come to be?"
"An experiment," Jon said, saddened. "I wished to summon somebody else and got you."
He'd hoped to call one of the heroes of Skyrim, Hakon One-Eye or Gormlaith Golden-Hilt or even Felldir the Old. This was not to be. Mores the shame, thought Jon.
"I've been called from my earned rest for an experiment?!" Bellowed the man, a pair of swords suddenly in hand. One of these blades was of standard make, the other milky-white, like a pearl. Jon knew the sword if nothing else, and so he knew who the man was as well.
"It shall pass, Ser Arthur Dayne." Jon placated, his arms raised. "The spell that holds you lasts for only a few minutes. It is meant to summon an aid for combat, but I wished for wisdom. I made a misstep."
"I'll only need a few minutes to carve you to pieces," said the Sword of the Morning, twirling his own swords. "Name yourself, defiler. Name yourself and die."
Were it not for the fact that Jon had tuckered himself with the Thu'um, he would have readily met the challenge. To fight the man revered as the greatest knight in recent memory would be well worth the struggle. Alas, he was indeed tuckered, and need meet this man with word instead of blade.
"Jon," he said. "Son of Lyanna and Rhaegar."
Arthur looked as if he'd been slapped by a fish, his jaw hanging. Then he sheathed his swords and fell to his knees.
"My king…" he murmured. "I am gladdened to hear you live. I serve still, even in death. How may I aid you?"
"Serve by doing nothing. I did not mean to call you from your earned rest, and I make not to keep you from it further."
"Then might you free my doubt? Tell me of your childhood. We are in a land of vast snow and tall trees, I see. The North, I presume? Lord Stark raised you then?"
"He did," Jon allowed. "Robert Baratheon won the Iron Throne, and Lord Eddard would not see me dead. I was not raised as Jon Targaryen, but as Jon Snow, his bastard son."
"He dares sully Rhaegar's son with bastardry?" hissed Arthur.
"He dares me living. Prefers it, even. Were my name known, I would have been butchered just as Rhaenys and Aegon were. I was given all I needed to thrive, and thrive I did."
Arthur anger turned to a solemn nod. He smiled a small thing and then disappeared in a wisp of fog, the spell that held his spirit.
"That should not be possible, sky shouter." Acorn stated, her green-yellow eyes wide. "None can call upon the dead in this manner."
"And none further shall." Who he wished to summon did not come, and so Jon felt no reason to do this again. The dead shall remain such.
.
This was to be their last day at work. Jon had only one other option that he knew of, the one he'd least liked. It was not that he did not care for this creature. It was simply that he carried a sour taint.
"Dur… Neh VIIR!"
Jon honestly thought nothing would happen, just as nothing did for Odahviing. And he was right in his expectation. No matter how loud his Shout, nor the echo it held, silence was his answer.
He slumped, his hopes passing a quick death. Garamun caught his mood and nuzzled to his shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Jon shoved the beast away, unwanting of such a thing. Not of his servant, at least.
"What is it you wished?" Acorn asked, dropping from her perch. She was not near enough to touch him, but close enough to be kind.
"I wished a friend," Jon said. "One I know, or one that knows of me. I made to call on others who can Shout. They did not answer. I am alone."
"We know this loneliness well, Jon Snow." Acorn sighed, walking towards him. He'd taken to the snow, knees buried in its confine, and so she was level to his face. "We are not alone. You are not alone."
"You've still the other Children." Jon bit.
"I am the last born of my clan. The last whose womb has not gone barren. I am alone, sky shouter."
She'd reached his kneeling form and held his face in her hands. "But just because we are alone, does not mean it need stay that way. You wished a friend. Am I not a friend?"
They stared at one another, for a long while. Then, an instinct overtook Jon. He shakily took hold of her hands gentle as could be, and leaned forwards, pressing his lips to hers.
Acorn did not respond at first. She stood still, her eyes locked with Jon's own. Then her eyelids closed, and she pushed back, opening her lips against his, rubbing her tongue over his own. Her tongue was rough, almost like what one would expect from a cat, and it was long. Long enough to almost gag him. Further proof that while humanoid, this was no human.
Their kiss was sloppy and uncoordinated. Acorn had never done this before, and it showed. Jon was patient, showing her what he liked and did not, mind afar. He did not wish to take advantage of her, did not make to confuse her. He'd need know if this was her intent, if they-
Jon jumped away from Acorn when an echoing roar sounded from above, a loud and terrible and familiar sound. Acorn did more than jump away, she wholly fled, moving faster than he'd seen any of the Children move yet.
The shape did not descend from the air, but rather materialized. Bones appeared first, wings and joints and a skull with four horns. Then muscles and sinews wrapped around the spectral dragon's body from head to tail. Thick grey scales, half rotted and decayed though they were, soon followed. From the sky it fell, slamming into the snow with a great force, knocking the tree Acorn had perched previously over with an ease few creatures could possess.
The undead dragon gave a roar that sent chills down the spines of those that had not heard his voice, but Jon stood strong and even smiled.
"Qahnaarin…" Durnehviir rumbled, his voice shaking the ground beneath. "Your Sos, soul,was hard to comprehend from my Pindaar, my prison. You look different. Mal. Smaller."
Jon laughed. Laughed harder than ever before in this life, hard enough to bring tears to his eye. He did not wipe them away, allowing them to stain his reddened cheeks. To Durnehviir, everybody looked small. He was the largest dragon of Tamriel save for Alduin, his body over eighty meters in length. "I am different, old friend."
"Geh, you are. Ol Los Daar Golt." Durnehviir looked around the clearing with hazed eyes, sniffing the air deeply. He then recoiled, shaking his long neck like a shivered dog. "This land… Folaas, it is wrong. Kolos Los Zu'u. Where am I?"
"A realm of Oblivion. I died, old friend, my soul taken as plaything by the Princes due to a bargain I did not fully understand." If anybody could comprehend his sadness in this, it would be Durnehviir.
"Dovah Lost Ni Fah Oblivion. Dragons were never meant for Oblivion. Mu Los Kiir Do Bormah. We are children of Akatosh. Of the Eyra, the Aedra. Not the Deyra, the Daedra. I do not belong here, Qahnaarin."
He should have expected such. Truly, he should have. Overarching desire warred sense, however. "May I call upon you still, old friend?"
"Geh, Qahnaarin. Speak my name and I shall come." Durnehviir closed his eyes and smoke fizzled from his body.
Then he opened his eyes further and looked down at Jon in shock. "Zu'u Dreh Ni Haalvut Niin. The Ideal Masters… Their hold on me. I do not feel it. Daar Kos. How can this be?"
"This is a realm the Princes formed eons ago, in an attempt to create something as grand as Nirn." Jon said, thinking as well. "…It is not connected to the Aetherius. So…"
"They cannot reach me," Durnehviir proclaimed, tears of ash flowing from his sunken eyes. "Stin, Dovahkiin. I am free, my friend."
"But how was I able to call on you then?"
"The Soul Cairn lies in between Laas and Dinok. Between life and death. You died, Qahnaarin. Only there could your Thu'um be heard, and only by me. Bolog, I beg you. End my half-life, Qahnaarin. Let this never-ending curse finally die."
Jon shook his head. His whole body shook, really. "I- I can't. I called you here so I might-"
"Mindok. I know," Durnehviir purred, pressing his snout against Jon's tunic. Rotted scales remained on Jon's chest when the dovah pulled back. "But… Saraan. I have waited for this. Please, friend. Do this."
Shuddering, Jon took a step forward, his grip on Dark Sister's pommel. "If- Allow me to try something else, before I kill you. Just to try."
"Dreh Ol Hi Fen. Do as you must. I have waited ages for this Tiid, this moment. I have patience to spare."
Durnehviir nodded and settled himself, and Jon thought. He thought on what he could do, on what this chance would mean. He would rather aid his friend who'd suffer for longer than almost all creatures of Nirn existed.
But this did not mean Jon had to kill him.
He sucked in his breath and fully faced Durnehviir, the dragon cocking a sinewy head in curiosity. Louder than any Shout he'd used since his life on Westeros began, Jon bellowed his make. This was not a plea, this was a demand.
"SLEN… TIID VO!"
Flesh. Time. Undo.
Jon had never used this Shout. Nor had Istind. Nor had Miraak. But they all knew of it, seen it used by the World Eater himself. The power to restore the grace of a Dovah, even from beyond the grave.
Durnehviir recognized the Shout as well, for he reared his head back as life encompassed his undead form. His rotted scales turned healthy, the yellow pus forms grown along the ridges of his bones disappeared as cartilage thickened. Grey scales turned a silvery metallic color, under belly green like tree tops. The membranes of his wings turned whole once more, a lined pattern of yellow webbing taking root.
What once was became shown again.
"…Zu'u… Zu'u Lost Nid Rot. I have no words. You… Qahnaarin. You have gifted my Laas, life anew. I… I-"
A quick movement, though not subtle by any means. Durnehviir's head lowered, his neck exposed to Jon. His wings dipped with this movement. It was a bow of sorts, one Jon had not seen before from any of the Dovah.
"Vaat Wah Hi. I swear to you. Upon my Sil, my soul. Upon my Bormah, my father. I renounce you as Qahnaarin, and instead call you Thuri."
Jon's eyes widened and he rushed to Durnehviir, holding the Dov up by the horns. Subserviently, the dragon rose his head with Jon's movement, though did nothing else.
"You don't need to do this, Durnehviir." To be Thuri was to be master. An overlord, a king, a tyrant. Somebody that ruled over another in totality. Under Alduin, the Dov were expected to proclaim him such as the firstborn of Akatosh. But for one to call another Thuri was to proclaim a service lasting a lifetime.
"Durnehviir need not. Vahzah, this is true." The Dov nodded. "And yet, Durnehviir no longer exists. The never-ending curse is lifted. A newfound name, for a newfound life. Thuri, I ask of you, hear me. I am Stinmirnahl!"
Stin. Mir. Nahl.
Free. Allegiance. Living.
A name that showed proof of his life. No longer bound, truly alive, and only because he'd chosen to follow the one who'd vanquished him previously.
A strange growl echoed from Stinmirnahl, a growl that originated from his core. He looked perplexed for a moment, and then laughed brightly. "Bahlok! Hunger! I have not craved Kip in ages!"
He then lunged for Garamun, giving the bear no time to run. A great big bite tore Jon's mount in half, Stinmirnahl eating in bliss. Soon, he finished his meal, a bloody mess on his muzzle that he busily licked up. A heavy belch echoed from his mouth, bringing more laughter from the previously fatalistic dragon.
"Kreh zini! After a meal so grand, I wish the wind on my Viings, my wings. The freedom of the sky beckons! Thuri! Take your place upon my back. See the land as I do!"
Bracingly, Jon did so. Stinmirnahl's neck was further lowered, his wings settled nearby to be used as a step. He situated himself near the skull of the dragon, holding curved horns dearly.
Stinmirnahl took a running start, roaring as he made air. Higher and higher did they go, over the Children's home where Jon was barely able to see a handful of them. Further past, Stinmirnahl flew south, making canter against the sides of the Wall.
Stinmirnahl was free.
Jon was free.
Hooooo boy. Last chapter had some development in technicalities. This one just shunted the world open. So, I'm gonna go over some things. I don't feel like getting flamed or whatever, and thus feel it needed.
Firstly, Durnehviir. Stirminnahl. Whatever he is. This is Jon's companion for this story. His Ghost. Does this mean that Ghost won't exist? Probably not, I like the albino pupper. But he will not be Jon's. A dragon of Tamriel is infinitely better, nothing anybody says or does and convince me otherwise.
Acorn and Jon are not a couple. Dude was just really stressed and accidentally took advantage of her being nice. I've done it before to a female friend and it's a shitty feeling. How things go between them is still up in the air. I've got a general idea, and while there might be some messing around, they aren't going to be a pairing. She's an OC, and I don't want Jon's finality with that.
Lastly, the king thing. I'll be honest, Jon could easily become King-Beyond-the-Wall. But I wouldn't want that type of responsibility, and neither would Jon. He's already declared that he's gonna be a goober and help the Free Folk. He doesn't need to be their cultural leader to do that.
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