Supper is a rare affair tonight, Acorn thought, staring at the dancing Children that surrounded a pit of fire. Stinmirnahl craned his neck to and fro in an attempt to copy them, and Jon Snow and Brynden Rivers laughed heartily at the beast. But not bad.

The Children of the Forest were an often-sad people, their tones sullen and demeanors downtrodden. Years of heartbreak and decline were the cause of this. Their songs were solemn things, sad and mourning. They sung for their ancestors gone, for their young that would not be, for their brothers and sisters dead too soon.

However, for the first time in Acorn's forty years, her people were not singing a song of sorrow. Her kin hummed hymns of hope, a concert of content, a symphony of salvation. There was merriment that echoed the bowels of their home. They danced their joy, laughing and crying and happy.

Jon Snow was leaving.

This was not the true reason that her family celebrated. They would never celebrate such a thing; the loss of Jon Snow was felt deeply, in truth. No, what was cause for celebration was the fact that Lief had somehow fallen with child.

It should have been impossible. Lief was of nearly two hundred years, her fertility thought gone ages ago, and yet her stomach held new life still. This miracle, this babe… Acorn knew whence it came. All knew whence it came. It was brought about by Stinmirnahl, the beast that called Jon Snow Thuri.

The Children had been awed by his arrival, and Brynden Rivers had been beyond giddy. Though he could see dragons whenever he wished within his dreams, to see one when awake was an experience he'd wished since birth. To greensee was not to experience. He could not feel their flames, nor touch their scales, nor fathom their presence when dreaming. Here, he could.

But Stinmirnahl was not a dragon. Dragons could not talk, held no true intelligence. Stinmirnahl certainly could talk and he was assuredly smarter than any man, and clever besides.

According to Jon Snow, Stinmirnahl was one of the dovah; the last of his species in fact. How such creatures died off, Acorn couldn't fathom. His size and strength alone were awe inspiring, and his magic was beyond anything she'd experienced. Neither Stinmirnahl nor Jon Snow would say, and so she'd been left to her imagination. Perhaps a war killed them off, or a plague. Regardless, she was in the presence of a dov, and Acorn felt humbled by it.

Stinmirnahl had been openly interested in the Children, calling them Dwemer. He believed them dead to the last. Just as well, the Children believed Stinmirnahl never existed. Mutual curiosity brought Lief into his confidant, keeping the dov company and trading tale with the beast. She was a scholar if ever there was one, a curious creature that questioned everything. And now, weeks later, she was pregnant.

The Children of the Forest were not bound in fertility like men were. True, the older a Child was, the harder it was to get with child, same as any other species. But the Children lived for many centuries, longer even than the dragons that once ruled the skies. The Children of the Forest could never go barren, not truly. Their wombs and seed were strengthened by magic. The more magic, the more Children. As it had always been. Acorn herself had only been born due to the arrival of Brynden Rivers, and it was he that named her.

But the downfall of the Children was the downfall of the dragonlords. The Doom of Valyria did not just scar a civilization, it felled the magic of the world. When the Valyrians reigned, the Children were plentiful. And when they fell, the Children lost much of their ability to be plentiful.

Acorn surmised she had another twenty years before her womb would run dry. She'd felt a heavy burden on her shoulders for many years, and no matter how often she tried, no seed would quicken. Her cunt ran red with each new moon still, so she knew she was able. It was the males whose seed could not work.

Stinmirnahl was a creature of magic. Magic beyond anything the Children had ever known, certainly greater than the three-eyed ravens. His very presence saturated their home with the stuff. Lief had been of the belief that she might quicken due to this and took Twig to bed. Her faith became fact, and Acorn knew tonight would be a breeding frenzy. Jon Snow was leaving, and Stinmirnahl would leave with him. Without them, the Children would have no young. And so, there would be much in the way of trying till they'd gone.

Jon Snow stood, downing a horn of fermented goats' milk as he bid back into his hovel. Brynden and Stinmirmnahl and the rest of the Children offered him fair dreams. Acorn did not. She followed along.

She knew well that Jon Snow was going to leave at some point. He'd spent over four months within their halls, and he felt it time to be on his way. This suited Acorn poorly, for she'd had mixed feelings regarding the man.

Since the day he summoned Stinmirnahl, Acorn had been unable to take Jon Snow's presence. She'd been too embarrassed, being frank. The Children did not kiss, and yet they knew what it was. A show of affection made from the children man. Jon Snow kissed her. Whether it had been brought about by grief or lust, Acorn knew not. But he still did it, and she'd been unable to rip the memory from her mind. Even now, Acorn found herself touching her lips. She couldn't help by wonder what might have happened had she not been startled away by Stinmirnahl's appearance.

No more, vowed Acorn as she hummed a low tune, weirwood roots dancing a barrier from behind. I will not wonder any longer.

Breathing lowly, Acorn entered the hovel of Jon Snow. He decorated it minorly, keeping only the Valyrian steel trinkets that Brynden Rivers had gifted along a flattened boulder adjacent to his fur cot.

Jon Snow turned to her, grey eyes questioning. "Acorn? You need something?"

Acorn did not answer. Instead, she showed. She walked up to him and shoved him into his cot. Jon Snow fumbled as he fell, looking confused all the while. He turned even more confused when Acorn straddled his lap and pressed her lips to his own.

He shoved her back, mouth agape. "Wha- What are you doing?"

"Kissing," said Acorn. She made to do it again, but he held her strong.

"I figured that," groused the man. "Why, is what I mean."

"Then you should have asked such."

He sighed. "Fine. Why did you kiss me?"

"To know."

"Know what?"

"If you will let me continue, I hope to find out."

He stared at her searchingly, and then slowly released his hold on her shoulders. Acorn took his advantage and resumed her attack. His lips were soft, too soft, and his tongue too short. Men were lacking in the mouth. And yet she enjoyed this still. Enjoyed it enough to wish to go further.

Her hands fumbled around his clothes with clear intention while his skillfully divested her of her leaf-woven jerkin. Heat pooled from her core as he felt her breasts, brushed his thumbs over her dark nipples.

She broke the kiss with a gasp when he twisted his body and fell atop her, stripping all the while. Then he lowered his head between her legs, his tongue dancing over her folds, and Acorn found another activity that the Children did not partake in.

She found herself wishing they did.

"Do you have all you need, Thuri?" Stinmirnahl asked, his head low to the ground. Snow shifted with his every breath.

"Aye, I've enough." Dark Sister and Daedrend were strapped to his sides, Woe secure on his back. His satchel was filled mainly with dried meats and long-lasting berries, wrapped in a spare set of furs. Jon hoped they'd last a week.

Jon chose to leave the Valyrian steel trinkets here. He knew where they were, and further he was a man of his word. Brynden might have already allowed Jon them due to Stinmirnahl's presence, but Jon had made a deal. Till he'd a way to help the Free Folk, he would not claim them.

"And the Dwemer? Dreh Hi Ni Hind Wah, do you not wish to say goodbye?"

"No, last night was enough." In more ways than one. He'd gotten to give the Children his farewells, and while they were saddened by his choice, their exuberance regarding Lief's pregnancy overshadowed this. In truth, the only Child Jon had any mixed feelings about leaving was Acorn, and that was purely due to their activities from the night prior.

Damn you Sanguine, thought Jon. It was the Daedric Prince of Debauchery that lowered the inhibitions of the inhabitants of Westeros. Small sparks of lust turned to roaring tides in the span of a few seconds, and little was controlled. The Children of the Forest were a meek, quiet people, and yet last night had been a veritable orgy and Acorn had lain with him in a fit of idle curiosity.

Acorn was at least clear in her words after they'd lain together. She had only wished to know what her feelings regarding him were, and she'd made her peace. She considered Jon Snow a friend, nothing more, nothing less. All the better. Pretty in her own right though she was, a woman did more for him than a Child. They had their fun and that was it.

"Then climb my Viings and Vod, let us be off. Mu Lost Aan Golt Wah Koraav. You've a world to see."

Jon did so, casting one last look towards the Children's nameless home. The morning hadn't yet come, the stars still numerous and open to see. Summer chills were strong in the now, a creeping wind that hummed Jon's hair hovering. Stinmirnahl now had a makeshift saddle outfitted atop his back, threaded from animal pelts woven by the Children. Attached to his back was a thick sling of preserved foods, meant to last him a month outside of what was held in his satchel.

Once secure, he slapped at Stinmirnahl's side, and the dov made move. He took off in a trot and his wings opened, gusting great bursts of snow and sleet all throughout. Once in the air, Stinmirnahl went right for the Wall, subtlety not in his mind as he flew directly above Castle Black.

They flew fast and they flew hard, and at some point, Jon felt warmth for the first time in his second life.

Beyond the Wall they flew, over Winterfell and White Harbor and the Bite, till they left the North. They soared through the Vale of Arryn, racing past mountainous trenches that fondled the clouds. They'd no true goal, no true destination. The time it took to fly mattered little. South was all Jon cared for while Stinmirnahl wished only to taste the open air.

It was when they entered the Crownlands, high above Duskendale, that Stinmirnahl chose to fly in a direction that was not South.

"Where're you going?" asked Jon, rubbing along the spinal joints of his friend. He'd made turn. Where once they were on path to soar high over King's Landing, now they were trailing over the Narrow Sea.

"Zu'u Hind Wah Korrav Fin Hofkiin Do Daar Deyra. I wish to see the home of those that rode the daedra born to spite our Bormah."

Jon and Brynden had been going over the basics of the known world with Stinmirnahl over the course of these past few weeks. Jon had much to learn, but he'd at least fifteen years to acclimate. Stinmirnahl had none of this.

He'd been quite annoyed to learn of Peryite's spawn. He refused to allow himself to be titled anything but a dovah, for to be called after the daedra was insulting.

Still, even in his annoyance, he was interested. The dragons of Westeros were weaker than those of Skyrim, and yet they were dragons still. Stinmirnahl had desired to know more about them, and Brynden had been happy to offer tale.

It seemed as if stories were not enough.

Well, Jon mused, leaning back against one of his great spikes. I've always wanted to go to Valyria.

Whilst Jon hadn't a care for anything, the same could not be true for the rest of Westeros. The sight of a dragon in the sky by both the North and the Vale was clearly noted, as was the direction it was flying.

Maester Aemon had been delighted. Brynden had visited his dreams months ago and informed him of Jon's arrival and safety, which put the elderly man at ease. That a dragon had returned to the world was spectacular to the chain-bearing man, and he was gladdened for the survival of his House. The only thing that saddened him was that he was not able to see the living wonder.

Lord Commander Jeor Mormont was not of the same thought. He'd been scared enough to shit his trousers at the sight of the dragon, him and half of Castle Black, and he'd not liked it at all. A dragon coming from beyond the Wall spoke of dark things, and he had his steward send ravens to all the major Houses and cities and thoroughfares of the Seven Kingdoms of what had occurred. A warning of dire times.

In truth, all the peoples of Westeros that saw the dragon were of the same mind as the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They'd panicked and cried and pissed themselves, and those that could read and raven sent word through Westeros. By the months end, talk of the last living dragon was loose on the tongues of lord and commonfolk alike. Rumor had it that Robert Baratheon went into a rage at the news of a dragon, though nothing came of it.

Perhaps the only man aside from Maester Aemon that had a thought on how this might have happened was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Sat in his solar, looking over Jeor Mormont's words, he grimaced and grinned alike. Whether it was a dragon of fire or a dragon of ice, Jon had dragons blood running through his veins, and he might have awoken the creature. In truth, Ned hoped this was the case. That would mean that Jon still lived, and he'd less reason to mourn.

His grief had a habit of being a physical thing, needing distraction to be held bay. The first time he'd grieved properly for his father and brother had been on his wedding night, and Robb was conceived of it. The second had been his return to Winterfell, where he grieved for his sister. Sansa was born from that. The third had been from the death of many close friends during the Greyjoy rebellion, and Bran was given life through this.

Ned had thought Jon dead when he'd gallivanted past the Wall, the boy he'd thought a son and the only remaining piece of Lyanna that there was. He'd fallen into grief, just as he'd done thrice before, and his lady wife was once again with child as a result. Her stomach was already starting to swell with his sixth child. That child was perhaps the only thing that brought his family out of their listlessness.

But… He could not share his theory with his family. Ned was loyal to Robert, as were many of his guards. Some more loyal to the king than they were their lord. Should word of Jon's lineage get out, it was likely that Robert would storm the North in a rage. That could not be allowed.

The Lord of Winterfell sighed, dropping the parchment onto his desk, his hands now gripping at his scalp.

He'd another secret to keep regarding Jon, it seemed.

The Valyrian peninsula was thousands of miles away from the Children's home. Between it lay mountains and flatlands and oceans, deserts and great grass sea's and ruined wastes. Castles and cities and towns all round, the trip had little that was uninteresting to see.

Stinmirnahl did not stop for any of them. While interested to be certain, he was of single-minded determinedness. He wished for Valyria, and thus made for Valyria.

The Dovah were creatures forged in the image of Akatosh, Nirnian God of Time. Thus, time had unusual effects regarding their species. They were timeless, meaning they could neither die a natural death nor breed any form of offspring. Similarly, magic involving time had no effect on them, though they had a strong affinity for the stuff. This was why the Slow Time Thu'um had no affect on one of them, and yet they could use it still.

In the case of Stinmirnahl, it could be considered both a strength and a weakness. Without knowing the toll that time held on the mortal shell, he too did not understand its constraints. Thoughts of days and months and years mattered none to him, for when he guarded the Soul Cairne there was only the here and now.

Stinmirnahl wished to discern Valyria with his own eyes, and he wished to do so quickly. As such, because he had little understanding of the constraints of his father's realm, he never stopped flying. A trip that would have taken a Valyrian dragon a week to make, due to breaks for food and rest, was cut down to a single day.

Jon was unlucky in this. He needed to eat and sleep and he'd a saddle sore large enough to rash the whole of his thigh. But there was no stopping a dov who's mind was made, and so he kept his quiet.

And, in all honesty, though it was not a comfortable trip, it was worth the wait.

Valyria was every bit as disturbing to view as he'd thought it would be based on his readings in Maester Luwin's and Aemon's libraries. It was unanimously assumed that it was impossible to traverse, and he could see why. Little of anything could be discerned aside from the front marches of the ruined city of Oros and the bubbling waters Smoking Sea really. From there, cutting half-through the remnants of Oros, a great black fog encompassed the remainder of the continent, a miasma of decay and preservation that shuffled on itself like a twister, a contradiction that should not be yet was.

"Zu'u Dreh Ni Med Nii Het." Stinmirnahl rumbled, keeping his distance. He landed on a thick patch of stone that once held a lighthouse, the closest area not within the sphere of blackness.

"I don't like it either." Jon agreed, sliding down his neck. His descent was nothing that could be considered graceful, a fall that had him in a heap. Pins and needles raced through his legs, and he needed a few moments to right himself before approaching the edge of the dark, idly taking a layer of furs off.

"Daar Fod Ni Kos. This should not be, Thuri."

"I know, and yet we are here. Are you ready?"

"Geh," rumbled the beast. His neck crane, his eyes sharpened, and he took in a great amount of air. Jon too did this, focusing his thoughts on the goal before him.

""LOK…"" they intoned together. ""VAH KOOR!""

Sky. Spring. Summer.

Clear Skies, a Shout that allowed its user to clear away fog and inclement weather. This Thu'um was commonly needed during Skyrim winters, where snow storms were as common as frosted roads. Beyond the Wall, Jon had become proficient with these Words of Power once more, and against this fog, it was more than just helpful, it was needed.

The miasma did not fall away. Instead, it was as if a tunnel opened, half a mile wide. From the wall of black, there was a hole in which a glimmer of light shone.

Cautious, Jon gripped his weapons and went through, Stinmirnahl right behind. Though the miasma was held at bay, the twister inside was not. It beat a heavy tone, making to push back the pair from their intention. The tunnel of diseased substance then began to grow once more, and the dovah behind Jon kept it open with a continued use Clear Skies.

After a time, when Jon's throat sore settled, he grew impatient. To fight the wind was something few could do, and he was tired for it.

"Wuld… Nah KEST!"

Whirlwind. Fury. Tempest.

A Thu'um that allowed him speed, the ability to carry his body as far as his voice could be heard. The tunnel of fog before him was soon lost, the wind unfelt, the glimmer of light he'd followed now eclipsing the darkness he'd travelled.

The Valyrian Freehold was his to see, his to take. The first volcano of the Fourteen Flames was what Jon took in initially, a small city-scape of melted stone and steel surrounding it. Where slag and magma should have been, and soot and sulfur too, there was instead clearness. A clearness very unlike water, however. This was crystalline, towers and spikes and coverings of reflective rock that spanned miles upon miles, far as the eye could see.

Roads were coated in thick diamonds, volcanoes covered – a city crushed and preserved as such. This was the Doom of Valyria, the Wrath of Jyggalag. The Daedric Prince of Order was a creature of forged of crystal, and his anger was of his body. All around, what he'd wrought on this land could be seen. It was impossible not to see it, lest the decriers were blind. Of what was not crystalline, there was only shattered earth and… not nearly as much death as there should have been.

This place is not as dead as the maesters thought, Jon surmised, noting the mob of a couple hundred people approaching from crystal coated buildings. They were poorly discernable, their bodies covered head to toe in thick linens that hid their features. All Jon knew was that they were men, and that they were armed with Valyrian steel. Some held swords, some held axes, one wielded a mace spiked with the metal and another used a torch bearing green flames. He'd no clue how in Oblivion that torch could hold the substance, but he knew what it was well enough. Wildfire.

Knowing well what the stuff was and that not even he could survive being burned by it, Jon sheathed his weapons and held his arms out non-threateningly.

"I come in peace!" He sounded, his voice freshly ragged from his use of Whirlwind Sprint.

"If that were so, the Dome would not have fought you," voiced the one holding the torch. It was hard to discern whether the speaker was male or female, for the voice was high like a youngling. "You'd no need to force your way through with such magic. You've not felt the waters touch, thus you're a threat."

"Waters touch? Dome?" Jon questioned, growing curious. "I know nothing of these! I only wished to see this land."

"You've seen it then," the speaker grunted, waving his torch of green fire. The people behind the speaker began to move, their arms raised ready. "Now you'll leave. Or you'll die."

Jon narrowed his eyes. He was happy to remain peaceful, certainly preferring it. But he'd no intention on leaving, not when he'd only just arrived.

They kept their silence, and when they concluded that Jon didn't make to move, they charged.

"VEN…" Jon's eyes widened at Stinmirnahl's voice from behind, and he lunged to the ground, well aware of what was coming. "GAAR NOS!"

A torrent of wind burrowed into the peoples, lifting them high and slamming them all around. Of those that didn't make to attack Jon, they were holding on dearly. It was a pillar of chaos, of whirling destruction, sowing a twister of discord. Cyclone was an aptly named Thu'um, making use of the Dovahzul script that translated to Wind, Unleash, Strike to concentrate a tornado in the space in front of the caster.

Stinmirnahl appeared then, his long body snaking out from the tunnel, head rising high enough to touch tower-tops. The people who'd accosted Jon gasped out their recognition and fell to their knees, some in praise and some in resigned horror.

Cyclone did more than keep them at bay, it removed their covering. The linen wraps that hid their features were scattered all over, and there was no hiding. They were men and women, and yet they weren't. Their skin was dead, stiff and cracked, with mottled flakes of a black and grey substance falling from their bodies in great patches, darkened blood seeping from what remained. It covered them like their linens did, head to toe. Not a single one of these people was without it.

Greyscale.

Jon shuddered. Though he knew he meant to have a batch of water infested with the stuff for when he'd the chance to reforge Valyrian steel, to see the actual effect it had on a person had him doubting. He wanted to never risk his own personage with such a vile disfigurement. The steel wasn't worth that.

"I came here in peace," Jon repeated, patting Stinmirnahl's flank. "The world over agrees that nobody lives here, and I thought it no issue."

"None do, save us." The speaker said, looking up, eyes never leaving Stinmirnahl. It was a woman, an ugly thing with a back-cracked jaw, a half-head of thin brown hair, and a single milky eye. "Our curse spreads quick things, and often we are sent to far off lands to keep the infection at bay. Valyria was where we were sent, in our case. Others have been brought to the Rhoyne, or to Sothoryos."

"That makes sense, and yet you do not. Greyscale causes madness when it covers the whole body, and none of you have a spot of skin that isn't touched of the stuff. How are you speaking to me?"

"The Brand," the woman said, her tone praising. "At first, our madness was true. We were husks, walking aimlessly through these lands in search of more to taint. And yet, we passed through the Dome, the blackness that separates this land from the rest of the world, and found our minds afresh the moment our feet touched down its other side."

Jon thought, and he thought hard. A vague theory came to mind, one that seemed to build on itself as his mind continued its pacing. Greyscale was a plague crafted by Peryite, but it was based in the water, and the waters of this world was gifted by Sheogorath. Perhaps the combination brought about the madness of Greyscale in the first place.

If so, that could also explain their lack of loose minds. Jyggalag decidedly hated Sheogorath with all his being, Order and Madness being opposites of all things. His mark on this world, the Brand as they called it… it could have the ability to cancel madness out. Possibly even halt the taint of Greyscale.

"Has anybody left this place before?"

She nodded, looking sad. "He thought himself free and wished to be with his family once more. He lost his mind the moment he stepped past the Dome, and then fell into the Smoking Sea before we could return him. The Brand is our salvation. Without it we are lost."

Jon nodded slowly, his theory feeling fact. "Well… Regardless, I am here, and I mean to stay. I wish to travel these lands and learn their secrets, and I will not be stopped."

"We could not even if we wished it so," sighed the woman, a swift movement of her wrist bringing her torch into a small patch of dirt. The flame did not spread. The other Greyscale infected peoples too put their weapons away. "And we've little reason to wish it now. Though we claim this land as our home, it was home to the dragons and their keep long before we came. How you have one, I've no clue. But you do, and because you do, you've the right to see the lands of your ancestors."

Stinmirnahl remained silent. They'd come to an agreement whilst flying that, in the case they ever met somebody, he'd keep his quiet. The peoples of this world think him a dragon, and though he was certainly greater than those creatures, it was an advantage that could be used. Both being underestimated in his abilities and overestimated in his pedigree.

A grim smile fell over the woman's face, one corner of her lips shifting like a moving ant. "We bid you welcome to Valyria, dragonrider. We are the Touched, those that control the waters curse, the last of those that remain living on the Smoking Sea. What we know, we will share. And what you know, you will share."

"I am Jon Snow," he announced, holding out a gloved hand. The woman approached and shook, a strong grip. Her release left scaly sinews on his leather-make material. Jon grimaced. "And I accept."

Ah… A lot happened in this one, and yet I didn't even reach the 5K word goal. Don't know how to feel about that.

Anyways, yeah, Jon and Acorn banged. Some of you think that's cool, and to you I say yw. Some don't like it, and to you I say get over it. Fiction is fiction and they're just friends. They're not friends with benefits, just friends that did the dirty the one time. One of my best friends in the whole world started out because of a one-night-stand, and I see no problem with this being how their dynamic goes.

The small expo regarding the rest of Westeros hasn't been fleshed out for the simple reason that hearsay and rumors are just that, rumors and hearsay. And yes, there is now a sixth Stark child. Some might say that I shouldn't do that, and I can understand the sentiment, but I did this for a simple reason. It'll be revealed later on.

I had a lot of fun worldbuilding the Touched though! Next chapter will dive deeper into worldbuilding, and will largely involve a time skip. I'm hoping to hit the main series within the next two or three chapters, but I'm in no rush.

If you liked this, please Favorite/Follow and don't forget to Review!