Hey there you guys!
I begin by honestly thanking you all, for your tremendous patience at awaiting this update. It took forever, I know, but the past month has been one of the busiest for me and I had little time and little energy to put this together. Nevertheless, here it is: a nice new chapter, slightly longer than my usual.

As always, I'm sending my best wishes to all those who have stayed faithful to this story: xan-merrick, SwaggyStiles, Kcrane, Theeyeofanger, heros bane, Vivss - I'm sure you're gonna love this chapter ;))
If I forgot someone, it wasn't intentional and I apologize.
This being said...enjoy!

Disclaimer: This story contains elements from the books & show. I own absolutely nothing, this is just for fun.

.ooo.


Outside the world was black. Ghost padded silently beside his master then raced ahead disappearing between the trees. Snow swirled through the castle yard, stirred by the cold winds of winter. Cold, but not dangerously cold, Jon thought, not yet. Around him there was a terrific stir, with comings and goings, and thorough preparations. The Night's Watch needed more— more men, more weapons, more food.

While its magnificent height was a strength, the length of the Wall was its weakness. Jon remembered something his father had said once. A wall is only as strong as the men who stand behind it. The Night's Watch was brave enough, but the sworn brothers were far too few for the task that confronted them. So Jon had set his mind to help them.

He'd begun by granting each House, one of the unoccupied castles along the Wall. They were expected to man them with at least a fifth of their strength and prepare the abandoned strongholds for an upcoming assault. It wasn't much, but it was still an improvement.

After, he ordered a ride to ensure more supplies. Although the years of war had left the North low on food, the Vale of Arryn was famously fertile and had gone untouched during the fighting. So, until the southern supplies promised by Daenerys were to arrive by ships, Lord Royce had offered support, despite Petyr Baelish' subtle objections. Remembering, Jon tightened his sword hand.

That man was a thorn in his side. Behind the smiles and forced mild manners, Littlefinger was shrewd and calculating, cynically controlling those around him. Jon wanted him gone and as far away as possible from Sansa, since it was obvious that Baelish brought out the worst in his younger sister. And Sansa had already been through too much.

She would smile, every day, proudly wearing her Stark colors, each strand of hair brushed back in its place. A perfect image. But inside she still hadn't healed. She was broken up, hiding her scars, her pain, her rage. Cursing his powerlessness, Jon inhaled sharply and looked away.

The wagons were forming up beneath Ser Davos' watchful eye while Tormund Giantsbane trotted down the column, pointing and fussing, his cheeks red from the cold. Armed soldiers were gathered outside the stables too, readying their horses, talking and jesting. Everything went according to plan when suddenly, the talk died and eyebrows rose all around the yard.

Flanked by her queensguard, Daenerys Targaryen was approaching, all clad in white. White woolen breeches tucked into boots of bleached leather. A white fur cloak, pinned at the shoulder with a three headed silver dragon and under it, a white tunic fastened with rubies. Jon noticed his queen had chosen to wear her long silvery hair braided in what he assumed was Dothraki fashion.

"My Lady," he greeted, "Won't you reconsider? The risk—"

"—is my own." Violet eyes met him leaving no room for argument. Then, gently, she reached out for her horse and stroked its neck, "I was half a girl and half alone when I crossed the Red Waste," Daenerys confessed, running her fingers through the animal's mane, "We had no food and little water... many of us died." A trail of corpses, left behind her.

Although her voice didn't waver, Jon saw the sadness that clouded those violet eyes. She stared, fixing nothing in particular. It isn't easy for her to open up, he realized and wondered what other hardships had shaped this dragon queen.

"How old were you?" There was a genuine concern in Jon's question, the honest curiosity of someone wanting to know more.

"Fourteen—" as she answered Daenerys met his gaze again, "—but I survived, my Lord. So you see, there's no need to worry." Gripping the saddle horn, Dany stepped into the stirrup with the confidence of a skilled rider, willed her body upward and flung the other leg over the horse. "Nevertheless," she continued, arching an eyebrow "if my Lord husband and his men fail to protect me—" a faint smile brushed her lips before finishing, "—my children won't."

Jon glanced up at the sky. There was no sign of Drogon, nor Rhaegal, but he could still hear them roar in the distance. The third dragon, Viserion, had chosen to remain in the depths of Winterfell's crypts, where hot springs streamed. "He's as lazy as I am," Tyrion Lannister had said, obviously fond of the milky-golden beast. The Imp had an ardent fascination with dragons: he sought to be around them, observe them, and conscientiously read everything on the subject.

Oddly enough, the winged demons seemed to be taking a liking to him too, Tyrion being the only other person, apart from Daenerys, allowed to touch them. Jon envied him, for these were impressive, intelligent creatures. Fire made flesh, Jon thought, just like their mother. A hot tremor traveled in his veins, remembering the feel of her. Their passion.

He watched her wheel the horse about, small body settled neatly in the saddle, and for the first time since arriving at Winterfell, she looked completely at ease, very much at home on horseback. Soon her steed broke into a gallop, and the crowd parted, every eye upon her. She rode out onto the plain, fearlessly, smiling, and as she turned to ride back, a fire pit loomed directly in her path. Without a hint of hesitation Daenerys kicked her heels into the side of the mount and raced, faster and faster, until the horse leapt over the flames.

When she pulled up next to Jon, who had mounted too, a mischievous glimmer flickered in her eyes. "Race you to the bridge, my Lord?" her entire stance screamed "I dare you!" and Jon lowered his head to hide the twitch at the corners of his mouth, "Done," he said intently, kicking his horse forward. Dany followed closely and they galloped off down the trail, the hooves of their steeds kicking up showers of snow as they went.

.ooo.


As the column made its way north, snow fell heavier and heavier. The long line of wagons wend past farmlands and flint hills, with spearmen and archers riding escort. Three days ride from Winterfell however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth day they turned into mountains.

They'd left in high spirits, but as the road veered through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen older and darker than any Dany had ever seen, the jests grew fewer and tempers shorter. The wolfswood, as Jon called it, seemed haunted. The horses stepped carefully over the frozen ground, the noise of their hooves muffled in a thick fog.

Voices carried strangely through the damp air. It was like riding through a vapor peopled by ghosts. Calls from one end of the long string were sometimes heard easily at the other, while the sounds of nearby conversations were lost in broken murmurs. Disembodied voices floated in the air, speaking far away, then remarkably near at hand. No one would admit to being afraid —they were soldiers, after all— but Jon could feel the unease. A brooding silence had sobered them all in the waning afternoon light.

"Tormund," he shouted, "We'll camp here tonight! Ride back along the column and spread the word," he instructed, "Tell the men I want spears ready at all times."

Shortly after, tents sprouted like mushrooms after a rain and blankets covered the bare ground before the starting fires. It had been a long day's travel, with only a hasty meal eaten in the saddle, and everyone was pleased to stop for a cooked dinner. Stewards tethered the horses in long lines, and saw them fed and watered. Foresters took their axes to the trees in the dying daylight, to harvest enough wood to see them through the night.

Daenerys unmounted and wrapped the cloak tighter around herself. As she looked around, her breath misted in the cold air. Several men were hacking bare branches from the trunk of a large dead tree. It will be good to feel warm again, she thought, then looked up to see the moon. It was rising, pale and eerie. Some time after, Jon struck sparks from flint and dagger. He never shied away from such tasks, unlike a noble would have, and Daenerys liked that about him.

When the blaze was all acrackle, her husband peeled off his gloves and gave a long sigh, feeling the heat of the flames on his skin. The sound filled Dany with warmth and spread through her frozen limbs like melting butter. Would he think me wanton if I kissed him? He made her want to kiss him, pull him into her bed and—

"Your hand," she said flustered, pushing the thought away, "How did you burn it?"

Jon hesitated before meeting her eyes. "It happened at Castle Black," he began, glancing back at the flames. "The Lord Commander decided to bring in two dead bodies, for further examination and burial —rangers who went missing many months before." His hand flexed, opening and closing the fingers. "But that very night, the dead rose and attacked us..." Jon snapped a dry stick and tossed it into the fire, where it flamed. "Steel wouldn't help, so I set a drape on fire and used my hand to fling it onto one of the wights."

Dany listened, spellbound, watching the light flicker on his face. "The fire caught in the dead man's clothing and consumed him, as if his flesh were candle wax and his bones dry wood." Jon had only to close his eyes to see that thing staggering, its face surrounded by a nimbus of fire, dead flesh melting away and sloughing off its skull.

"It still gives you nightmares," Dany pointed out, her voice a mere whisper. The cloak loosened and fell of her shoulder. Their eyes met. "It's the look you just had," she explained, "I recognize it. I had ... I have," she corrected seeing Viserys' dying face flash in her mind, "I have nightmares too."

For a moment it seemed she was going to tell him something, confide in him. But then she broke the gaze and looked away. Whatever went on in her head, he had no say in it. He couldn't force it out. He wouldn't. "Tomorrow we'll ride at dawn" Jon informed, changing the subject, "You should get some rest."

Dany looked back to him and smiled, "Yes I should," she answered feeling an odd sensation of longing. They were merely allies, not man and wife, having slept separately ever since after their wedding night. In many ways it was an ideal match, yet she found herself wanting more. More than she knew was smart.

I am still at war, Dany told herself, and he is still a stranger. But trusting Jon was, to put it simply, a most natural thing to do. He confused her with his kindness, his gentleness. Pondering, Daenerys returned to her tent without speaking.

.ooo.


Hours before dawn...

In her sleep, Dany heard the clamor. Her legs were still wrapped in the fur-coverings as she opened her eyes. Shocked, she shoved them away and stalked to the tent's entrance. Her sentry, a young Unsullied, stood guard.

"Please stay in the tent, Your Majesty," he said firmly, assuming a defensive position.

Soldiers with bare blades crossed in front of her tent at a run. Dany stepped out and let the flap fall behind her. The wind had stopped. It was cold. Dreadfully cold. A thicker mist had fallen, making it difficult to be sure of what was happening. As her eyes adjusted, Dany could see men fighting across a ragged blanket of white.

"What's happening?" she asked, her heart in her throat.

"Your Majesty, please, go inside," the sentry said again. The camp was in chaos as soldiers rolled out of their sleeping blankets, dragging their swords from their sheaths and snatching up their shields before running toward the fight. Then, she saw it - a shadow, emerged from the dark of the wood. It stood tall and hard as stone, with flesh pale as milk. In moments others appeared, twins to the first. Three of them… four… five…six…

Their armor seemed to change color as they moved; here it was white as new-fallen snow, there black as shadow, the patterns running like moonlight on water with every step they took. Their longswords were like nothing Daenerys had ever seen, alive with moonlight, translucent, shards of crystal, thin and sharp.

By the painful light of the burning fires, Dany recognized Jon. He fought one of the shadows bravely, lifting his sword high over his head, defiant. Again and again their swords met, until Dany wanted to cover her ears against the strange anguished keening of the clash. Yet she didn't. She couldn't.
Drogon...
She needed her dragon.

"Drogon," she screamed, and kept shouting until her voice was hoarse and above the beating of her heart, she could hear the sound of wings...

Ever the largest of her three, Drogon had grown larger still, his wings stretching twenty feet from tip to tip. The beast twisted violently in the air, wings beating once, twice … then he landed with a powerful hiss. Before her guard could react, Daenerys Targaryen vaulted onto the dragon's back. Small, white hands clutched at his scales, fingers scrabbling for purchase. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Yes, she thought, Yes, my child. Do it, do it now!

"DRACARYS!"

.ooo.


The pale sword came shimmering through the air. Jon met it with Valyrian steel, but when the blades met, there was no ring of metal - only a high sound, at the edge of hearing. Jon stroke a second blow, and a third, then fell back a step. Another flurry of blows, and he fell back again, panting from the effort now.

His blade was white with frost, the Other's danced with pale blue light. Boldly, the White Walker said something in a language that Jon did not know. The voice was like the cracking of ice on a winter lake, the tone mocking. It made Jon find his fury.

He shouted and lashed out, lifting the frost-covered longsword with both hands, putting all his weight behind it. This time, the Other's parry was too slow and he shattered into a hundred brittle pieces of ice, when the Valyrian blade touched him. That was when the roars boomed.

Jon turned to see the dragons bathe the enemy's forces in flames. Drogon attacked from the air, roaring, snorting plumes of fire and smoke with Daenerys clinging onto his back. But the smaller one, Rhaegal descended among the wights, his strong jaws snapping the rotted bodies to pieces.

No, Jon thought, seeing the wights charge towards the green beast. Rise up! They'll catch you. But it was too late. The iced-monsters were throwing heavy chains to bind him. "Up!" Jon shouted, "Get up!" He darted forward, sword in his hands. Snow kicked up beneath his heels, and roars rang in his ears. Rhaegal raised his head to spit fire, but one White Walker managed to leap onto his back. Swiftly, he drove a crystal spear into the dragon's long scaled neck.

Dany, Jon and Rhegal screamed as one.

The green beast arched upward with a hiss of pain and Daenerys watched in terror. His tail lashed sideways, crushing at least a dozen wights. She watched his head crane around at the end of that long serpentine neck, saw his green wings unfold to throw the White Walker backwards into the snow. He was struggling to his feet when Jon's blade reached him, turning his body into a million icy shards.

Crazed, Rhaegal madly beat his wings, the crystal spear wobbling in his back. Smoke rose from the wound and, as the Others closed in, Jon knew what he had to do. The world seemed to slow as Daenerys registered what was happening.

"Jon, no!" she shouted with all the strength she could muster, "He'll burn you alive! Stop!"

But Jon couldn't hear her. He approached the roaring dragon decidedly. A furnace wind engulfed him, yet he didn't stop. Rhaegal's scaled neck stretched, black teeth snapping closed inches away from his face. "No!" he ordered, standing his ground, staring into the molten bronze eyes, brighter than polished shields "Easy, now, easy... Calm down!" The answering roar was full of fear and fury, full of pain, yet the dragon folded it's wings...

The air was thick with heat. Jon seized the crystal spear, ripped it out and flung it aside. He could not see, nor breathe, nor think. Gathering his strength he leapt onto the dragon's back and the green wings cracked like thunder.

Suddenly the white covered ground was falling away beneath him.