Thank you to everyone who has read, alerted and favourited this story; especially those who have taken time to review. Thank you so much!

Just so you know, there was an error in the last chapter (now fixed). It was stated that Jon Connington was dead. Oberyn was meant to say he had heard that Jon Connington was going to be put to death, not that he was dead already.

Chapter Forty-Nine: The Expedition

Beyond the Wildling camp, a frozen and featureless snowbound nothingness stretched as far as Jaime could see. It was pretty enough, when the moon was swollen and fat in the night sky. Silvers and greys glittered cold and metallic, shimmering with every gasp of wind; even the breath of the horses and men caught the light of the stars. Winter had fallen at least eight or nine times in his life, that he could remember. Even down in Casterly Rock, snow had fallen and the nights grown longer, darker. But not once had it been like this. Not with cold that burned at the flesh so you could feel your bones freeze and seize up. Or maybe it had, and the summers of his youth had made him forget? Either way, he knew he would remember if winter left whole villages dead with mutilated corpses arranged in peculiar concentric designs. No seasonal shift could do that to a population.

When they left Castle Black to make for the Wildling camp, they made their way along paths cut through the Haunted Forest. Even the most seasoned of brothers shied from the thickets of trees, mostly pine sentinels that groaned in the brisk winds swirling down from the direction of the Thenns. He rolled his eyes as he watched them, inwardly scorning the rank superstition from men he thought would know better. But the farther they advanced, and met up with brothers from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower in the west, the more ominous the signs became. Until they arrived at the place once known as Craster's Keep.

All that remained of the keep was charred stumps of wall posts protruding from the snow. But as he drew closer, he saw the bones half-buried by snow and dirt. Some of the bones had black tattered rags of the Night's Watch clinging to them, others were only horses and mules and a few dogs. Others were women, identifiable only by the roughspun dresses and bleached white furs they wore when they died. Although distressing, the carnage was undoubtedly man made. It was treachery that had caused the massacre here, not an army of the undead.

"We still haven't seen anything solid," Jaime pointed out as they moved farther north. "Yes, it's clear something has happened. But what?"

He was talking to Ser Alliser Thorne, although Theon Greyjoy was close at hand as well. The Ironborn hung back, avoiding too close a contact with the Lord Commander.

"And where are the rest of the men?" he added, looking back down the lines. "Is this really all we have?"

After the recent wars, he would have thought there would be more. But all there was barely one thousand men trudging up behind them. Some had been left behind to garrison the fortresses that manned the wall itself. Even if they had all been including in this mass ranging, it would not have been enough for whatever they thought was out there.

"This is it, Ser Jaime," Thorne replied, sounding less than optimistic. "What do you expect from a bunch of raping, thieving murderers as these?"

Jaime huffed in indignation. "It's your job to turn these raping, thieving murderers into fighting men of the Night's Watch, is it not? Your failure is on your shoulders, not theirs."

He had met middling men with frustrated dreams of greatness in the past. They were usually bitter, angry and lashing out their own failures on those below them. Ser Alliser Thorne, from what he could see, met every criteria and created some more of his own.

"If you can't see past what these men did in their former lives, that's not their fault. It's yours. Just as it was your job to make sure they became something better," he continued, heedless of the noise he was making in the silent woods. "If you can't train novices, what good are you?"

"Have you ever tried training street urchins- "

Jaime was having none of it. "Yes, quite frankly I have. You seem to be labouring under the impression that every soldier I've ever fought alongside has been the son of a high born liege lord, birthed with a golden sceptre shoved up his arse. Well, let me set you straight on that, the foot soldiers who make our armies are every bit as unrefined and uncouth as any Night's Watchman. The difference is, my father and I employ better generals who know what they're doing."

All around them, men of the Night's Watch hid their smirks and thoroughly enjoyed the showdown between the two men. Others brazenly spurred their little garrons closer, all the better to hear the argument. But Jaime continued, completely unaware of them; likewise, Thorne stood his ground and argued back. All the way to the Fist of the First Men, where they got their first glimpse of the Skirling Pass and the Giant's Stairs beyond. Far below them, the rivers had frozen solid and the land masses on either side were forming large, sheer crevasses of ice. Beautiful and lethal, it was.

"You both need to stop arguing and shut up," Theon murmured as he dismounted his horse. "If we don't get camp set up soon we'll all freeze. No one can train a dead man."

It was after they had set up camp that they found the village full of the mutilated dead, not two miles north of their base. Not even the cattle had been spared, which struck Jaime has passing strange given the scarcity of food. Then, a chill of dread crept down as his spine as he thought of whoever – whatever – did this coming back to collect the spoils.

"There's no blood," someone said.

He glanced over his shoulder to find a young recruit he did not know standing at his side. Jaime looked again, slowly approaching the artfully arranged body parts. They weren't yet covered in snow, so they hadn't been dead that long. Yet there was no blood, either. Suggesting they had been killed elsewhere. He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

"Greyjoy, have you seen anything like this before?"

"Aye, my lord," replied the Ironborn. "Hardhomme, the Thenns as well. Other recruits have seen this in other parts, too."

"Gather the weapons," he commanded. "We keep watch here and see if anything returns."

He had a feeling they were being lured out, into a trap. Now that he had called it, he wanted to be ready for it. But nothing would convince him his own sword, castle forged long ago, would be best set aside for a stick of dragon glass. So far, they had made daggers from the obsidian sent from Dragonstone, along with thousands of arrowheads. It was Theon himself who had trained up several decent archers among the raw recruits. Now Jaime had him command them himself. A small band of wildlings had followed them out there. Wary and untrusting of the Night's Watch, they kept their distance, but were with them nonetheless. Jaime had laid down his sword and approached them unarmed in order to give out a sack of dragon glass.

At first, nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen for what seemed an age and a day. Their rations of salt beef and salted fish was running low and soon they would have to give up or face starvation. The Night's Watch lived up to Tywin Lannister's assessment of being nothing more than a glorified penal colony where society could dump its misfits and forget about them. But all that changed on the turn of a hair.

Jaime didn't notice right away. He only felt the temperature drop even more, and it was cold to begin with. The air in the clearing around the village rippled, like a haze of heat on a summer's day. It struck him as strange, but little more. Until someone else pointed it out. Their forms were almost human, but with flesh as pale as the moon. Tall and gaunt, their eyes were blue and shone like stars. And there were legions of them materialising from the darkness all around them, making their own light as they neared their camp. For a long moment, Jaime was struck dumb by them.

"What are they?" he demanded, voice low.

"The Others," Theon replied. "They did this."

Their armour took on the appearance of their immediate environment, explaining how they got so close unnoticed. But they moved so silently, so serenely, that Jaime questioned their motives despite the evidence of death all around him. If they had noticed almost a thousand Night's Watchmen camped barely a half-mile away from them, they gave no indication. They just drifted into one long line, heedless of anything. More and more of them, following from behind the others.

Jaime could see the ice weapons in their hands now. The ice swords shone blue and deadly in the moonlight. Surely it would just shatter? He thought to himself. Behind him, he heard the stretch and twang of bowstrings drawn tight. Before the volley of dragon glass arrows could be loosed, he let Ser Alliser Thorne drag him out of the way. Without realising it, he had become strangely transfixed by these creatures and watched them for far too long.

"Are we going to engage them now?" he asked.

"If you wish to sue for peace, Lannister, be my guest!" Thorne retorted, picking up his sword. "Now get in line behind the archers."

The first volley was loosed and Jaime flinched as the creatures were struck, then imploded in a cloud of ice dust. He expected the other Others to then turn and flee, like any living man would. But these were not living men. Heedless, uncaring, the Others continued their advance as though nothing had happened. More and more of them. Way beyond counting. Theon's voice rang out again, jolting Jaime out of his trance: "Nock … Draw … Loose!"

Half a hundred voices all seemed to call out at once. From his place in the centre of the high table, Jon buried his face in his hands as he tried to pick each one out. Many were incredulous, others were disbelieving and none seemed keen to march back into war. Especially a war fought against creatures they believed existed only in scary hearth stories. When he lowered his hands again, he glanced sidelong at his father in law, Mace Tyrell, as he rose to his feet and appealed for calm. He wished he could tell whether Mace was supporting him because he genuinely believed him or because he didn't want to call his king a doom-mongering fantasist. All that really mattered was that Mace was speaking in his favour.

After a second's more indecipherable protesting, the lords and knights arranged around the lower tables settled down again. The farther north the lords lived, the more inclined they were to give him and his councillor's a fair hearing. Unfortunately for him, the ones most in the know were back with Robb, in Winterfell. He began to think himself half a fool for not retaining an Umber or two to speak up. Still, he always had Mace Tyrell.

"My lords, my lords, remember the word of your king is not to be lightly dismissed," he reminded them. "A Northman to the core, he knows better than any other man here what storms this winter may bring. I beseech you all to listen and assess for yourselves the merit of what he says."

As he resumed his seat, Mace exchanged a nod with Jon. A small but encouraging gesture as he prepared to address his council once more. On his other side, to the left, Tyrion Lannister remained silent and thoughtful as he studied the rows of faces spread out in front of them. Jon had been told this form of council was unconventional, but he needed something more than just the small council. He needed the nobility and the generals and the seasoned commanders all in one place. He needed their decision today. He rose to his feet like he was taking the first step back onto the battlefield.

"My Lords, I've barely reached the iron throne and my first son was born a matter of weeks ago," he explained. "I have no desire to go back to war and less still a war thousands of leagues from here. But believe me, if we don't go to war the war will come to us. Not today or tomorrow, but will get here eventually. The long night has fallen, the people grow fearful and they've every right to do so. All I need from you is a certain number of men from each of your armies to travel beyond the wall and assist the Night's Watch against a growing army of Others."

Having said his piece, Jon sat back down and turned his attention to the various men seated at the lower tables. He wanted to see how they were reacting, whether they were warming to his arguments. Numerous men were murmuring amongst themselves, then one man stood up and spoke directly to him. Fully armoured, the sigil of House Lonmouth was stretched across his silver breast plate.

"I bent the knee to you, your grace, and I pledged my sword to you and I gave you my fealty. But I said nothing about charging into other men's lands and starting wars with savages and mythical monsters."

Irked by his insolent tone, Jon glowered at him, making sure to meet his gaze. "This is our territory, my lord. Winter won't stop at the wall, nor the Neck for that matter."

"You gave the North away your grace," Lonmouth retorted. "You gave the biggest chunk of Westeros away to your brother, now you're asking us to risk our necks, and the necks of our men, to defend it for him. If the Northmen couldn't look after the place on their own, they shouldn't have gone for independence. As far as I'm concerned, this is none of our concern."

Not one of them saw fit to hide their defiance. Many openly applauded and a few called out encouragement. He had expected disbelief and dissuasion, but not open defiance.

"Aye, I granted the North greater freedoms. That does not mean the North is no longer part of this realm," he shot back, irritably. "We have a duty to assist the provinces in their hour of need. Especially when the threat they face is about to become a threat to us all. Do you think if the Wildlings and the Others breach the wall they're going to reach the Neck and kindly decide not to bother the rest of us? They respect land borders as well as winter does."

Even now, mention of the "Others" brought looks of ill-concealed contempt from many in the chamber. His nobility thought him mad and his small folk thought him a heretic and his heir a night tripping demon. He had come a long way from having people bend their knees to him. Refusing to back down, he scanned the chamber with his dark grey eyes narrowed. Only when another voice called from the back did he turn from the front rows.

"I wouldn't dare say I disbelieve your grace, but I would be curious about what evidence you have of these … Others."

Jon found him. A middle aged man and balding. The sigil of House Celtigar was displayed on his breastplate. It was a fair question, Jon thought, and one that deserved a reasonable answer.

"My Lord Celtigar," he said, addressing him directly. "I saw for myself a white walker, which can only be made by the Others. Although, I confess, I have not seen the Others myself, a man of the Night's Watch, Samwell Tarly, slew one with a dagger of dragon glass. I know Tarly in person and he is not one to make up stories or believe in phantoms."

The revelation was met with a muffled snort of disbelief. To Jon's dismay, it was Randyll Tarly now climbing to his feet. "The only thing my son ever slew was a plate of comfits, your grace."

Had Jon still been the bastard of Winterfell, he could have just punched the man. Instead, he had to bite his tongue and sit back, composed and polite. "Well, he slew a deadly foe of the realm as well, Lord Tarly. Now he, and we, need men who would be willing to slay many more."

Had Tyrion tried to stand, he would have vanished below the table, so he banged his goblet on the table to get everyone's attention. "Some time ago, when my family and I visited Winterfell, I had the honour of visiting Castle Black to see for myself what the Watch is up against. I report, first hand, that conditions there are barely fit for pigs and never mind men. They are under staffed, over stretched, they have no money and scarcely any equipment. Yet we demand of them that they protect our realm, defend a seven-hundred-foot tall wall that stretches from coast to coast and keep the wildling tribes under control. My Lords, surely you can see, we cannot make such demands unless we're also prepared to dig deep once in a while and do our bit to help."

"So what're you going to do then, Lannister?"

Jon couldn't see the challenger, but his voice emanated from somewhere near the middle of the hall.

"I am prepared to commit five hundred Lannister men to an expedition beyond the wall," he replied, without hesitation. "They are not Night's Watchmen and my hope is this will endear them to the Wildling tribes whose trust I believe we now need."

A wave of relief swept over Jon and he joined in the applause. Just then, he noticed Ser Davos Seaworth conferring with Lady Shireen. The knight then rose and picked up the young girl, standing her on her seat so the lords could see her properly. Still she would have been barely visible from the back of the room.

"If it is true that there are armies rising beyond the wall, I would like to know about it for a certainty," her voice rang out across the hall. "As such, I pledge five hundred men and ships to carry them to East Watch by the Sea. Ser Davos has agreed to lead them himself."

"The Redwyne Fleet can set sail for Westwatch," Horras Redwyne put in from his place near the high table. "Give me men and equipment and I'll sail them north myself. I, too, would have the truth of these tall tales, your grace."

He was young and gallant, eager to prove himself. Jon remembered his father cautioning him that such men were prone to rashness, reckless on the field and unreliable. Sadly, he had no choice but cast his father's caution to the wind and accept. "I thank you both my lord, my lady. All those who would raise men and set sail for the north must do so as soon as possible. You have my leave."

Many more than had already spoken got up and left. Even so, the room was still more than half full by the time silence had fallen again. Oberyn Martell was at the far end of the high table, keeping his own council. He had already pledged men for the expedition, as well as ships to get them there. Still, he lingered and finally saw fit to speak.

"We must be clear on one thing, my lords," he began, gravely. "I have travelled the known world many times in my youth and have already been north of the wall. The Free Folk are a proud people and independent. Don't expect them to bend the knee, but be assured they are not your enemy. Can we give assurances that this expedition is not to wipe out tribes of free folk?"

"I will do what I can," Jon assured him. "I trust my lords will do the same and issue a decree stating all free folk are to be left unmolested so long as they do not impinge upon our lands. I'll not have my people attacked by them."

"They will attack our lands!" another angry voice called from the back. "They're savages and know no better, your grace. You should know that."

"They attack us and we attack them, it's a cycle badly in need of breaking," Tyrion pointed out. "If we help to make the far north a safer place then the free folk will be able to live there. It's their home, my lords. They don't attack us and invade our lands because they want to, it's because they have to."

Jon perked up, finding a second wind to get him through the rest of this high council meeting. "My lord of Lannister speaks truly. I would hear no more of killing wildlings. All I want to know is what's out there."

He hadn't won over everyone, he knew. But he had his expedition. The Lannisters, Baratheons, Royces, Starks and the men he raised along the way would be enough for now. Daenerys had set sail with a thousand of her Unsullied and the three dragons, another boost for the defences at the wall. But he doubted the Unsullied's ability to cope in such harsh surroundings. The far north was a world away from the dry heat of Mereen.

Once the meeting was over, he waited until everyone but Tyrion had left. The great common hall always felt eerily calm once everyone had gone. Their voices echoed when they spoke and the smell of the dust on the air thickened.

"The Queen and I would like you to sup with us," he said, more tersely than he intended. "Just Marge, myself and the prince. Bring Lady Frey, if you like."

"That's very kind, your grace, thank you," he replied as they too got up to leave. "As to Lady Frey, I'm really not too sure about that."

Jon raised a pained smile. "Why ever not? I think she likes you and her brothers are keen for the match to happen."

Tyrion snorted. "Her brothers are keen on Lannister gold and Lady Roslin is keen to please her brothers. That's not the same as being fond of me."

Realising he was treading on unfamiliar ground, he let the matter drop. Affairs of the heart and matchmaking would never be his forte.

"In that case you had best bring Aegon Sand," he said.

"That's quite a turnaround, your grace!" the other man laughed. "But it is timely. You need to meet him, see what he has for you and decide what to do about Jon Connington. That decision must be made before you leave for the North."

Seeing the sense in it, Jon agreed. "What does he have for me anyway?"

"Wait and see," Tyrion teased, before turning serious again. "You know that member of the Faith Militant preaching against you was a relative of mine, don't you?"

Jon heaved a weary sigh. "I thought so. Ser Kevan's son, isn't he? Is this his way of getting back at me for killing his father?"

Tyrion frowned, looking perplexed. "This is what troubles me because I don't think it is. Which means he's genuinely taking all this stuff seriously."

The Faith Militant had cropped up as soon as the long night fell, but Jon had a feeling they had been biding their time for months before hand, just waiting for the right moment to strike. Now, they were like mushrooms popping up out of the ground in the damp and the dark. Branded fanatics, at least they were easy to spot in a crowd with their mutilated faces and clanking chains. Several had been apprehended trying to break into the dragon pit to poison Dany's dragons. It was a mercy she had taken them to Dragonstone. If he remembered his history, it had been the Faith Militant who had incited the commoners to kill all the dragons last time around.

"I'm going to tell you something I once said to Cersei," Tyrion began. "If you take punitive action against these people, all you're going to do is prove you fear what they say."

"So, catapulting them off the battlements might be counterproductive?" he asked, wryly. "I don't fear them my lord. But I fear leaving my wife and child here alone with them at our gates."

"Prince Aemon and Queen Margaery will not be left alone," Tyrion assured him. "But it's your actions now that will define how the people see you, how they respond to you. Let the madmen preach, but prove them wrong with deeds not with hot pincers tearing out their tongues."

The thought had crossed his mind. An easy solution to a temporary problem that was symptomatic of something beyond his control. But Tyrion spoke truly. For now, he had to leave them. He had refused an audience to the High Sparrow, preferring instead to leave him in the margins of society. There was no reasoning with madness.

That evening, they gathered in the Queen's private apartments. Prince Aemon had been left in Lady Roslin's care while the Queen dressed for dinner. Meanwhile, Jon received Tyrion and Aegon alone. The young lad was thinner than before. His blue hair was growing out now, revealing dark brown roots. It seemed he took after the Starks in hair colour and the Dayne's in his eyes. It made for an odd sight.

"Well," said Tyrion, over brightly. "You two have met before, so I think I can dispense with the awkward introductions."

When the older lad failed to respond, Jon forced himself to smile. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion. Please, help yourself to wine. I think it time my cousin and I spoke in private."

Rather than draw the moment out, Jon led the way through the outer galleries and into the private gardens. They were a sorry sight in the darkness of winter. The roses had shrivelled and died, the earth frosted over and the benches were all damp with rainfalls. There was no fragrance left, just the heady scent of wet earth and mud. A lone brazier burned within the cloisters that marked the garden boundary, it's frenetic flames barely enough to illuminate that small patch of land.

Everywhere Jon went, Aegon kept a distance of at least three feet. He did not speak; he didn't even look at Jon as though afraid to draw attention to himself. Sheepish, for the lie he had lived. For his part, Jon could not hate him. Aegon had had no more say in his life than he had in his own, before Lord Stark was compelled by others to tell the truth. The only difference was; Jon did eventually get the truth. Whereas Aegon had been fed lie after lie, while simultaneously being pushed around a board like life was one complicated and long game of Cyvasse.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked, realising how poor a question it was. "You've had time to think things through."

"I miss Jon Conn," he replied, finally looking up at Jon. "When I asked to see him I was told he does not wish to see me. Why do you think that is?"

Jon felt for him then. A knot forming in his chest as the consequences of this plot continued to unfold. "I think you already know, don't you?"

The light in the young lad's eyes dulled. "All those things he did for me, the sacrifices he made, he did for Rhaegar's son. Only, I am not Rhaegar's son. But in raising me as his own, I saw him as my father. Jon Conn, that is. That isn't something I can switch off, your grace. But he cannot bear to look at me now that the lies have been exposed."

Jon knew most of the story now. How Connington was exiled and lowered himself to joining a company of sellswords. When Varys and Mopatis came along with this little stooge, it wasn't enough that he come on board to help. He had to fake his own death and then come on board. They had covered their tracks and then covered the coverings of their tracks. He found himself wondering, for a moment, what might have happened had someone else found him in the Tower of Joy instead of his uncle Eddard. Would they have killed him, or would they have played a game like this one? It scarce bore thinking about.

"What would you have done with Connington?" he asked.

But the other lad only shrugged. "I would have us both back on the Shy Maid, sailing the known world and visiting foreign lands. Like in the old days, when I was a boy. I was happy then; I think we all were."

"That's never going to happen," Jon replied, with a sad shake of his head. The lad would be lucky if he saw beyond the walls of the Red Keep ever again. "Connington may come around to you once more, maybe he won't. I can't wait forever. All I know is he came here to kill me, the real son of Rhaegar Targaryen. That I can't forgive. Even if I was inclined to, Connington means nothing to me."

"So, you're asking me my views even though you have made up your mind?" he asked.

"I thought it worth investigating any possibly mitigating circumstances or redeeming features," replied Jon, dismissively. "I think I have my answer."

Aegon hesitated for a moment, caught between two actions at once. After a moment, he pulled off his sword belt and handed it to him. Jon took it curiously.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Why don't you look," he replied. "It was Jon Conn who kept it safe. For me, admittedly. But he said only the true son of Rhaegar Targaryen could wield it. That's you, it seems."

Jon crossed the yard to be nearer the light of the brazier. He unsheathed the sword and noted first the large ruby glowing in the flames. The pommel was fashioned into the shape of a dragon's head and the blade was of fine, Valyrian steel. It was a hand-and-a-half longsword; a weapon of sheer beauty.

"It's beautiful," he said, drawing the blade fully. It was far superior to Dark Sister.

"It is Blackfyre," replied Aegon, oddly emotionless.

Jon lifted his head to face him again, mouth half-open. "What? But how?"

"The Golden Company had it all along," he replied, casually. "They wanted to keep it for a Blackfyre claimant, but they're all gone now. So Jon Conn talked them into letting me have it, thinking I was Rhaegar's son. But now it is yours, your grace. It's only right, your grace."

Jon's eyes narrowed. "What do you want in return?"

"Jon Connington's life," he replied, flatly.

Sheathing the sword, Jon propped it against a nearby wall. "You know I cannot spare him-"

"You mistake me," Aegon cut in, forgetting his manners. "I want his life for setting me aside and leaving me to languish just because I'm not who he thought I was."

Taken aback, Jon stepped closer to him with his hands up in a gesture of conciliation. As he drew nearer, Aegon's eyes were shining with tears he would not allow to fall. "Five seconds ago you were wishing you were back on the boat with him. What's changed?"

"It is a wish, your grace. A flight of fancy and nothing more. I would that none of this had happened and we could just be a family. Him, me and Septa Lemore," he explained. "Even if it is a lie."

Despite outward glacial appearances Aegon was angry, upset and confused. He didn't even know if he was coming or going and his mood changed as swiftly as the wind. The people taking care of him in Maegor's Holdfast had warned him, Jon, of as much some days passed.

"Maybe you should forget Jon Connington for a minute and use this to bargain for your own future," Jon hinted. "Either way, I'm hanging on to it. It's mine by rights. Just think clearly and tell me what you want in return once this is over."

With that, he picked up Blackfyre again and led the way back inside. Margaery was ready by the time they returned, with the prince sat on her lap and gurgling happily. She greeted him with a smile, but barely acknowledge the pretender. Something the lad would have to get used to.

Drogon swept down from the dark skies beyond White Harbour. His landing smooth as he came to a gradual halt in front of Dany's retinue. From there, he looked her in the eye, challenging her. She held out her hand to stop the lines marching behind her, meeting the dragon's gaze. When the procession halted, she dismounted her horse and approached him, thinking he was hurt. But when she checked him over, he seemed in fine fettle. His scales shone and he melted the snow where he had landing, causing the ground to turn soft and mushy. As she moved, his wide eyes followed her.

"What?" she asked him.

He made no move except to expand his wings, spreading them wide. A smile spread across the face and she wrapped her furs around her, realising the time had come. Missandei had come with her, and now joined her at Drogon's side.

"My lady, is he hurt?" she asked, brow creased with concern.

"On the contrary," she replied, running one hand down his sinuous neck. "Join the others and tell Grey Worm I will meet you all at Winterfell."

Without looking back she hoisted herself up onto Drogon's wing joint, as easily as climbing on a man's shoulders. From there, she was able to grab a spine and hoist herself up onto his back and settle there, nestled between two large ridges on his back. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs, worried in case she had mistaken the signs. Then he moved. Two jerky, lumbering hops forward as he gained speed. Her heart flew into her throat as she clung on, desperately trying to stay in place. However, she could see the wings would stop her falling off. Seconds later, he was leaping from the ground higher and higher. Once, twice and on the third they plunged upwards, stealing the breath from her lungs. Daenerys watched in awe and fear as the ground vanished as they flew toward the stars.

Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Thanks again!