ol-11: It also does not help Viserion was cut off from Drogon and Rhaegal which vastly help Winter to get the jump on him.
dabra: No one said Daenerys was perfect. In fact, she's anything but.
Zhorvak: Dany's entire arc here has been defined by being brought down from her pedestal, time and time again. As defender of the slaves in Volantis, as undefeated in Kinrock, as all-powerful in Sunspear and then as dragonrider here.
Connor: Her actions come from a good place, but she's also very imperfect, which turns her actions from good-natured to disaster very quickly.
Sage: More than occasionally, unfortunately...
Phillip: Daenerys is still high off her victories. Aegon bent easily because he also thinks his position is better than it is (and technically, it is).
ArchPsion: If Jon indeed ran away from the fight to go roast the loyalist armies, it's straight over.
Guest: I can detect the sarcasm. Still not a Jon-wank. See this chapter.
Guest2: You're right in saying that breaking the feudal contract was catastrophic, and does raise the question of the right of the Targs on the throne. They might have to go with another 'right of conquest' excuse.
Sin Eclair: Dany's 'madness' is less 'madness' proper and more a terrible situational awareness. She thinks herself higher because of her dragons and she gets constantly surprised when it all goes wrong. I will say, though, she was never going to cuck Aegon with Ned Dayne. She just saw a way of 'escaping' her betrothal to Aegon with Ned, who she projected as Aegon since Ned looks a lot more handsome. Though, this incident is the last one to shatter her confidence.
Shankington: "Fed up" should be fine, and there are months in Westeros. Here's a direct quote from the books: "I never saw snow until last month. We were crossing the barrowlands, me and the men my father sent to see me north, and this white stuff began to fall, like a soft rain. At first I thought it was so beautiful, like feathers drifting from the sky, but it kept on and on, until I was frozen to the bone. The men had crusts of snow in their beards and more on their shoulders, and still it kept coming. I was afraid it would never end." Jon IV, AGOT
Daeron
Jon winced in pain as he raised his arm towards Winter's body, the bandages wrapped around him nearly coming loose.
"Careful, Jon," Sam warned from behind him, staying a respectable distance away. "You cannot move your arm too briskly; it will hurt and might undo the bandages."
Jon nodded, and brought his arm down. The burns on his body hadn't hurt until he landed, too caught up in the fight to care about the pain. But once the dust had settled, the suffering had started, and it had taken a big dose of milk of the poppy to calm him.
All across his right arm, from the elbow to the wrist, were burns, turning his skin to wrinkles, when not melting it outright. His calves were aching, his feet hurting, and the right side of his body had taken bruises, the result of Winter's quick evasive movements.
Winter was not in a better shape either. The dragon had the advantage of surprise against the first dragon, but it did not benefit from it at all afterwards. Always on the back foot, trying to find an opportunity to evade…Winter was finally caught.
There were bite marks all along her neck and tail, half the scales of her stomach were clawed or torn off. Her wings were now in a decrepit state, the left being riddled with small holes, while the right one saw her bones holding it together bent or broken outright.
It was there that Winter suffered the most. Her bones bent at such angles…it would be hard for her to fly properly, let alone evade anything if Daenerys' dragon were to still be able to fly.
And that, was one of his deepest fears.
The fight had left both battered, but Winter had taken hits. Her dragon was much more combative than expected, fighting for its life…and had almost cost Winter hers. A few more moments and she'd have lost the fragile scales in her neck, ripped off, tearing into her…
Jon had no choice but to flee, to run away, and leave the field to his enemy.
But that weighed little on him.
For he had seen what happened to the green dragon, Aegon's dragon.
It had speared out of the clouds, attacking him.
Twice could Aegon have chosen to end him, and twice he had chosen not to.
How did I repay that? By driving him and his dragon into the ground. By being a kinslayer.
The words echoed in his head, almost as loud as the scales shearing off of the green dragon as it fell.
Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.
The voices grew louder and louder.
Aegon, a brother he never knew, had chosen not to kill him outright when he could. And he, the son of Ned Stark, rushed in and killed him without a second thought.
It was necessary in that moment, Jon told himself. Even if I now question it. Aegon was dead and Daenerys was alive. She would come back, with vengeance, with fire and blood like her house words would say.
Winter could still put up a fight…but would it be worth it?
The words echoed in his head again.
Kinslayer. Kinslayer.
Gods, what would Maester Aemon think of him? What would his father think of him? Having squandered both of their gifts in a few hours…and because of him.
He hadn't understood why Daenerys' dragon hadn't attacked him. Why the dragons all seemed to be patiently waiting, not trying to confront him…until he left the battle.
When the clouds parted and the sun shone over Tumbleton, that's when he finally saw the white smoke coming from the forest. There would be no battle.
And his heart sank even deeper then.
He thought that he was defending his army, his people.
Instead, in all likelihood, Daenerys and Aegon had come to renew the negotiations, just with a show of force at their back, as they did before. And in his brashness, he had attacked.
Winter bellowed, causing Sam to step back.
Jon did not, though. He kept his hands firmly on the dragon's stomach, tears flowing down his cheeks.
"I killed him…" Jon whispered, "I killed him…"
Jon wanted to cry out. To have set aside his pride a little while longer, and mayhaps he could have come to terms with Aegon. He looked like the reasonable one, mayhaps Prince Quentyn could've helped him see reason…
Now, it was too late. He had spilled blood, and his aunt would come for him now, there was no backing down. What penance would the Gods inflict on him after this crime? Would they take away his wife, his child?
Jon's mind raced to Arianne. She needed to be kept safe. He might need to send her to her brother, he would bring her back to Dorne.
His mind went back to the Wall.
He could flee now, go to the North, block Moat Cailin, and wait for the oncoming storm, whether from the North or the South…but honor forbade that too. Rickon's kin still fought, and he and Lord Edmure may not share blood, but they shared the same sense of duty. He could not abandon him, either.
Sighing, he patted Winter on the back, and walked out of the clearing in the woods where the dragon had settled.
Out in the forest were a few men, all dressed in black, waiting patiently.
Jon didn't spare a look at Sam, who tried to extend him a hand.
As he approached, the men straightened up.
They were all taller, older than him. And, if not for his dragon, Jon would feel intimidated, almost out of place.
Edmure Tully stood chief amongst them, with Jason Mallister, Rickard Karstark and Edwyn Frey waiting patiently behind him. All were wearing some mail, but no armor, as there had been no battle that day, thanks to the dragon's presence.
"What news?" Edmure asked, his voice not betraying an inch of concern.
"I fear to bring none that will please you." Jon shook his head.
Edmure sighed deeply.
"Say what you have to."
"I…I don't think Winter can fight again," Jon let the words slip out of his mouth.
His interlocutors looked at each other with pained expressions on their faces.
"I will clarify," Jon replied. "Winter can fight again, but I am not sure if she can win. And even if she could win, she would be in such a state that it would be unlikely that she could fight for a long time. Too long for…"
"What's coming from north of the Wall." Rickard Karstark gruffly completed his sentence.
"Aye," Jon agreed. "If you choose to fight, I could go and try to fight my aunt, whose husband I have just killed. She will be enraged and will stop at nothing to kill me for this crime. I dare not say I could return alive from it."
"And we would lose everything anyways." Edmure stroked his auburn beard. "If I understand, either we defeat the Targaryens, or we defeat the Others, but not both?"
Jon swallowed his spit, not wanting to admit the unthinkable. His face was all that Edmure needed to confirm this horrid state of affairs.
"And if we gamble?" Edwyn Frey smiled. "We saw both dragons fall."
"And surely, the gods have not deprived you of your ears, Frey?" Jason Mallister scoffed. "That dragon's roar was not one of pain. It was one of victory."
"What do you know about dragons?" Edwyn scowled.
"Peace, my lords." Edmure raised his hand. "It is true that whatever fight we had, Queen Daenerys must have been battered as well. Lord Frey may be right; is there a chance we could gamble? With the clouds, Winter's state might not have been so obvious to them."
Jon bit his tongue. He hadn't considered that.
"You mean to hide Winter's wounds?" he asked.
"Queen Daenerys would not dare go against us if she thought your dragon was perfectly able to fight," Edmure reasoned.
"But then, I would have to hide her," Jon countered. "What conclusions would they draw once they see me arrive, ahorse, in their camp? Would they not think I'd rather have arrived atop my dragon?"
"After what happened today…" Edmure breathed in, "they would think you are a sane man."
Jon did not reply immediately, and instead turned his head towards Lord Karstark. He was loyal to his father, then his brother, and now him. What would he have to say?
"We must try," the grey-bearded lord approved. "We cannot just bend the knee and lose everything. If we are to gain anything at the end of it all, and still fight the Others, without weakening ourselves too much, we need concessions."
"Rickon will have to give up his crown." Jon pointed out, staring blankly at the Karstark.
"The Dornish gave you an offer, did they not?" was the immediate reply..
"Aye, they did. Princes of Winter, the same privileges as Dorne," Jon answered. "An offer you would have, of course, rejected, Lord Karstark."
"Aye, I would have rejected this without a second thought." Karstark leaned back against a tree. "Before the battle, I would have rather laid my life than bend the knee to the sister-fuckers again. But…"
"But?" Lord Edmure asked.
"I'd rather live in my lands, living mine own life, seeing my children grow happy, having grandchildren, in a peaceful realm, even under the overlordship of the dragons, than seeing my keep, fields, children and people turned to ice and dead men." Lord Karstark replied blankly. "I would not bend the knee; I am too old for it. But my children…"
"If anyone is bending any knee, it will be me," Jon interjected. "The blame of this defeat is on me, and I would not have anyone else pay the consequences."
"You have done a great service to the North already, boy." Lord Karstark put a hand on his shoulder. "We are grateful for it, do remember that. King Robb would be proud."
Jon's heart warmed a little at that, but not enough to cheer him up.
In his mind, he has failed, and utterly. Robb had created a Kingdom, and it would end in a matter of years, all because of him.
"And you, Lord Edmure?" Jon asked.
"The Riverlands cannot hold forever," Edmure replied swiftly, as if he had been expecting the question. "With the Vale having switched sides, it is only a matter of time till we are forced to bend the knee, forcefully or not. I say it is better to haggle for all that we can get now."
"My aunt will not forgive what I did easily." Jon lowered his head.
"Which is even more reason to bet on the fact that she knows nothing of your dragon's state," Edmure countered. "Surely, there must be voices of reason in her camp that would not allow her to fight again. The Dornish, in particular, would be less inclined to be as loyal to her with Aegon dead."
Jon took a deep breath and nodded.
"A mummer's face, is that it?" he asked.
"One we have no choice to put on if we wish to save ourselves, our people, and even the world," Edmure said.
"A shame we will not have any battle." Lord Karstark clenched his fists. "I would have paid dearly to see that Arryn boy squashed beneath the hooves of my horse."
"His time will come…if we can get Lord Tully on the Small Council, as Hand, especially." Jason Mallister smiled. "Certainly, it would not be as crushing as a battle, but it would be a blow to the Vale, as Lord Edmure could take slow and delicate revenge, as opposed to one by the way of the sword."
Lord Karstark just grumbled.
In truth, Jon would've also liked to see Harrold burn for this. But he would not get the chance. All he could do now was hope that his upcoming wedding to Arianne would save his head, but what difference did that make? He had slain kin, and he was as good as dead. Mayhaps the war against the dead could give him solace.
"Then, we should send a herald to resume negotiations. Do you think us sending someone will not be taken as a sign of weakness?" Jon asked.
Edmure tilted his head back and forth in thought. "It could be. Or it could be taken as a wish to resolve this peacefully after making a statement. In any case, we need to send someone."
"Then do so, if you must," Jon agreed. "You will find me praying, in my tent."
Edmure nodded at him, leaving Jon to turn heels and walk back towards Winter, giving her a knowing nod, and taking the small pathway through the forest and back to the Northern camp, which had been moved in the night from the river, to the woods north of the city of Tumbleton.
The sword at his hip never felt so heavy, and it was with great pleasure that he finally let go of Longclaw, tossing it on the floor.
He almost collapsed, then, still hearing the words in his head.
Jon. Jon. Jon.
Tears rolled down his cheeks freely now.
"Jon!"
This time, his head sprang up. This was no voice of his own.
"What's wrong?"
He raised his head, to see Arianne's curly hair staring at him. In such a pitiful state, too.
"So, so much." Jon could barely look at her, he tried to avoid her gaze, looking down.
Arianne sat down next to him, bringing a hand over his, while the other grabbed his cheek and forced him to look back at her.
She wiped his tears from his face, putting her soothing hand over his face, closing the distance between them.
"Tell me," she almost whispered.
"I am cursed, Ari," Jon almost immediately let out. "I am a kinslayer."
Arianne said nothing, looking him up and down.
"That makes two of us." She rubbed his shoulder.
"This is different, Ari," Jon replied. "I killed him. I killed Aegon."
"Some soldiers say they saw horses approach the green dragon and carry a man ahorse towards the Dornish camp," Arianne said. "They say the man looked alive to them, though they could not tell."
"Impossible." Jon shook his head. "The fall…it would have been almost impossible for one to survive it."
"Almost." Arianne interjected. "Until you learn of Aegon's death, he is not dead, do you hear me?"
"And if he is?" Jon asked, eyes watering.
"Then, I still love you." Arianne shrugged. "I know that you had to do this. To protect your people, your men, your armies and your oaths. I will not wish you ill for battling my cousin. It is war, Jon. People die in wars, and, unlike me, you struck him down, not out of ambition or cruelty, but out of concern and care."
"I still struck him down," Jon cried. "I struck him down, and I have doomed the North to bend the knee for it."
"And in a hundred years, they might thank you for it." Arianne smiled at him. "When the Others are defeated, and the full might of the Seven Kingdoms has been brought onto them, they'll remember you as the one who made it happen."
"By sacrificing a kingdom."
"Sacrificing one now, to build one later. You may not live to see it, but the North has gotten a taste of freedom, and, one day or another, be it in ten or a thousand years, it may yet be free once more."
"I…will be a Targaryen, Arianne." Jon shook his head. "I will be a traitor."
"Then be one. If it saves your people, be one." She kissed him on the cheek. "Will you accept Dragonstone, then?"
"No." Jon shook his head. "Your brother offered Summerhall."
Arianne wondered for a moment, then chuckled. "No doubt, he did. I would have been surprised otherwise. A fine choice…if it is restored to its former glory."
"You approve of it?" Jon asked.
"I'd have approved of Dragonstone if it meant I'd be with you." Arianne beamed. "But Summerhall…is a beautiful prize, but…your family?"
"Summerhall is close to Stonehelm, travel by ship to White Harbor will only take a few days, and flying even less so. I do not mind the distance, especially not in lands as fertile as those of Summerhall," Jon answered frankly.
"Then, go, make peace with them, and then we shall celebrate or mourn." Arianne gazed at him, pursing her lips. "The North still needs you."
"One last time…" Jon nodded as he saw one of Edmure's men approach the tent from afar. "I will be back, and when I shall, I fear it will not be as Jon Stark, but as Daeron Targaryen…"
"You will always be Jon Stark to me." Arianne gave him one last smile. "Now go."
Jon nodded at her, wiped the tears from his face, took his sword, and left the tent. Outside, the herald told him that the Targaryens had agreed to another meeting, only if the number of attendees would be reduced.
Thus, only he, Edmure, Jason Mallister and Rickard Karstark would attend, and, this time, no dragons would be present, something the Targaryens requested, as they could start fighting if they saw each other.
None of them saw any objections to this, thankfully.
Thus, Jon strutted forward, ready to play one last mummer's farce before the lords.
The golden tent this time was positioned in the middle of a field, with no one standing near it except for a few Dornish and Unsullied, with the rest being cleared out.
No dragons were indeed in sight, which made Jon both relieved and nervous.
Before entering, they were offered bread and salt again, and ushered into the tent.
There, only four people were waiting for them. Queen Daenerys sat in the center, with Prince Quentyn at her right, and Jon Connington at her left, with Lord Velaryon beside the Stormlander. Not a Valeman to be seen.
Not a word was spoken as everyone took their seats once again, and it was Jon who finally broke the heavy silence, with a question he wished to ask ever since he had entered the tent.
"Is my brother well?"
Queen Daenerys looked up at him with fire in her eyes, but a gaze at Prince Quentyn made her reconsider the words that came out of her mouth.
"He is well, thank the gods," Lord Connington instead replied. "His Grace is in good health, but, I am afraid, not well enough to mount a horse. He will not be present here today."
"Please wish him my best wishes for his recovery, then." Jon nodded, breathing a huge sigh of relief.
"Let us get to the terms, if you would, Your Grace," Prince Quentyn immediately cut in, his voice not calm and collected, but impatient and brash, something surprising considering the prince's demeanour during his own meeting with Jon.
"Of course." Queen Daenerys sighed. "We shall start with my offer to the North, if you would, Lord Regent. In exchange for bending the knee, the Starks will be granted the status of a Princely House, with the right to style themselves as anything but 'King' or 'Emperor', as well as special tariffs and a tax exemption for the next winter."
Jon raised an eyebrow. The winter that would come was going to be the longest in history. A tax exemption would be…incredibly generous.
Lord Karstark had also taken note of this, though his expression remained unconvinced.
"The North will be entitled to a share of the gold taken from the Westerlands as war reparations, it will also be granted a seat on the Small Council if it wishes, as well as the promise of an upcoming royal match, if it wishes it as well," Queen Daenerys continued. "Finally, the New Gift will be given back to the North, and House Targaryen will promise Cersei Lannister's head and any other compensation House Stark may deem necessary from the capital once it is in our hands, as well as a pick of the Iron Islands should they wish so."
"As for the Riverlands," Lord Velaryon continued, "The terms are roughly the same as the ones discussed previously. House Targaryen will recognize Riverrun's claim over Hornvale, the Golden Tooth and Deep Den, but not Silverhill, who is promised to the Crownlands. House Targaryen will also grant any of the Iron Islands that Lord Tully would deem sufficient compensation, as well as major financial compensation for the burning of your fields and houses, and will recognize the Riverlands as a Kingdom, and not a simple paramountcy. Furthermore, Lord Edmure Tully will be offered the handship."
Queen Daenerys turned to the Old Griffin, who sighed deeply and took off his chain.
"Effective immediately," Lord Velaryon added.
"And what are your conditions for these terms?" Jon asked. "I suppose you are not offering all of these out of the goodness of your heart."
Prince Quentyn took the floor. "You will bend the knee, of course. But you will also join our combined effort on the capital, as proof of this new loyalty. We will face the Tyrells and Lannisters together, and, following this show of force, Their Graces have agreed to lend a substantial force to cross the Neck to face the Others, provided that they are real."
"What's more," Queen Daenerys interjected, "Prince Daeron is to relinquish the Stark name and take his place into House Targaryen."
And that's where it would hurt the most. Jon felt a sting in his heart, and wanted to close his eyes and rage at it all.
"He will be granted the keep of Summerhall and all its lands around it, as dowry for his wedding to Princess Arianne of Dorne." Queen Daenerys eyed Prince Quentyn with a deep, dark, glare. "As such, Summerhall will fold back into the Crownlands. Prince Daeron will be named heir until a child is born of mine and Aegon's union, and any legitimate children he may have will be pushed ahead of him in the succession. As for his dragon, it is his, but any eggs she may give must be handed back to the Crown."
Jon bit his lip, waiting for the end of it.
"Did I forget anything?" the Queen asked around her.
"I believe that is everything, Your Grace." Prince Quentyn smiled back in his chair.
"Then, you may discuss the terms. These ones are our final terms, and if you do not accept them…" Lord Velaryon left the sentence hanging.
Jon leaned back in his chair and sighed.
Thinking on it, the terms presented were not bad…and generous. But why such a turn now? Why such a change in position? Did Prince Quentyn manage to force her hand to this point? Is their position weakened?
He leaned in towards Lord Karstark to hear his thoughts. "I will follow any action you take, Lord Regent."
That did not help.
Turning to Lord Edmure, he too offered no more solace. "I would be ready to accept this offer, but I would also be ready to decline it if you feel these terms are unreasonable for you."
Jon thought deeply for a moment. He thought of what would come after. Of his life with Arianne, and of the life of the people of the North. Of the Others who were coming, and of his brother Robb.
"Forgive me brother, I must do what I am beholden to. The shield that guards the realm of men will break if I do not do this," he whispered to himself.
Then, straightening up, he nodded.
"Aye, these terms are agreeable to us."
Lord Edmure smiled, and reached for the golden chain, putting it around his neck.
"Then, give your allegiance now, and in perpetuity." Queen Daenerys rose up.
Jon sighed, and thought of Rickon, of Arya and Sansa, Of Robb and Bran, of Luwin and Beth and Jeyne and his father. Of Ygritte, Val, Mance and all the others. Slowly, he bent the knee, Lord Edmure alongside him.
"In the name of…" Jon tried to think of a title befitting a ruler of the North, before something came to him. The Old Tongue word for 'king'. His last insult towards the Southerners. "Jarl Rickon Stark of Winterfell, I pledge the North to their graces Daenerys Targaryen and Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of His Name."
He managed to blabber out a few more words, before almost collapsing besides Lord Edmure. It was done. An oath, binding houses Stark and Targaryen, in perpetuity…well, that last part, he'd doubt that.
Like Arianne said, the North had gotten a taste of freedom once more, and would hardly let it go.
In ten, a hundred or a thousand years…
Lord Karstark, for his side, had chosen to stand tall. He nodded at Jon, who answered in kind.
Jon then settled in a chair, took some ink and a quill and began to write.
"Send a raven to my brother Rickon, informing him of the terms. Tell him that I accept full responsibility for the terms placed upon the North, and that I resign my position of Lord Regent of the North." Jon eyed up the tall Lord of Karhold.
"It will be done…erm, my Prince?" Lord Karstark adventured himself.
"Aye, I suppose," Jon acknowledged. "One more thing. If I am to resign, I would like to recommend a successor to my brother."
"Of course, who did you have in mind?" Lord Karstark asked.
"The only person close enough to my brother and the North to correctly rule it, Lord Karstark." Jon sighed, handing him the scroll of paper. "Please recommend Jarl Rickon to appoint Lady Catelyn Stark as Lady Regent of the North."
