Jon

Before the snows had fallen, he had run alone. Now they piled halfway up his legs, and he ran at the head of a pack of hundreds, of thousands, a pack of packs. His small cousins beyond counting, yes, but to his delight there were wild siblings, too. Not the ones who'd followed him into the world, a hole in his being that no feeding could fill…but new ones, coming one by one and then in droves whenever he called. Even the great terrible tusked beasts kept their poor eyes but keen minds wary always, huge heads turning and writhing noses snuffling. More than once the pack had cut one off from its fellows, cutting into its ankles until it fell. The big men who herded them were nothing after that, their shrieking bony underlings still less. Every pair with pups ate their fill, there was more than enough milk for every pup since the snows had begun to fall in earnest…and the big men had ceased to lumber about the wood as if they owned it. They kept clear of the trees wherever they could, but it did little to stem the pursuit of the pack- and nothing at all once he sounded the Call. The wild siblings, fast and strong, thought him a king. The small cousins, grey and brown and black, thought him a god. Perhaps, he thought, he was a god. If not, the means by which those who were made the big men and the slight white shadows painfully aware the world was not theirs. There were caves aplenty in the mountains but the place he had chosen lay nestled at the edge of the foothills, near the ruins of a fallen tower. Something tugged at his mind but such things were easily outrun, still easier when he saw the countless pups rolling about, tussling, giving their mothers no end of grief while their fathers hunted with him. Their fussing quieted on his approach, for although he made no sound their noses were as good as his. They scurried for their mothers' warmth when he got still closer, but for one. He picked her up with his teeth, resolutely ignoring her displeased squealing as always she did when it was time to settle down for the night. As soon as he let go she made to dash off, a female of his own kind so grey she shone silver under the light of a full moon heading her off and promptly returning the complaining pup to him. The air smelled of snow as it so often did, but that was nothing to him. Nor the silver female, nor the parentless pup that slept between them only when she at last tired of her running game.

Unfortunately for Jon, food was not near so plentiful as in his dreams. He woke to fresh snow as near he always did, no trace of game having passed through the forest. Even were the snow absent, there'd be no sign. Not so near the dens. He'd heard them the night before, of course, calling to each other in the darkness, their howling making the slipping into Ghost all the more insidious. I couldn't tell for a moment, he thought, shaking himself. Not until I was running on four legs. Tormund had yet to wake, snoring fit to cause an avalanche. If they didn't know we were here before, they do now. Jon had no way of knowing if Sigorn had slept a wink, but by the way the big Thenn was peering fearfully into the black between the trees it was unlikely, to say the least.

"Never mind them. There's no wind to strangle our fire in its kindling here, you'd best try and sleep. We'll press on at dawn."

"Your Ghost isn't here, Snow. It's him we need just now, not you." Sigorn's words were as respectful as he could frame them. He doesn't know, Jon thought. He's not a warg. I am Ghost and he is me.

"A little sleeping fire wouldn't keep away a pack of direwolves, Sigorn. If they wanted to come at us, they would have by now."

"Not a sleeping fire, no…but maybe a dragon's breath. The black came when he smelled the blood in the fighting pit, they say. Might be the wolves know to spill red is to all but send a bird inviting fire from the sky."

"Do you hear a dragon? Do you see walls of bronze flame springing up out there in the trees? Even if he's about, I'll not worry about him until he presents a threat. It's the pack you need to keep that bald head thinking on for now." Sigorn grunted, composing himself somewhat, and rolled over. Jon sat there poking absently at the fire as he wondered what he might find in the coming hours. Little Rickon. His little brother had been half a baby when last Jon had seen him. It was hard to imagine what he might look like now. If indeed he lives. From any other mouth, Jon would have called it madness. From Arya's… No, not even Arya's. Nymeria's, through her. Rickon had his mother's coloring as Bran and Robb had, looking like a pudgy little Tully but for the black pup tumbling about the yard with him. Jon smiled. Shaggydog, the loudest when it came to whining for milk. Would Shaggydog remember Jon upon their meeting if indeed he ran through these woods with his master, the terrors of Skagos? When will I next see Ghost in the flesh, at that? More than perhaps he ever had, Jon pitied Sansa. At least Ghost is alive. Lady is with Robb and Grey Wind, and Bran and Summer as well for all I know. The pack did not share Jon's sullen mood, the yips and gleeful cries the song of life among their kind. Of pairing and pups to come, no Others lingering heavy on their thoughts. He stood, pacing to the edge of the fire's light, taking the song in.

Dawn found them breaking through the snow as steadily as they could manage. Thanks to the trees it did not pile everywhere, but more than once they found themselves up to their knees in fine cold powder. Jon caught the briefest glimpses of grey or brown dancing between the furthest tree trunks, but none of them came any further.

"How can you track a herd of reindeer through this, let alone a pack of direwolves?" Sigorn asked from the rear.

"Oh, I can't. I listened to them all night while you two were asleep, tried to count the different voices. A little snow won't hide the den of so large a pack." Whether that was perhaps the most tactful thing to say was a question best put to another man. Arya said Skagos looks like a wolf's paw, Jon remembered. We must be creeping up the middle toe about now. Faintly, so faintly, Jon could hear the sea roiling to the west. I suppose after everything it's hard to get lost on an island like this. The scent of blood fresh-spilled coming from the north pushed the sea from Jon's mind. Longclaw was in his hand in a flash. When they came upon the scene, they found nothing short of a massacre. Broken or frost-covered weapons, frozen blood-slicks, reddish-pink pools in the new-fallen snow…but no bodies. No meat left to spoil; this pack truly has no fear of men. Jon didn't let the carnage draw his gaze, instead keeping a vigilant eye on the trees. After all, some frozen blood isn't going to tear a man to pieces. "Let's keep going. I don't want to get caught out in some sudden squall." The ground grew steeper as they skirted the mountains at the heart of the island. Where some few Skagosi may still dwell, high up where the pack can't follow. When night next fell, even Jon was on edge. Where the others were healthily afraid of meeting a number of direwolves, Jon was impatient. To see them as they live beyond the reach of men, I suppose. To see if Rickon remembers his bastard brother. They stopped on an outcropping that gave them some little protection if the wolves came from the west. Better than resting on flat ground, easily surrounded. Jon had spent enough time in Ghost's head to know how his kind felt about men. Certainly a unicorn would make for more of a contest, if only in theory. Besides, if the females are in pup, we'll probably not get close enough to the den to find out just what's going on anyway. Dinner was a few Skagosi-provided strips of dried meat that Jon and Tormund eyed suspiciously. Sigorn took one and bit down.

"Goat." he said through a mouthful of the stuff. "Different, though."

"Aye? Never had me some unicorn, not in all my days." Tormund replied, taking a strip himself and wolfing it down. Jon looked at his, mind on the bounty of the north that Ghost enjoyed. At least one of us is well in front.

The eyes stole out of the trees without a sound, pinpricks catching the flickering of the little fire. The three men lit torches as fast as they could, by which time two more pairs had joined the first below the outcropping. Jon heard the sharp breaths of the men beside them as they got their first look. Two were grey, flanking one with a coat of deep rich brown. Not one of them showed the least bit apprehension of uncertainty, their gazes on the men and not the torches.

"Big." Tormund muttered, while Jon debated what to do next. More are probably circling 'round, ready to catch us in the rear. These three are not the hammer, only the anvil. Slowly, deliberately, Jon turned away from the wolves below to face the unknowable darkness of the forest ahead and the mountain that wore it better than Daenerys wore a pout. They won't put untried hunters in the striking position. Whoever's going to come out of there will be the real item. "Call them, Snow." Tormund said from behind him. Jon bit his lip, tried to stop the tears from falling. Could he be just beyond the light of the torches? When he called his brother's name, he could not keep his voice from breaking. Would he remember my name? Out here among the pack, would he remember his own? "Jon." Tormund said. He turned to face the chieftain, who had an odd look on his face. "Call him." Then he understood. That Skagosi direwolves were a tougher wooing than timber wolves from the Riverlands he did not doubt, but he gave the same deep rich call he had then. The forest exploded, the silence shattering in a hundred howling pieces. Jon called again, the pack's eagerness to reply chasing what little doubt away as if it were a scrawny hare fleeing from their teeth. He called once more, knowing their leader could not ignore so brazen a challenge. The black form that paced out of the darkness was bigger than a bear, eyes a green to rival the black lizard-lion's. He alone did not join the song, nose twitching incessantly and teeth baring in a truly frightful sneer. The animal's anger was palpable, a wild sort of tyrant who brooked no dissent. His nearest fellows gave him two body lengths of space, though where once they might have kept silent and still they were running about, yipping, yelping, gleefully answering the Call. A single rumbling rasp quieted them, stilled them, the merriment dying instantly.

The creature was of wolfish cast, but the shape was all wrong. It loped out of the darkness on limbs that were too long, feet that were too big, yet the other wolves might have been statues for all they moved or sounded. It was black as well, though as it came closer, followed by its fellow, Jon saw its eyes were a bizarre dark gold, ringing pits of purest blackness no night was dark enough to hide from. It stopped perhaps ten feet from Jon, nose twitching and eyes narrowing. Then it stood, making Jon's breath catch in his throat. Taller than Gendry Baratheon and at least as broad, with powerful limbs that ended in twitching hands and feet tipped with cruel iron-hard nails. The curved inch-long teeth parted and a scream that rivalled Drogon's near put Jon flat on his back. The other two had not been atop the Dragonmont that day, and so Jon vaguely registered them stirring feebly on the hard ground. He took a step toward the creature, its eyes going wide with rage- and fear. Faster than Jon's eyes could follow it was nearly chest-to-chest with him, breathing shallow and rapid. Its wild, mindless scream set Jon's eyeballs rattling in their sockets, but he neither linked nor turned away. He pulled his glove off, let it fall. Then he clapped his hand to the beast's muzzle even as it readied for another fruitless scream. He screamed right back, a flood of memories flying at the monster's mind as Jon reached out. Rickon, asking for honey-roasted walnuts as soon as he could talk. Rickon, looking nothing less than a little pudgy Robb. Rickon, who held up the entire feast at Winterfell when King Robert had come to call on their lord father by stopping to visit Jon on his way up to the high table. Lady Catelyn had been mortified, Lord Eddard had smiled, and King Robert himself had laughed the castle down. Your name is Rickon Stark, Jon thought,shouting down the meaningless glimpses of the chase and the hunt that had been the other's life for too long with memories of their father and siblings. You are more than this. It is a part of you, a piece of you, there is more yet- Jon grunted as something hit him from behind, a frenzied fury that in turn screamed his efforts down with yet more glimpses of the past. Of the first time the full moon had knit closed the wounds the world had given him, had shaped his body to outrun any fleeing prey, rend asunder any men who dared to intrude upon his demesne. Shaggydog, Jon knew, trying to keep him as he is. A fourth mind joined the madness, one Jon knew. It had no more words than Shaggydog, yet Jon knew what it said instantly. You are more than this. You are a lord, a prince, not some witless raging brute. Faintly Jon wondered at Ghost taking rather a harder line with his brother than Jon had with his own. Where his own efforts had all but failed, though, Ghost's had succeeded. At least Shaggydog had been driven off for the moment, his maddening influence gone, the muzzle beneath Jon's hand shrinking, receding in on itself.

Someone pulled him off the ground, shook him 'till he regained his senses. Jon shoved them away, heard Tormund Giantsbane swear as he hit the ground. There was someone else on the ground too, Shaggydog lapping at his face. What came up to scratch the side of the black wolf's head wasn't the claw of a beast but the hand of a man. Well, near enough, I suppose, Jon thought, shaken, as the young man sat up. Jon's mind went numb. He looks like Robb. Rickon had the Tully cast as Bran and Robb himself had, but to Jon's delight there was a shadow more of Lord Eddard's face in his youngest son.

"Gods, we'd best get him some garb." Sigorn muttered, sounding (and smelling) as though he'd fouled his own. "It won't do for everyone to see the wolf prince make his return naked as a babe."

"Depends on who it is he's returning to. Doubt these wild stony girls would much mind, for one! Har!" Tormund said, tossing a bundle of furs in Rickon's lap. He looked down at them uncomprehendingly. As Jon had walked a rather trying mile in Rickon's shoes, it was not hard to spot his confusion. All the meat was gone, who cared the least bit about the fur left behind? Besides, despite the cold and snow, he did not seem chilled in the least. Still, Jon thought, we'd best try getting him used to wearing clothes, at least. The gods only know how long he's been out here. Shaggydog wasn't bothered by such matters, licking at Rickon's face until his hand came up to nudge the wolf's head away. He stood, his chest rising and falling slower and more measuredly. It fell to Jon to help him dress, Shaggydog at his back and growling always, the green eyes peeking over Rickon's shoulder.

"Leave off." Jon said, irritated. "You well know who I am, as well as you know Ghost." His tone if not his words got across, the wolf's teeth glinting in the light of the moon as the torches, long since dropped, had gone out. Rather starkly, Jon realized the pack had vanished to the last. He looked around while Shaggydog circled Rickon like a nervous nursemaid, seeing no sign of any of them. Had Jon's efforts broken Rickon's hold on them? Not bloody likely, Jon thought. The moon is in him still, I'll wager. The wolf.

"I suppose we'll be starting back, then, eh? Now all this is handled?" Sigorn asked. The Thenn sounded beyond shaken. A few daughters will do that, I expect. He wants to make sure Alys is not left alone in the world with three babes. Tormund looked less rattled, if only because Jon suspected he could feel the red in his beard was seeing its last days.

"According to Daenerys, it's Skane next. We'll not find the green dragon around these parts, not where men still linger." Jon said in answer. Sigorn's face, only recently regained of color, went pale again. As if it were easy as picking berries. There's only the small matter of a forest full of direwolves, a storm-wracked bay and whatever waits on Skane between us and Rhaegal.

They were in no condition to keep going and it was night besides, so they camped upon the outcropping while they waited for light. Rickon looked at the provided strip of unicorn meat as if it were inedible, which did not wholly surprise Jon. Hot meat full of blood, fresh hunted. That's the fare he's used to. Shaggydog slunk away only to return dragging a stag he'd near torn the head off of, Rickon grinning toothily and pulling a leg off the carcass as if he were pulling the cork from a bottle. He paid the fire not a single glance, teeth cutting clean to the bone as blood dropped off his chin in a red waterfall. He wears a man's shape now, but his mind is still a wolf's. Gingerly Jon used his knife to strip what he could off the carcass, Shaggydog growling all the while. "Stick that over the fire. Some venison will do the both of you good." Jon said, the other two looking at the meat rather ravenously themselves.

"Now, I'm not saying unicorn's not good eating…" Tormund said between greasy bites when it came time to eat. "But what's dried strips to fresh off the flame, still dripping? 'Asides, I've only ever heard stories o' the beasts, it seems a shame to eat them same as if they were common goats."

"And stories about men who could become wolves, have you heard much of those?"

"Not from those as lived near me Ruddy Hall."

"Nor Thenn. Still further on, though, and you'll hear the ice-river clans and cave dwellers spin yarns about such." Sigorn said.

"Well, once I thought the giants and the Others stories. I watched the former romp around unhindered when we retook Winterfell from Ramsay, and the latter's wights have tried to rip me limb from limb more than enough times. It may be that man-wolves haven't been seen since the Dawn Age."

"So long as he doesn't try to tear all our heads off, I'm all for bringing him back to the mainland. Trapped on this island, that's one thing, but…" Tormund added, his words hitting home.

"Westeros proper has monsters enough running rampant about it." Jon agreed wearily. "Then again, we're fighting for the living, and I suppose man-wolves count in that column same as normal men."

"Har! Might be we'll set him to tearing wights' heads off! Course, they don't much use them as is…" The heads of wolf and master both snapped northwest, Rickon's blue Tully eyes wide and wary. Then he was a hundred feet off, Shaggydog at his heels before Jon could so much as ask him what was wrong "Well now, that wouldn't happen on my best day with a woman heavy in front 'well as behind clutching a wineskin and sitting next to a roast pig waiting for me at run's end." Tormund said, whistling as he trotted after Rickon. "Come on, young bucks, or I'll tell your sweet ones an old fart like me left you in the dust." he added over his shoulder.

They caught up to Rickon in a clearing on level ground, the mountains far behind them. Shaggydog sniffed at something in the dirt, the rest of them getting their torches relit to better see what caught his notice. At last, Tormund's Others-may-care façade broke.

"Fuck me bloody with a giant's hairy member." he muttered. One didn't need to be a ranger to see the shape in the new-fallen snow. Its twin lay some yards away, and when Jon put his hand to it, the heat of the body that had left it had yet to leave the hard ground in turn. "Still hot." Jon said, rather unnecessarily as Sigorn and Tormund glanced upward. There was nothing to see though, nor to hear, which to Jon was the real puzzle. We ought have heard his wings so near. Then he remembered the racket the pack was raising, the Call loud enough to deafen man-ears to all else. "Son of a shadowcat, he was just here!" Tormund hissed, whipping his hand about as if he'd put it on a boiling pot.

"It's not that hot." Jon said.

"No, but how was I to know? Better to keep the skin on my palm, 'tis the hand I whet my edge with!" Sigorn snorted and even Jon couldn't help but smile.

"Quiet. The way your Ghost is quiet, Snow." he said. At least when there's a forest full of wolves howling the stars down. Had it been luck the dragon left when he did, though, or did he wittingly take the opportunity to leave when he'd not be heard? Certainly, it was not in Drogon's nature to exhibit anything close to finesse when brute force would have done whatever needed doing, and if it had been the black dragon watching from the trees he was likelier to trumpet and warble and make himself only too known than slink away unseen. Viserion would have just waited for them to come blundering into the clearing and then loose his golden fire, preferring ambush to the chase. Jon wondered if perhaps Tormund and Sigorn were right after all. There's chasing a dragon and then there's chasing a clever dragon, and all across hostile country. Then he remembered what Viserion had done at Moat Cailin, an army of wights gone up in smoke. One dragon is good. Two would be better. From what Dany had told him of Drogon's meanderings, he was too far away to count on as a matter of course. God-lizards, indeed. There was nothing for it but for them to return to White Harbor with Rhaegal in tow. Nothing for it but to find him, unless the bastard finds us first. They once more made camp, though what sleep he could find could not keep dragons from Jon's thoughts. Nor walls of bronze flame washing the ground clean of wights. The ground was cold when he woke, the last of the dragon's heat long since dispersed. They made their way west, finding the shore less forbidding than the one that had met them earlier. Quite apart from that, the surface of the water had frozen clean over. At least we'll be able to walk to Skane.

"Perhaps the storms make little headway here. The bay is somewhat sheltered, if you want to call it that, from both east and west." Jon said, eyes on the white sky, searching for a hint of green.

"Not from the north, though, and that's where the storms what count come from." Tormund replied, voice grave. Don't I know it, Jon thought glumly.

Jon used a stick to prod the ice beyond the last vestiges of sand. Unsurprisingly, it felt as like to give as it looked.

"Others know ice better even than they know killing, I'll wager. If ever this is going to melt, it won't do in the next few days." he announced. Sigorn and Tormund had taken it upon themselves to bring with them whatever could be kept of the stag, pockets packed full of dried venison. It should be enough to get us across. Jon himself wore several bundles of sticks on his person, as it was unlikely they'd find firewood out on the frozen bay. Rickon looked as lost as ever, as if in disbelief over their course. Then Jon cursed himself for being a fool. He's been here for years, it may be he's just the person to ask if Rhaegal is as fearsome as his reputation!

"Rickon." His brother blinked, though he looked no less eager to follow them out onto the ice. "Come on." There was no hint of comprehension on his face, so Jon tried the Old Tongue. This time, his nose twitched. It wasn't exactly the same as the Skagosi spoke, but evidently he had spent some time at least in their company before the moon had taken hold. It may be some time before he answers, Jon mused. He's probably not spoken in a long time. Rickon grunted, gesturing vaguely south. Jon shook his head. "No. The dragon is on Skane. We have to go and bring him back." Rickon's disbelief turned into incredulity.

"Dead." he finally got out, sounding so like Robb it hurt.

"Who is, Rickon?" Jon asked.

"Skane." He jerked his head south. "They say it's a dead place, where dead men wander. Skagos is for the living, Skane is for the dead." Could there be wights waiting for us?

"Dead men are wandering everywhere, Rickon. We need the dragon's fire to push them back. His brother is with us already, he went with Arya home to Winterfell. Winterfell and Sansa."

"Brother?"

"Yes. Viserion is his name, and he is cream-and-gold. Drogon is black-and-red, and Rhaegal is green-and-bronze. They're three, like you and I and Bran." When once we were four. Jon suspected that even if Rickon had left the mainland before the Red Wedding, Shaggydog's grief at Grey Wind's death would have been enough to clue Rickon in that Robb was dead. He's barely himself just now and I'm about to take him even further afield. "Why don't you go back to the Skagosi? The three of you, Shaggydog as well." His suggestion caught a colorful stream of language from both chieftains.

"Tormund, you should never have come even this far. You're sucking wind whenever we stop for a minute and I can well see your knees are full of ground glass. It may be you've lost a step but I'd sooner your beard find itself going white than never getting the chance. Sigorn's more made for this sort of thing but I can't bring a new father on a bloody dragon chase."

"While you go off on your bastard own? Jon Snow, you'll wander out onto that ice and by the time you make shore, you'll find yourself standing right where you are just now." Tormund said savagely, all bluster.

"Maybe. But you'll not be here waiting for me. You'll be back in the Skagosi village, telling them how you fucked a bear." Jon retorted. To his great surprise Rickon took it upon himself to give the old fraud's shoulder a tug, Sigorn needing little encouragement to follow. Tormund looked torn.

"You don't even know where this Skane is."

"It's an island, isn't it? Tough to lose, them."

"Don't go losing yourself, Jon Snow. A dragon's a fine thing to have when the wights come calling, but so far as I know there's three of them and only one of you."

"I can't fly, no more than I can breathe fire. Rather more than 'fine' a thing." He turned and pointed out over the frozen bay. "The maps say Skane lies to the northwest. Unless I manage to lose my way on flat open ground, I may well come within sight of the island before night falls."

"I still say you shouldn't go alone. You get into it when left to your own devices, Snow, and that's a truth hard as hammered iron."

"One doesn't find a dragon infamous for his disdain for men by sitting warm next to a homey hearth." Jon had heard enough, taking the foodstuffs off their hands before he set them following Rickon south. He strapped bear-paws onto his feet and began the walk.

It was as if he'd walked into another world. But for the bleak light creeping across the sky, hidden always by a blanket of white clouds, Jon might have thought he'd begun a pointless trek across eternity. As he had suspected, the ice was solid beneath his feet and dry besides, the snow upon it never having got a chance to melt. They were cold miles and the wind occasionally sent him flying into a snowdrift, but without wasting time having to climb to move forward he managed to keep going despite the hardships. Further out the ice bridge narrowed, he could hear waves lapping against some temporary shore or other to the south. I suppose the Land of Always Winter must look something like this, Jon reflected. Tundra though, instead of frozen sea. That the Others could flourish in so impossibly hostile a place was more chilling than any wind, any cold the north could throw at him. There'd be no doing it were we the ones going to them, he thought bluntly. Then again, if they sought to mind their own business in the first place we might never have come to know they existed but for stories coming from the Frozen Shore. When the light began to fade with no hint of the bridge widening again, let alone a glimpse of Skane proper, Jon gritted his teeth. Bugger camping on this ice. I'll walk through the night if I must, and either I'll make Skane or some snow bear or other come south on a lark will nibble on frozen king. The winds died when night fell though, and the going got easier now that flurries of powder flung from the drifts weren't dusting him so often. Only when the stars began to blink out without warning did Jon finally see an end to the white walk, the rising of a mountain against the horizon swallowing each little light like a black void reaching ever skyward. Gods be praised, Jon thought, the feeling of sand frozen brick hard under his feet. It would have been folly to try and get his feet free of the bear-paws there, and so on they stayed until he found himself making the edge of some nameless forest. Good enough, Jon thought, exhausted, content to kindle a little fire and sit, waiting for it to rise and feed proper. Before he could even get the rest of the sticks off his back, though, his forehead found his knees and he was asleep. He woke statue-stiff, shoulders aching and back screaming. Wincing, he wrenched himself upright and found someone had taken up across the flames, clad in black from head to toe.

Were his bladder not frozen along with the rest of him, Jon might have pissed himself then. The thing's eyes flickered a sharp grey in the light of the fire, grown bigger in the time Jon had slept. My sticks are gone, he realized, pace quickening when he felt Longclaw's weight gone from his hip. As if reading his thoughts, the figure pulled the sword out from behind it, eyes running down its length.

"That's mine." Jon said.

"It isn't. I knew the man who's sword this was. He would have died before he gave it up." To his amazement the voice sounded distantly familiar. I know I've heard it before, a lifetime or two ago. He felt his cheeks redden at the creature's dismissiveness of him.

"Lord Commander Mormont gave it to me. I set his chambers alight trying to kill a dead man, the hilt was damaged and so he had the melted bear replaced with a white wolf." Jon did not bother to veil his words with politeness. The figure was no more inclined to courtesy.

"A mummer's ape could have done as well."

"Have I frozen to death, then? Is this some cold dark hell? If we've met before, I must profess I've no memory of the hereafter." The figure's mouth was covered with a black rag, but Jon could see the smirk flicker through it.

"You're not dead. The place you've come to isn't much one for those who yet live, though, and come the morning you must leave it."

"I'll go nowhere without Longclaw. Or without…" Jon realized how foolish it would have been to divulge his purpose to some grey-eyed creature of the wintry night.

"Without?" it prompted, sounding almost mocking. Does he know why I'm here?

"Without the means by which the living might force away the dead, and those who drive them."

"And you're fit to wield these 'means', are you?"

"Such means don't much need wielding, so far as I've seen. They're more than capable of wielding themselves." Or burning through a black shadow's stupid questions.

"What are you fit for, then?" Jon found himself unable to answer. If I say I'm only a bastard, he's like to reply that's exactly what I am, with scarce the right to walk Skane's beaches let alone bare steel on its shores. If I say I'm King in the North, he'll throw it in my face and call me nothing but a boy.

"Fit for putting myself between the Others and those they hunt. I don't need the Wall nor the Watch nor vows to know the Others must be stopped."

"Spoken like a true boy. What do you know of winter, boy? What do you know of cold? Nothing, less, as least a thing as can be known."

"I know I need no black-clad demons 'tween me and them. Nor do I need a black shadow's blessing to fight the white." With that he flung himself across the flames, grabbing a handful of the burning wood in a thick-gloved hand. As he suspected the figure brought Longclaw up with impossible ease, but when the wood scattered to ash against its hilt the flying embers caught in the garb of the one who'd stolen it, driving the thing back. Jon brought his weight to bear, slamming the black-clad figure down on the ground, tearing the rag away and holding his burning stick a scant few inches from its face. Jon's insides froze all over again. You're dead, Jon thought dizzily. Aye, a part of him replied, so he is. But then, you've died the once already, Jon Snow, and it's scarce slowed you down.

Benjen Stark's face had gone a lifeless, ghastly white, what blood had frozen beneath his skin leaving eerie black veins spiderwebbing across it. Dead, Jon thought. Without question.

"You never came back." It was the first thing he could think to say. I thought I'd found a father in you, after a fashion. Instead, you let me rot when you'd gotten me to the Wall.

"I was rather busy. Forgive me if I wasn't there to tell you to wear a hood when the cold winds rose." His uncle's voice was hard, unyielding.

"You might have told me not to come. To go with Father as a sworn sword, to go join some sellsword company in the east, to go anywhere."

"I told you then what the Night's Watch would be for you. That it would be a life given up, not one lived proper. You didn't listen, as boy your age most never do."

"You used my birth against me, shamed me for bastardy I had yet to inflict upon any children of mine own. It was Tyrion Lannister who told me of the rapers, the robbers, the drunks and cravens who made the Watch Father let me join."

"You dare hold that dwarf's name above your sire's? The man who made you the man you are, who gave you those grey eyes his lady mother so hated that you had, while her sons' were Tully blue?" The shove was quick, sharp, and left Jon dazed in the sand. Uncle Benjen loomed over him, Longclaw in his arms. Despite the cold, Jon could feel wetness trickling down his cheeks. He stood with as much dignity as his winded state would allow.

"I did other things, too. I rode with Mance Rayder when the Halfhand bid me spy on him. I got the Free Folk below the Wall, when the Folly of Five Kings embroiled those as never once swore allegiance to the Iron Throne. I took a knife in the heart and plenty more besides when those as stood atop the Watch thought I was no better than a raider in black. I came back, somehow, someway, to help someone knit the houses of the south together as best I could, a blanket to cover Westeros and keep of the cold." He caught his breath. "I saw someone choose me over a throne her supporters offered her. Saw her reduce it to bubbling dross rather than sit it." He sniffled. "If there's a person in this world whose opinion I should heed, it's the one who sees beneath the bastard, beneath the Snow, and makes me feel the king some call me. I'm not a Stark, as all the world but she has seen to throw in my face. D'you know, she offered to legitimize me? Not to gain an ally, just to soothe that hurt that's been since I can remember what being a bastard meant. That was the first time in all my days, in all my being, that being a Stark or not didn't seem so important. That more than not caring that I wasn't a Stark, that I DIDN'T CARE TO BE!"

Uncle Benjen stood before him for a long time. Jon was panting as though he'd run all the way from Skagos, his voice a bellow toward the end. For a moment he thought he glimpsed something else besides the icy dismissiveness in Benjen Stark's eyes. Some nameless blend of fear and pride, perhaps.

"Give me my sword." Longclaw flipped forward at once, Jon catching it easily.

"You will tell me everything." Benjen finally said, voice bereft of its uncaring tone.

"Will I?" Jon replied, chest still heaving.

"It's a long way up for such a tiny island. There will be time enough and more. Sleep now, we'd best move when the sun is up. Skane is not a place to go wandering for those who can't see in the dark." Though his heart hammered and his hand ached from the fresh searing it had received, Jon managed to pack it in snow and wrap the bundle neatly 'round. Sleep could catch his body, but his mind remained afire. The dreams that came were vivid as any he could remember. The skies above Skane were frigid, were freezing, but he was high above where the trueborn Stark could touch him. Snowflakes were his only company, his countless siblings, his more-than-kin. When they found his skin they burned a sweet cold, scouring him clean, a wondrous freedom he could never have imagined. A world of snow and Snow alone, he thought, utterly enraptured. He jerked awake with such a sudden start even Uncle Benjen was taken by surprise, swearing under his breath as he tried to comport himself. Jon's eyes had tears anew in them, he had to wipe them on his arm to see Skane clear in daylight. It seemed a twin to Skagos, if quieter…and the small item of the mountain in the island's center, a skyward maze of treacherous slate, frozen granite and razor rock sharp enough to cut a gargoyle.

"Skane. Hell, by any other name." Uncle Benjen supplied.

"Not if you can fly." Jon replied, almost without thinking.

"Aye. But we can't, can we? You want to find what calls that mountain home, you'd best be ready for a climb for the ages."

"I climbed the Wall with Tormund Giantsbane. With Jarl and Thenns whose names I never knew, with Ygritte, kissed-by-fire." I wasn't there though, to see it fall as Ygritte so wished it would. "Uncle…the Wall is fallen." Benjen Stark stopped in his tracks, as Jon knew he would.

"The Others laid siege to it?"

"No. They…they had one among a race of giants, cold like them, blow the Horn of Winter." His uncle gaped at him, showing a black tongue filled with fetid blood. "I did tell you we needed any means available to drive them back." Benjen looked to the top of the mountain, threatening to lose itself in the laziest and lowest floating of the clouds.

"So you did."

"I'll not go back without the dragon, by whom and those like him the realm might yet be saved. I left the northmen when they named me King in the North to gain the aid of Daenerys Targaryen, who as I've told you, came with all her power. I didn't do that for me, and I'm not doing this for me now."

"No. But are you doing what you are for the realm…or for this queen?" Jon wondered if that was supposed to further muddy the water.

"Both. Come, or don't. Help, or don't. I have a mountain to climb." he said, walking past what remained of his uncle toward the razored spire of rock.

Unlike Skagos, Skane's woods seemed nearly empty. No water could keep the birds away, of course, but what few Jon spotted were skittish, wary, even more so than their Skagosi brethren with direwolves and dagger-fanged lions in their midst. Perhaps it's Uncle Benjen's smell they mislike. After the time he'd spent in Drogon's presence, Jon was convinced a dragon approaching his size would not make a meal of creatures so small as these. No more than Ghost would of a beetle. Certainly they'd flee the hot wind, the sound of wingbeats, the roars…but any sign a dragon was present on Skane was absent from the forest.

"What is it?" Benjen asked.

"The birds are nervous. There's no proper game here, either. We saw everything form deer to unicorns on Skagos, to say nothing of the direwolves."

"Ah. Well, that'd like as not have to do with them as the Others have let have the run of the island." Jon swallowed before he could stop himself.

"What, then?"

"I don't suppose you've come across them yet, mulling about in the south. I've had a few close looks though, and they're not the sort you invite to a harvest feast."

"Show me." Jon said at once. Benjen snorted humorlessly.

"I suppose as former Lord Commander, you outrank me as former First Ranger. Follow me." Without need for food or rest, Benjen Stark had transcended the limits of what a normal man could hope to do when moving unheard and unseen over rough ground. Jon didn't protest though, didn't stop. A few pricker bushes wouldn't have slowed my uncle in life, either. He led Jon on and on through the trees, until at last they came upon a cave cut into the rocks that formed the mountain's furthest-reaching roots. A loud snore sounded from within. It was too high-pitched, too familiar, too mannish to be Rhaegal. "They are creatures of night, as the Others are. The sun's light blinds them, its heat dizzies them." What light? What heat? Jon mused. "You'd best be on your way up before they wake, Jon. They have noses at least as good as any wolf's, and they are always hungry. I suppose that bit has something to do with how they…react when wounded." The bit about noses ticked Jon's memory.

"Lanky sorts? Nine feet tall, maybe ten for the big ones?"

"So you've seen them before."

"From a distance, in the Mountains of the Moon. The hill tribesmen had me peek down into a valley where countless wights massed, a deal of your brutes loping here and there in their midst. Flying things too, but they were far off." That was a story Benjen had not heard before.

"How did you even get here, anyway?"

"I got caught up in a rush of wights headed for derelict hulks floating off the coast. I, ah, deserted, if you'll humor me, the moment I spotted land close enough to swim to."

"Uncle, you could swim to bloody Ib if you so chose."

"The Shivering Sea is not near so empty as most suppose. More than once I caught a glimpse of shadows in the water, following the hulks in hope of a wight or two falling overboard. Some they just sank, the better to get at the dead men flailing within. Poor fare by themselves, to be certain, but such an easy meal offered in such bounty…."

"Whatever they were, they sound smart."

"Smart enough to know the Others' ice-ship proper was a thing best avoided. Anyway, with them prowling about, I dared not jump for it until I guessed I had at least a sporting chance of escaping their notice."

"Were they…Otherish?" Benjen shook his head.

"Neither cold nor dead. I suppose they were whales of a sort, just not a kind I'd ever seen before. Were Cotter Pyke with us, I'm sure he'd be of help."

"Or call us green landsmen and tell us not to stick our noses where they don't belong." "That much he'd have done either way. What became of him?" Jon frowned.

"I suppose he died when the Wall came down. I suppose they all did, but for those whose duties had them south on the Gift." Benjen muttered the words it fell to living brothers to say over those who had died. Jon had not the night he heard Devan Seaworth's account, for in his mind he'd given up that duty when he'd given Edd his cloak. "Do we have to go past them?"

"There may well be a way through the cave, aye, but so far as I've found, caves aren't for those that have up in mind." Jon breathed a sigh of relief. After all, they had only one sword between them, and the snores betrayed a number of the creatures sleeping the day away, waiting for dark. Benjen led him past the cave, up a rocky path that saw them leave the last brave bushes and pines behind.

"How far up have you gone?" Jon asked. Benjen thought for a moment, then pointed to the treeline. Jon stared at him.

"Well, what did you expect? I had no bloody weapon and there are plenty of those things combing the island for dinner every night. I was scarcely about to sharpen a stick and shove it up one's nose, let alone scale a bloody mountain to yank a dragon's tail just to let him roast me to ash."

"You might have said something before we set about standing on his threshold, at least."

"I might have, but the sun would have been sinking all the while and I'm no more eager to see you eaten by cold horrors than fall off the mountain."

"If I climbed the Wall, I can climb this pile of slate."

"The Wall stood straight up, Jon. It may have caved or crumbled here and there with pitons and iron hooks biting into it, but this is a horse of a different color. More of those creatures may yet lurk in these rocks, and should you cut yourself, staunch the wound immediately. Hot blood draws them. Flies to honey, wolves to meat…well, you get the idea." Better and better, Jon thought, seeing razor rock most everywhere he looked.

The next few hours felt like years. Wherever the rock had lost its edge, an icy sheen had taken hold and Jon lost his grip a dozen times, twice badly enough to lose his breath. The climb was no less trial for Benjen, though death had robbed ice of its power to harm him. To Jon's despair the sun had touched the sea already, making him groan.

"We're not halfway there."

"Better slow to reach the top than quick to reach the bottom." Uncle Benjen replied. "And you don't even know what awaits you at the top."

"If I reach the summit and all that waits for me is a few crumbling piles of dragon dung, I may just dive off the fucking mountain and put an end to all this horseshit." That night no dreams came, though Jon screwed up his ears at the sound of stony voices on the air. The way they echoed off the stones made it hard to tell if they sounded form below or further up or both. Benjen told it true, he realized. They've made Skane theirs. The next day was even worse, the rocks more and more jagged the more they were hidden from the wind. Winding paths that opened to sheer drops, a landslide that saw a hundred tons of rock tumble off the mountain like an earthen waterfall… After spotting a bighorn ram prance nimbly past them on his way to court a ewe chewing some thorny briar thirty feet below, Jon wondered if they hadn't at least left the Others' friends behind. "They'd surely eat a ram if they could catch it, no? Then we must have gone beyond their ability to chase."

"Beyond the lanky lads', perhaps. How about them?" Benjen replied, pointing to the sky. Jon saw only white…and then the gray that changed to blue then gray again even as he watched. The animal bore no rider Jon could see, but neither did it leave the walking world to its own earthbound devices as the beasts in the Vale had. The haunting hoot made the ram look up, bleat fearfully, and lead the ewe even further into the forbidding rocks where the frost-drake could not pursue. Jon and Benjen for their part took what cover could be gained, Benjen under an outcropping and Jon in the tender arms of a pricker bush. Once the frost-drake lost itself in the clouds again, Jon emerged, wincing as he picked himself clean. "Might have been better to let the beast have at you, Jon."

"I might well have." he replied, feeling singularly untalkative. "They've middling aim at best and that pricker must have tagged me with every single fucking spur." It was another two days before they made the acquaintance of the clouds, the air dearer with every step.

"Steady now, Jon. If you feel lightheaded, stop and catch your breath. If you fall here…" It's a long way down, Jon finished for his uncle. Despite the cold in his lungs, he could not help but speak.

"Once, Qhorin Halfhand told me that wild places, wild things couldn't be known. Couldn't be tamed. He told me that the moment I thought I knew a wild place, a wild thing would be my last."

"Was he right?" Jon mulled that over.

"I've only died the once, and that came at the hands of men content to let the Others kill the Free Folk off."

"What does that tell you?"

"That Qhorin didn't know the wilds from the fingers he was missing." Benjen gave a bark of laughter.

"The Halfhand was a good man, one of the few who wore the black who could see the wildlings for what they were. Men, no more or less. When it came to thinking further, though…"

"He wasn't blind to what was going on. He knew as well as anyone that all the wildlings together meant dire times. I wonder what he'd have made of our hidden nosy lads."

"Once, when we were hot on the trail of a wildling band, he told me about his first foray into the Frostfangs, Not the foothills, the 'fangs proper. So he told it, the day was fine as could have dawned in those heights. By noon, a blizzard fit to knock the mountains down had Qhorin huddled in a cave with naught but a dead horse to keep him warm and fed, half-wishing some bear or other would wander up from the mountain's belly to have a bite of crow and end his misery."

"What happened?" Jon asked, trying not to sound the boy that to this day hid within, ever eager to peek out and make a ruddy fool of him.

"A grunt woke him and he turned to the darkness, expecting to find a bear. When he found his visitor had come from without and wasn't a bear at all, well, he filled his pants then and there and that's the truth. Might have been the smell, might have been the wee thing in its tracks, but whatever it was Qhorin saw only slung the horse over its shoulder as you would a doe before trudging off into the blizzard, the little one close behind."

"He never said what it was?"

"Only that it was big and man-shaped, after a fashion. The next day the storm blew itself out and Qhorin followed frightful big tracks in the snow straight to a sheer cliffside, caked in ice. 'Stark,' he told me then, 'there's places the gods made for us and places they made for other sorts.' He spent the rest of his life sneaking into and out of the Frostfangs and never met so foul a storm- nor met another of those things."

Jon had seen the Frostfangs for himself and could find no fault in the Halfhand's story as Uncle Benjen told it.

"All the better we didn't come across any when we came through looking for the wildlings." Jon said.

"You might have, had you gone higher. A peak-dweller, Qhorin called it. A sky-scratcher. You wouldn't find one muddling around on the valley floors, or even the Skirling Pass. Much too low. Too far east as well." Jon shivered, and not from cold. Unfortunately, Benjen noticed. "Does the Halfhand's monster unnerve the King in the North?"

"At least now I know to have a spare horse on hand when next I'm in the 'fangs. Rather like the Neck, I suppose, at least in that regard." It was Jon's turn to spin a yarn. Of hell-rains, of maddening clouds of insects that bit and stung and drained and droned, of poisonous flowers of every color. Of lizard-lions as well, Viserion's wild girl in particular. "She had fire in her, Uncle, and it burned away the wights same as the dragon's." Talk of the Neck put a look on Benjen Stark's face. "Does the Neck's monster unnerve the First Ranger?" Jon jested, but it was clear something had darkened his uncle's mood.

"I don't suppose you med Howland Reed during your time in those bogs?"

"No. He'd gone on ahead to Winterfell with his lady wife. Why, did you know him?" "A lifetime ago. I was a boy then, and there was so much going on. I do remember Lyanna pouring a whole tankard of Arbor red over my head though, that I'll never forget."

"What did she do that for?" Jon asked, intrigued to hear about the aunt his father never spoke of. It hurt him too much, the way it hurts Ser Bonifer to speak of Queen Rhaella.

"I japed about her crying from the prince's singing. 'He's not that bad,' I teased her, and in a flash, I had wine in my eyes, nose, ears, mouth."

"She sounds like Arya." Jon said, smiling. "The pouring wine bit, not the crying. That's Sansa, or was before it fell to Theon fucking Greyjoy of all people to get her out of harm's way." I could never be a priest, Jon reflected. No man can claim to understand the gods without being mad or having the balls of an auroch. More than once, Jon found himself blinking spots out of his eyes, the going slower as the way grew steeper and still more treacherous. I don't suppose anyone's ever come here before, at least on foot. He'd put talking behind him, the better to keep breath in his lungs and Benjen did not press him. It wasn't just breathing on his mind, either. We're near, he thought. He may hear us from further up. Jon would sooner have come upon the dragon asleep than awake and alert, or else gorging on a seal. There were no sounds of claws on stone, though, no glimpse of a great green body slinking over the stones. Where've you gone to, boy? A nice cave somewhere, to get out of the wind? Or after all that time under that awful pyramid, have you gone to ground out in the open air no matter the weather? It occurred to Jon that both could well be the case, that nothing stopped the dragon from sleeping where he would. The way widened suddenly, the mountainside dotted here and there with rich green moss and still more prickers. And bones, Jon saw.

It was impossible to tell what sort of animal they might have come from, but they were nothing Snow nor Stark were familiar with. Maybe if we had carcasses waiting for us instead of bits of bone here and there. Drogon oft brought his kills back to Dragonstone rather than eat them afield, Jon knew, though rather that was his own preference or a tendency among his kind was anyone's guess. And Drogon had naught to fear from the shepherds he robbed. He might have simply feasted in their fields before buggering off. The waters around Skane were not near so accommodating.

"They'll have come down form further up," Jon decided, "rolled down during some wind or storm or other. But we're close."

"So we are." Benjen agreed, a hand on Jon's back to steady him. It turned out to be even closer than Jon thought, finding a clearing in the stone a twin to the one on the Dragonmont, if more than twice the size. Bones littered the place, cracked and blackened. Ram skulls were immediately recognizable if rather scarcer than Jon might have assumed. Far the more numerous were the walrus tusks and Jon even found a skull that might have been a narwhal calf's. Dany had the right of it, Jon thought, smiling. He quickly found the sea offered better eating than the land. Not all the bones were new, though, nor were the deep grooves in the stone made by a dragon of Rhaegal's age. Westeros once had dragons of its own, back in the dawn of days. Dragons who never knew a rider, never set eyes upon men once in all their long lives. Had Rhaegal sensed Skane was a place the gods had made for his kind, as the Halfhand might have put it? Or did he just spot a place that looked perfect for a lair? Jon's wondering was broken by rocks crumbling someplace where the stone grew sharp and rough again, the lone sound but for his heart pounding in his chest. A brave sheep, one part of him said. Or a dragon, the other replied. With some trepidation, Jon started to creep out of the clearing back into the path of the hungry winds. They were not so bad as they might have been though, and Jon found his chest merely ached instead of burned. He still wore a fur flap over his mouth, though. Ygritte told me that when the red wanderer was in the Moonmaid was the perfect time to steal a woman. She never told me anything about the perfect time to steal a dragon. The stones rose and fell like waves on the sea, locked in time and each sharp as any sword. Whichever god came up with razor rock could well use a sound beating, Jon thought, his uncle following him up the side of a swell, a particularly tall wave in the stony sea. As one they looked out over the top, only to find a smaller ring blasted into the stone. One empty of bones. Jon could not hide his disappointment, putting his head to his forearm in exasperation. I wonder, will I rouse him if I just start yelling? The pair of them slunk back down the swell before walking around it, Jon brooding all the while. He's probably just waiting for us to leave, then come out for a nice seal dinner and a good laugh. A sudden hot wind from behind him had him spinning faster than he thought able only to stare into the underside of the swell, and the cavern beneath it that led into darkness. The dragon's mouth, Jon thought in wonder.

Neither would let the other go first. After a colorful bit of discussion, they went in side by side, air about and earth below hotter with every step until Jon was sweating in his furs. Fingers trembling, Jon lit a torch. The cavern proper was enormous, dug it seemed with fire and claw over many ages. Ancient dragon bones, no bigger than dogs, lay in little piles here and there. The weak, Jon thought. The sickly, the ill-formed. Of Rhaegal there was no sign but the heat that seemed to have sunk into the place, as it had in the lair on the Dragonmont and the lodge in the Neck. A stone fell from the roof of the cavern to clatter against the floor behind them. Benjen cursed while Jon could only chuckle, echoing off the cavern walls. He turned to squint, the light of the cavern's mouth making seeing anything of the roof just within a trial. Even in the darkness, even with the light, Jon could see a dark wedge of coils tucked between the stones. Well, we found the dragon, and now he's between us and the way out, he thought. For a moment it seemed Rhaegal was sleeping, then the wedge began to slither down from its perch. Jon was down a branching tunnel in a blink, Benjen who knew where even as the cavern grew bright as day and warm as the forge, the glow of the dragon's open mouth reflecting off the crystal deposits that littered the cavern like pimples on a face. Jon heard a long slow intake of breath, pictured in his mind's eye the two great nostrils filling the lungs behind them. Rhaegal did not burble to himself as Viserion and Drogon were wont to do when waking, Jon uncomfortably confident he knew why. He knows we're here. The dragon's breathing grew steadily more agitated until a sound half-grunt, half-hiss echoed throughout the cavern. He's found the torch. More sniffing. Then there was the sound of claws scraping on the ground, what little light available to Jon snuffing out. The dragon continued to move about the cavern unhindered however, Jon remembering Drogon's heat-sight from the riverlands. The whole of the cavern is hot, he reasoned. A living body might go unnoticed- Then he remembered quite what condition Benjen Stark was in. Rhaegal's heat-sight proved as acute as his brother's, an irate snort and a muttered curse enough to tell Jon the game was up. The cavern lit again, the forge rekindled as across the way, the dragon opened his mouth. Jon stood, taking no care to hide the sound.

"Rhaegal." The word echoed in the darkness. Without the cavern mouth to see by, all he could do was wait as the sounds of the dragon's approach grew closer, the air around him hotter. An exhale blew the hair out of his face, made him think on all he'd seen and done. It was not a forge that lit then but a second sun, showing through the dragon's teeth. Jon had no time to ponder death, though, for his gaze were locked on the eyes above him, molten bronze but for the jade slits that flawlessly bisected each.

"You couldn't have made it any harder, boy." Jon said, before he could stop himself. "Drogon scarcely left Daenerys alone, a boy clutching his mother's skirts at the market. Viserion would have lounged in the Neck content to play the bull lizard-lion until the end of time. And here you are, at the top of the world, all on your own." Rhaegal's gaze did not leave him. Not at the mention of his brothers, if brothers even they could be called now, nor of the person who'd drawn him from the stone. Not even for Uncle Benjen, bellowing and throwing stones to get the dragon's attention. "There's something we have to do, boy. Cold things to stymie until the snows melt and spring blooms. Then you can come back here where not a man in all the world could find you, let alone reach you." But one, a tiny voice somewhere deep within him said. One could. He reached out and ran a hand down Rhaegal's snout, feeling the flawless surface of each scale link into a in impossibly hard whole. "Drogon ran away across the sea when he could hog Daenerys no longer, and Viserion is asleep more oft than not, a great lazy pile of ivory coils. Were I you, I'd show them how a proper dragon, who's living a proper dragon life, handles what needs handling." Stoking Rhaegal's pride only earned him narrowed eyes, as if the dragon knew full well what he was about. "Well, it would have worked on Drogon." Jon said, half-apologetically. Then he reached for the dragon, showing him all there was to see of the wild world beyond the Wall. The Haunted Forest, the Skirling Pass, the Giant's Stair and all the rest. The giants, the Free Folk, Ghost…Jon didn't bother with the rest, the politics of being Lord Commander, the tedious business of preparing to leave Winterfell to come south. A surprised yelp was the only sign of distress Rhaegal gave, eyes going wide and brighter than a hundred torches. He drew back, teeth bared, though he never adopted Drogon's hostility or Viserion's indifference. Slowly Jon squeezed past him, resolutely ignoring the heat of the dragon's parted jaws following him closely. He found Benjen ready with a fresh pile of rocks and bits of bone. "If I have to squint any longer, I'll go blind." Jon declared.

"What happened?"

"He's a wild thing. The Halfhand himself said a wild thing couldn't be known-"

"Horseshit on what the Halfhand said. You might be dead but for whatever passed between the beast and you." Jon explained as best he could about warging, about telling Rhaegal who he was in moments what might have taken hours to say. Benjen was lost for words, but Jon brushed it off.

"You'd best keep your wits about you, uncle. It will be a hard climb down, and dead bones dash to pieces easily as living after falling a few hundred feet."

Going from the dark warmth of the cavern to the cold bleak light of the stony pit made Jon feel like he was being born again. Or else headed from a warm feast hall for a piss out in the night somewhere. The scrapes and clattering of stones against the ground told him Rhaegal was following them out and when he did, he was even more spectacular than how Dany described him. His scales were deep green and while Drogon's horns were shaped ruby and Viserion's gold, Rhaegal wore a crown of purest bronze.

"As the Kings of Winter did of old." Jon said, smiling widely. "Cheer up, uncle, at least he'll scare the nosy lads off should we come upon them." For his part, the dragon seemed unsure as to quite what a dead thing was doing in Jon's company. When he moved to leave the pit behind, Rhaegal gave a displeased hiss. "We've got no silver fop for you to take, Rhaegal. It's just Benjen and I here, you won that game of hide-and-peek." Rhaegal did not take Jon's uncertainty well, promptly ringing the pit in a wall of bronze flame that crackled ten feet high in places. "I suppose you want to play again?" he asked as a jape before the meaning behind Rhaegal's glower became clear. You know nothing, Jon Snow. You are not going to climb down at all. Jon swatted the thought away before it could find more purchase.

"What are you going to do, Jon?" Benjen asked. He was oddly calm.

"Do? Wait for the flames to die, then sneak off while I can, I suppose."

"That would be the safest thing. For someone else, though. Someone like me. You did more than get us out of that cavern unroasted. D'you think it was your courtly manner that kept his fire at bay? Might be you're the first thing to walk on two legs he hasn't misliked the smell of." Jon looked over to Rhaegal, the dragon eyeing him closely as a jeweler might a gem, trying to estimate its value. His wings were enormous, of course, and the lithe body that bore them looked as if it knew better than to swat them through the air blindly as a certain black dragon was wont to do. Lighter, Jon mused, but faster. Much the faster. He got the sense as well that Rhaegal was eager to get into the air again. Well, what's the harm in trying? I suppose if Drogon ever comes back, I'll be able to thumb my nose at him on even ground, and won't that be a lovely thing? He stepped over to the dragon as readily as he could. Even if he kills me, it would be over before I knew it. It would not be so bad to see Robb again. Rhaegal did not scorch him though, did not even hiss as Jon pulled himself up (rather gracelessly) onto his back. Just two wild lads, us, Jon thought, feeling ready to belch butterflies so nervous was he.

"Alright, uncle, now your turn." Jon said, holding out an arm. Benjen Stark smiled sadly. "I don't think he's much for carrying dead riders, Jon. You'd best take this before you go." he said, holding Longclaw by the scabbard so Jon could take hold of the hilt. Jon gaped at him.

"I'm not leaving you here."

"Seems to me it's the dragon doing the leaving, and he's the one whose opinion matters just this moment. I told you before, I'll wait for the flames to die and be off, back down the mountain. Over the ice bridge to Skagos and down to the village, nice and easy. It will take you a few days yet to get the last of the Skagosi down from their mountain caves, anyhow, so it isn't like I'm pressed for time." He smiled. "Truth be told, I'm rather eager to get gone and see how long it takes me. From this pit to the village, what do you reckon?"

"I reckon you're stubborn, even for a Stark."

"Still not half so stubborn as a Snow I might name." Jon's world went green as Rhaegal's wings came up and then he was up, up, too elated to be afraid.

The first thought Jon could remember having from dragonback was that Rhaegal scarcely ever seemed to flap his wings. Skane shrank away to the size of a dagger, a pickle, a thumb, until the island itself was lost in the grey of the Shivering Sea. Were I higher still, I might even see Skagos from here. As it happened it was only moments it seemed until he spotted the larger island's shores, the mountains springing up behind them. Full of food and nice and roomy, boy, Jon thought, hand on Rhaegal's neck as he told him in what terms he could the names for what they were seeing. The dragon snorted dismissively, having none of it. Full of men, too, and that's a pass from you any day, Jon thought sadly. Rhaegal did not head straight for it, instead keen on letting the air itself lift his body and carry him about. The better to keep an eye on all that goes on below. Sea gave way to land and they were above the island, sinking over the trees. The smell of salt was replaced with the scent of pine, of tall firs and the like that would never be felled. Jon had to prompt Rhaegal more than once that what they sought lay further south, where the ground grew low and even. He despaired of ever getting the dragon to land, content to cut wide loops around the village far below. The shouts and cries of the Skagosi made him snort. Wait until you meet the southrons, boy. They talk ten times as much and say a tenth as much for all their words. With the air of a man readying to pick up a full chamber pot Rhaegal at last began to sink, his loops closer and sharper until his feet found purchase on one of the boulders just outside the village. As soon as Jon slid off he was airborne again, eager to wash his hands (claws?) of the world of men. Jon took a step, fell immediately, let feeling creep down his thighs into his feet before rising again. Then there were people all around, Skagosi whooping and bellowing, Shagga son of Dolf and self-shorn Malakko.

"Where's the khaleesi?" Jon shouted to him, even then barely able to hear himself. "Asleep somewhere?"

"In the caves, where it's most warm. Her hasty sire and the talking flame are with her always, these days." That pleased Jon. At least she got some time with Ser Bonifer. No one impeded him as he made for the caves, calling for his queen. I'll find her cozy as can be, a plate of fresh fish and perhaps a bit of goat at her side while she lounges, the lovely lazy sweetling. The thought was so pleasant to Jon he almost knocked someone over on coming into the room, met by a sweltering heat that might have made him uncomfortable but for his recent time in a dragon's lair. A firepit burned in the middle of the room, such as it was, with Dany installed in a pile of furs nearby, leaned up against a fur-padded rock.

"Well, I got the comfy bit right." he said cheerfully, until he saw what was lying in the pit among the flames. One was dark, too dark to tell what color it might have been, while the other gleamed in some metallic hue. He gaped at the eggs like a lackwit until Dany's giggle brought him back to earth. "Have you something to tell me?" he asked her.

"Come and sit with me, Jon. I'm far too comfortable to go rising on your account." she replied, wearing her play-smug smirk. Dutifully he took his place, delighted when she put her head on his shoulder. They watched the eggs for a quiet moment.

"Malakko told me Shireen was with you. Your father, too."

"Ser Bonifer is sleeping, he's had rather a lot to drink the last few nights. Shireen is with the woman who was tending the eggs, a descendant of a Skagosi captured by Valyrian slavers only to return with a Valyrian wife in tow. Their children and theirs have kept the eggs safe deep within the mountain where the fires burn still. That's why they never turned to stone." Jon told her in turn about Rickon, Uncle Benjen and how they found Rhaegal.

"Or, more truthfully, how he found us." That he managed to find the green dragon did not surprise Dany. The manner in which Jon returned did. "He's no fonder of men than before, to tell it true, but he was all ears when it came to the places I've seen where they scarcely go. Might be wargs aren't so bad in his bronze eyes, men touched by beasts or however you want to say it." Her purple eyes were so big he could see those emerald chips in the firelight without a bit of difficulty. "It's nothing to frighten you." He said, touching his forehead to hers. "He was ready to get awing and I happened to be on his back is all."

"Jon." Dany said, cutting through his attempt to brush off his latest lunacy. Her lips moved. She said some words, took his hand in hers. Rather suddenly it was as if Jon had trouble hearing much of anything. Somehow he found his hand resting on her belly, utterly unable to recall having moved it. For the first time since that night in the Old Bear's chambers, he forgot the wights. He forgot the Others. Everything else had fallen away. The world had become the woman in front of him.