PART IV: Checkmate

The Tower of the Hand

300 AC

"...About ten thousand or so dead." Said Marwyn. "But those are rough estimates."

It was the next day, and Jon, with his sword sheathed and posted up against his chair, had felt as if he were right back where he started: in the Hand's Chambers within the Tower of the Hand.

Except for this time, he was not sitting across the wide-spanning desk looking into the cold gray eyes of his father. Now, he was sitting in his father's seat, and sitting across from him in their own lazily placed chairs were Starag and Garlan. Ghost was laying on the floor by Jon's feet, and Marwyn was standing by the side of the desk closest to the doors, having come to report the goings on within the city and outside of it.

Jon still wore the armor that Tobho Mott had made for him, and so had Starag. Not any of the men currently sitting around their table had changed. And neither had any of them slept in the last two-possibly three days. It was not the bloodstains on his armor that weighed Jon down. It was the ache in his bones, of the exhaustion that pounded his muscles and temples. Pained burned through his legs whenever he carelessly shuffled his feet underneath the table, and his arms felt as if they would turn to jelly the moment he decided to pick up something heavy.

And despite all of it, Jon held his father's tobacco-filled pipe in one hand, while he idly scratched Ghost's ears with the other. Sitting plainly on the table in front of him (and both Starag and Garlan) was a golden-brown glass filled with Braavosi Firebrand, with a small slice of orange peel swimming within it.

Both Garlan and Starag had decided to smoke as well. And then, on the various platters and silver trays lying on top of the spread-out papers and documents, was their breakfast-graciously cooked for them by the kitchen staff.

There were about over a dozen fried scrambled eggs cooked on all sides in the shared ceramic bowl in the middle of the table. On another plate were rows of cooked bacon strips, each of them still warm with rolling drips of fat. Then there were the sheaves of hot buttered toast placed between all three of them. And finally, there was a large clay pot filled with black coffee.

Breakfast was glorious after a victory.

The Archmaester continued on, having just paused from taking another sip of his coffee. "Reports are still coming in from all over the city and from the Crownlands about what happened. Only a couple hundred of our own numbers were killed. Mostly in the blast at the King's Gate. Otherwise, our defenses held up just fine. Probably would've sustained a prolonged siege had that dragon not shown up."

"Has there been any sign of the dragon?" Jon asked.

"Not in the northern forest, at least," Marwyn said with a shake of his head. "Ser Jaime went out ahead after Aegon's forces broke and retreated. Took a sizable force with him to where the dragon had been seen coming down. They found the crash site-just in a small clearing beneath the Gods Eye-but neither the dragon nor Aegon was there." He paused. "There was a whole lot of blood though," Marwyn looked to Starag then. "Whatever you hit the dragon with seemed to do the trick. Knocked it out of the sky like snuffing out a candle."

Starag gave the Archmaester a thankful nod. "Did anyone see the dragon take flight again?"

"Yes," Marwyn said with satisfaction as he looked at all three of them. "Some guardsmen spotted the beast lifting off into the air, heading back to Dragonstone. Even though he's away, I believe you all gave him something to think about."

"What about his forces?" Garlan asked. "How long before Aegon rallies his men back to Dragonstone?"

The Archmaester scratched his chin in contemplation. "Honestly, I don't expect we'll have much of a problem on that front. Aegon's been wounded, along with his dragon, which means that they aren't quite as invincible as many ought to have thought. No doubt many of the Crownlands Houses will withdraw their forces back to their holdings. And with the near-destruction of the Golden Company outside King's Landing, I believe it's safe to say that many of the sellsword companies who joined up with Aegon are now looking for the next ship back to Essos. Damn near all of the ten thousand dead are his men, and that hasn't taken into account the men he lost when his fleet was destroyed in that bad storm." He gave Starag a quizzical glance, then looked back at Garlan. "I believe it's safe to say that Aegon has about a fraction of his remaining forces left. Not to mention any other armies that Daenerys Targaryen has herself."

Jon wasn't particularly worried about his aunt. She'd proven to be a great help when it came to Aegon's defeat. And he didn't doubt that she'd come through for him now.

"Difficult to come back from that…" Garlan chuckled as he took another swig from his Braavosi Firebrand. Though Garlan wasn't the drinking type, he'd decided to drink with him and Starag on this occasion. "But likewise, there's plenty to clean up on our end as well. Robert's dead, and without heirs. The Great Sept of Baelor was destroyed, and now we've got a succession crisis on our hands."

"One step at a time, I should think." Marwyn smiled with him. "You three ought to enjoy your newfound fame. The girls in the kitchen wouldn't stop giggling about you lot. And the people down in the city aren't much better. Telling stories about the 'White Wolf' or the 'Dragonslayer' who saved them all from the fire." Marwyn actually laughed boisterously as he looked down at Starag. "If only they knew your hedonistic habits."

Starag could only laugh along with the Archmaester. "If only they knew…"

Jon had smiled along with his uncle, and let himself relapse into silence.

The Archmaester had not been pulling their leg when he mentioned fame. Even Jon had noticed the distinct change in how the soldiers looked at him after Garlan's cavalry charge on Aegon's forces. Even though he'd held the breach with just under two hundred men, it seemed to the people of King's Landing as if he'd held the line all on his own.

Word of his uncle taking down the dragon had already spread like wildfire throughout the city. Now people were talking of 'Starag the Dragonslayer', regardless of the fact that Aegon's dragon wasn't actually dead. Jon supposed that, to these people, it was consoling to know that even a single man could take down one of those terrifying beasts.

The official story was that Starag had used a well-timed ballista shot to hit the dragon. Though Jon now knew the full truth regarding his uncle's strange magical talents. In the end, he was ultimately glad that he had someone as powerful as his uncle by his side.

As for Garlan, he'd been unceremoniously given most of the credit for saving the city from Aegon's forces. As well as he should, Jon thought to himself. Without Garlan there to save the day, none of them would be sitting around the table drinking, smoking, and eating delicious breakfast. And it was quite funny to see Garlan blush from the endless praise coming from the people who lived within the city.

The matter of the 'Great Wave' that had single-handedly destroyed Aegon's fleet, had ultimately been decided as an act of the gods. Somewhere in the city, a rumor had started that The Warrior himself had seen fit to favor the men defending King's Landing, and to strike down the invading fleet with the righteous fury of the sea. Jon had broached his uncle on the matter, and Starag was content to let the matter lie down. Probably best for the smallfolk to believe it was the act of the New Gods rather than that of the Old Gods.

Jon eyed the pipe in his hands and decided to take another draw from it, releasing a gust of smoke from his mouth after a few seconds. The same pipe he'd seen his father use in his twilight days.

How nearly it had all come, Jon thought, to being snuffed out forever.

How nearly there might be nothing now but the distant howling screams of men, women, and children, the fresh plumes of smoke rising from the corpse of this city, the great flushing blast of dragonflame burning the bodies of the living and the dead. The following tyranny might've resulted in the extinction of Jon's family, to the total decimation of the North. And to the sheer madness that would've come from Aegon's rule.

All of that would've come about but for the ego of a madman who had cheated and defeated his opponents with underhanded, cowardly tactics; but for Jon's father who smelled a fire all the way from Winterfell; but for Starag who had agreed to help an old friend; but for Jon deciding to go along with them; but for Marwyn agreeing to come to meet Jon; but for Jon deciding to ask the Tyrells for aid; but for Daenerys' help in showing Aegon's true colors; but for Starag's magical abilities; but for Garlan's cavalry charge; but for a whole pattern of tiny, damn near insignificant circumstances. A whole pattern of chance.

But whose pattern?

Thud! Thud! Thud!

Jon came back to the present, looking up from the spot on the table that he'd been staring at. He looked sharply at the doors, along with the rest of his friends.

Marwyn went to answer the door. He opened it and spoke quickly with the Stark guardsman on the other side. When he closed the door and turned back to face them, he was holding a letter in his other hand.

The Archmaester approached Jon and put it down on his side of the desk. Then he resumed his place with Starag and Garlan. "Letter from Dragonstone." He said calmly.

Jon plucked his pipe into his mouth and tore open the red Targaryen seal on the scroll. Was it from Aegon? What did he want? To discuss surrender?

Probably not, Jon figured. Aegon's as mad as hatters.

As he unfurled the letter in his hands, and quickly read who it was from, he smiled. Daenerys.

Nephew,

I'm writing to inform you that I've taken control of the situation on Dragonstone.

Aegon arrived in the night on Rhaegal's back in terrible condition. Maester Cressen believes that he won't make it through the week and that soon, he will die. He cannot even move from his bed without screaming in pain.

I've gone ahead and had Varys arrested, along with Jon Connington and the Red Priests who helped in burning Stannis Baratheon alive with his wife and daughter. My Unsullied are holding them in the dungeons here on Dragonstone.

I await your arrival-though I do expect answers regarding this 'Dragonslayer' who shot down Rhaegal.

Bring him here. I wish to see him for myself.

Your beloved aunt,

Daenerys

Jon decided to answer the questioning gazes of his friends. "It's from Daenerys. Says she's arrested Varys and Jon Connington with her army of Unsullied. Also put the Red Priests in the dungeons as well."

"And Aegon?" Starag had asked.

"He's been gravely injured, apparently," Jon said as he slid the letter across to his uncle and reached for his Braavosi Firebrand. "Must've been in a bad way after the crash landing. Maester watching over him says he won't survive the week." He paused as he looked directly at Starag. "She wants to meet you, though."

"All the pretty women do," His uncle said off-handedly as he scooped up the letter off the table.

Garlan cracked a smile. "Then we've won? Aegon's finished and his forces are scattered."

Jon took a sip of the golden-brown liquid of spices and honey. It burned his throat like nothing else, yet he could see why his uncle was fond of it. "Not quite. Even though he's on his way out the door, I want to make sure he's dead. That, and Daenerys will need to officially surrender to us and cede us the victory. Then there's the matter of how Aegon got his hands on enough gold to purchase damn near every sellsword company in Essos."

"Looks like that can be done at Dragonstone," Starag said as he tossed the letter back on the table after reading it. He then looked at Jon. "I assume you've decided to go?"

"Aye," Jon nodded. He wanted to see his aunt again anyways. "How many ships have we still got? Is the Silence still in good condition?"

His uncle struck another match, making a fuss of relighting his pipe. "Mmmhmmm." He answered, successfully tossing the match into the fireplace behind Jon. "The Silence wasn't damaged in Aegon's flyover. We've still got about seven other galleys as well. Could take them all over to Dragonstone with a good couple hundred armed men and put this all to rest. Well, what about it?"

Jon smiled. "Sounds like a plan."

Two days later, Jon found himself standing upon the bow of the Silence as it gently rolled into Dragonstone harbor.

The sky had cleared significantly since the siege had ended. Now, the sun blazed across clear blue skies, letting Jon Stark feel its warm, comforting embrace.

And the winds had also become less harsh, even if it was still winter.

The last time he'd been here was seven years prior. Oh, how long ago that truly felt to him now. It seemed as if decades had passed by in but the blink of an eye, that he'd lived multiple lifetimes since that naïve curly-haired boy took his first steps on Dragonstone, nervously purchasing some dragonglass brooch for a girl he liked.

As he took his first steps on the frozen wet docks and looked to the market square, why, he saw himself standing there by the stalls filled with days' old fish and strange foreign trinkets from across the Narrow Sea.

A young boy just eleven years old, leading a pretty girl his age blindly through the marketplace in search of adventure and romance. To give her an experience she wouldn't forget. A boy from the North smitten with some girl from the Reach.

And now? Why, if that young Jon Stark had come up to him now on the docks and talked to him, would he identify the clean and eager youth that had been him at eleven?

What would the youth think of the Lord of Queenscrown, the Hand of the King, the older Jon Stark?

Would he recognize himself behind the cold gray eyes of the man who had been tainted by the years of reckless adventure and dangerous missions and personal loss-of the man with the long jagged scar running down the right side of his face from above his eyebrow down to his lower cheek-of the man who now wielded a Valyrian Steel blade-of the man who not just had a direwolf, but also a dragon?

If the youth did identify him, what would his judgment be? What would he think of this cold, ruthless older version of himself who had slain men as if he were taking a piss? What would he think of the battles that his older self had fought? And of the childish innocence and the loved ones he'd lost along the path to victory?

Jon Stark decided to put it all out of his mind. He was more than grateful for the chances he'd been given in life. And he wasn't about to waste the time that he had left thinking about what might've been.

He saw his aunt standing courteously by the entrance to the marketplace, which then led to the gatehouse up to the Stone Drum. By her side were four others, and behind them was a delegation of soldiers armed with spears and shields.

The Unsullied, Jon figured. He did not forget that his aunt had also had a hand in Robert's death. Probably thought it might help put me on the throne.

Starag appeared next to him. He gave Jon a nod in understanding. Undoubtedly this would be the hard part. His uncle had been the one to wound Rhaegal, one of Daenerys' dragons. Jon understood the connection that she'd have to her dragons well enough. And ironically enough, so would Starag.

Before anything else happened, they'd need to smooth things over.

As Jon approached his aunt, he got a good look at the other four standing next to her. One of them was a dust-colored girl with a roundish face and golden eyes, and she was rather short. Must be younger than Daenerys. Ten years old, probably. Likely his aunt's handmaiden by the look of it.

Standing taller than either the handmaid or his aunt was another man wearing the exact same plain quilted tunic and spiked bronze cap as all the other Unsullied behind him. Their commander? Probably.

Next to the Unsullied commander was the recognizable figure of Oswell Whent. He smiled as Jon approached, and Jon smiled back.

The fifth and final member of the welcome party seemed vaguely familiar, and as Jon looked at the sigil of the roaring black bear emblazoned on his dark green tunic, all became clear.

He was certainly a Northerner judging by his complexion. He was a large man, matching Oswell Whent in height. And though he was not as tall as his younger brother, nor had Starag's full head of hair, he was just as bear-like and stout, wearing a thick black beard.

Jorah Mormont stood before both him and Starag. How did he find my aunt? Jon had wondered. Why is he even with her?

Jon gave Starag a small glance. He did not fail to notice that his uncle's single lightning-blue eye had narrowed dangerously on his older brother. Probably noticed him before I did.

They stopped in front of the welcome party. The various tensions of anger and nervousness between the two brothers were not lost on everyone present. Jon went ahead and addressed his aunt as formally as he was permitted.

"Lady Daenerys," Jon bowed to his host. "I thank you for inviting me to Dragonstone. There's much for us to talk about."

His aunt kept up the charade. She smiled graciously, and genuinely. "It is I who should thank you, Lord Stark. I am grateful that you've accepted my surrender. And I believe I have prisoners who should be of great interest to you." It was then that her amethyst eyes hardened as they looked up at Starag. Her smile was thin and veiled with anger. "I trust this is the Northman who shot down my dragon?"

Starag was completely unimpressed with Daenerys' angered gaze. "That's me." He said coldly.

Before Daenerys could think of a reply, Starag had looked directly at his brother, who seemed as if he wanted to be anywhere but standing before his youngest sibling.

"Jorah."

"Starag." The older Mormont had replied uneasily.

A pause. "Lynesse?"

"She left."

"Hmmm," Hummed Starag. "Why are you here?"

Those four simple words seemed to sting Jorah, to the point that he'd broken his gaze away from his younger brother and looked to the ground. No doubt reminded of why he'd been exiled in the first place, and the dire position he'd put his own family in. And the shame he'd brought upon them. All because he couldn't say 'No' to his wife.

The financial mess that Starag had to come in and clean up, Jon remembered. He'd himself helped his uncle restore and bolster House Mormont's finances.

Even Jon knew that there were some Northern Lords who still looked down upon House Mormont, even if they were obviously poorer than Starag, who had gone on to become the richest Stark bannerman next to Wyman Manderly. Still think he made his gold selling slaves like his brother.

Jorah didn't quite have anything to say in response to his brother's scathing-seemingly simple question. Why are you here?

No answer had come.

Jon decided to take the lead, relieving them all of the awkward silence. He looked to his aunt, who herself was already angry enough with Starag for shooting down one of her dragons. Even if Starag had saved my life doing it. "Let's head up to the keep, then."

"Yes," His aunt refocused her gaze on him. Her violet eyes had softened. "Let's."