PART IV: Checkmate


The Red Keep

301 AC - Three Weeks Later

The water in the marble basin had shimmered underneath the golden candlelight, a small ripple branched out in the space just under Jon Stark's right eye as he stared into the pool.

Above him, the moon shone brightly through the pale glass windows of the King's bedchamber. He could feel its impatient gaze beaming onto him as he ran his hand through the trimmed beard that had grown out on his chin and cheeks in the last few moons alone. His hair in front of his face had been pulled back into a tight bun, and the oils and dirt that had accumulated in the pores of his skin from past battles and days spent pacing his office had been washed out.

His doublet, which had been tailor-made for him in only two weeks, had fit him well. It was a gray-blue color, embroidered with white accents in brocade, woven with silk. Trousers were mainly composed of wool, while he'd gotten a new pair of black leather boots. To top it all off, his prior worn belt had been replaced with a dark brown leather one adorned with a silver-steel buckle.

Jon Stark thought he might have looked better in his armor, which had since been washed of the blood and flesh that he rent from his foes during the Siege of King's Landing. Yet, he knew that it was important to maintain a good image for the crowds, much like what Robert had done before him.

Unsurprisingly, the Great Council had voted in favor of Jon.

After seeing the Lords' Paramount unanimously vote in favor of him, the Lords' Vassals also decided to go along with it. Besides a small collection of lords from both the Crownlands and the Stormlands who hadn't voted at all, it was a complete wrap for House Stark.

From there, things actually managed to get a lot simpler for the Seven Kingdoms. Jon's first act as King had been to legitimize Edric Storm, giving the boy the Baratheon name. Jon's detractors among the Stormlords were quickly persuaded over to his side after that, and the general mood of the Stormlanders was that of contentment since they now had a liege they could follow when he came of age.

Jon had also given Tywin Lannister custody of his grandchildren. The Old Lion made it a point to get away from the capital as quickly as possible with both his brother and his remaining family. He was well on his way back to Casterly Rock by now.

Tyrion Lannister, the Imp, had been quickly released by Robert Arryn, yet he'd decided to stay in the capital along with his older brother in the meantime.

As for Jon's coronation, he'd decided to hold it in Jaehaerys' Square. It was the only location with close proximity to the Red Keep as well as being capable of holding over twenty-four thousand people.

The fanfare had been overwhelmingly positive, and the people's reception to their new King, someone who had already done plenty for them as Hand, was supportive. Jaehaerys' Square was mostly comprised of smallfolk, though many of the nobility had also attended the event. It was literally the opposite of Jon's arrival to the city, where the people had lived poorly, soldiers were camped out in the streets, and morale was at an all-time low.

Now, it was as if the city had gone through a sort of rebirth. The people had seen the worst of it, what with Aegon's invasion, the food shortages, and the cruelty of soldiers in wartime. They were thankful that things had ultimately taken a turn for the better.

Having been anointed with the seven oils by the High Sparrow, with an iron crown placed over his brow, he'd been called "Jon of House Stark, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Naturally, Jon knew there had been many other Kings of Winter who bore the name of Jon Stark, but he supposed that he was covering new ground by becoming the first Stark King who ruled over Westeros in its entirety, and not simply the North.

This small discrepancy had also been thoroughly ignored by the smallfolk, who, Jon acknowledged, likely knew as much about Northern history as he did about sewing.

The coronation itself had been a rager, but his wedding ceremony to Margaery? That had been just as popular.

Baelor's Sept was no more, so the Royal Sept in the Red Keep was the next best thing. Jon had been wed to Margaery before the New Gods, though every fiber of his being felt uncomfortable while doing so. There was much applause and cheering from the smallfolk, who rejoiced that their new King had somewhat set aside his barbaric tree-worshiping ways and became that much closer to them.

Of course, Jon was only doing the ceremony for Margaery's sake, because she had asked it of him. He was sure that, in the end, his own gods would understand, and would be fine with it just this once.

And now, only a day later, was Jon staring back at his reflection in the wash basin below him, contemplating whether or not he would begin his reign by tearing down the ruins of the Dragonpit so he could start building that arena he'd thought of moons before.

He shook his head. We're heading into winter. Best to construct glass gardens for crops, like the ones in Winterfell. So the people can be fed, and also so the Crown doesn't have to rely on the Reach for food. The Dragonpit can come after.

Of course, many of his planned projects involved gold. Jon had decided to keep in place many of Littlefinger's systems for generating income for the Crown while throwing out others. He had decidedly cut off the fat, such as whorehouses, the extra two thousand gold cloaks, and the seventeen mysterious gaolers, among the thousands of other insignificant things. Though he had kept the fleets of ships and trading vessels which were transporting goods which the Crown was invested in. Within a week, tens of thousands of gold dragons had been made back, and Jon had begun stockpiling the revenue in the Royal Treasury.

What Baelish had done with his proceeds was still being looked into, but Jon had a fair assumption that Littlefinger had actually kept most of his gold across the Narrow Sea with the Iron Bank. Unironically, he had been borrowing from the Iron Bank, and then keeping the gold he generated through his investments with the Iron Bank in the same stroke. Likely in case of a rainy day.

Jon already had Oberyn looking into the matter, as Oberyn often took trips to Braavos or the other Free Cities. If his suspicions proved correct, it might not take long for them to pay off not only the Crown's debts to the Iron Bank but also to House Lannister as well.

As a last resort, Jon considered taking gold from House Tyrell, as they were now officially tied to his family by marriage. Not to mention there was the considerable wealth that his own House could call upon. But he would continue to see how things played out.

First things first was getting those glass gardens up and running on a suitable plot of land within the city walls. Were King's Landing ever invaded again, it only made good sense to have the glass gardens within the city limits and not outside the walls so enemy soldiers couldn't exploit them. And with winter already here, it was a worthy time investment that would certainly pay off in the long run.

And then-

Thud! Thud!

Jon looked sharply over at the twin doors to his new chambers. Solid oak. Standing nearly nine feet tall. Far more ornate than his previous chambers. Laying on the floor by the hearth on the opposite side of the room had been Lya, while Ghost was resting on the fur rug close to Jon. Both direwolves had raised their heads immediately upon hearing the interrupting noise, but they seemed to recognize what had caused it.

"Yes?" he asked. Probably Starag.

"What's taking you so bloody long?" Came the expected voice.

Jon grinned wolfishly. That's Starag, alright…

He approached the doors and opened them. His uncle was standing on the other side, wearing a dark green and brown doublet of his own with the collar unclasped, revealing his lower neck for all to see. "You do know how this works, right? You're supposed to be standing 'neath the tree before she gets there."

"Of course I do," Jon snapped his fingers. He saw both Ghost and Lya get up in response and stroll over to him and Starag. "Just thinking about the future is all."

His uncle smirked. "Bit too late for cold feet. You're already married according to that High Septon, or whatever he was called."

"The High Sparrow."

"Sure. Whatever." Starag rolled his eye. "But tonight it's for real. Now come on, the Old Gods are waiting."

The walk from the King's chambers to the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast was brisk. The halls felt empty and unoccupied, and naturally, they had been. But not for much longer.

Once they made it outside, Jon smiled as he looked up into the violet night sky and felt the crisp flakes of fresh snow brush against his skin.

Barristan Selmy was standing guard-Jon had decided to keep the older man in the Kingsguard, as Selmy was an outstanding example of what a knight should be, and would be a great influence to have in the lives of his children. "My King," Selmy bowed, and Jon could see the old man's lips bend into a smile. "Is it time?"

"It is, Ser Barristan." Said Jon with a returning smile. "Walk with us."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Across the drawbridge they went, and straight into the Great Yard. Up the serpentine-like steps where they stopped at the entrance to the godswood.

Jon felt he should say something to Starag. "What will you do? After this, I mean?" A part of him had felt guilty for letting his uncle take the heat that followed after the reveal of his marriage to Rhaenys Targaryen, which had mostly come from other Northern Lords.

Starag simply looked down at him and smiled. "Thought I'd take Duncan hunting, actually. Just us two." He answered nonchalantly. "After that, I promised Rhaenys we'd go back to Dorne for a time. So we'll fly off into the sunset for a few weeks."

That had not been the answer Jon was expecting, yet it was so completely like Starag. "It's not… going to bother you then? That they'll call you a traitor? That they'll think you'll try to usurp Robb?"

"Pfft." Starag shook his head. "They can say it all they want. It's not going to happen, though. Besides, I think it will be good for us. We'll have a chance to prove them wrong." He rested his hand on Jon's shoulder. "I'll worry about reforming House Mormont's reputation. But you? You start reshaping these kingdoms of yours, making them stronger. Give the people something to believe in. Improve their lives. That's your thing."

Jon had the decency to blush at the older man's praise. "I couldn't have done this without you, uncle." He said sincerely. "I wouldn't be here if you hadn't taken me with you as your squire all those years ago. Nor if you hadn't relented when I was foolish enough to volunteer for your expedition to Valyria."

"Well…" His uncle shrugged. "Not all my intentions are strictly selfish…" He said. "I might have nudged you in the right direction, but it was you who stepped up to the plate. You took on a responsibility that far too many men in your position would avoid in favor of whoring, gambling, and degeneracy. I didn't save these people from a fire-worshiping madman, Jon. That was all you." He grinned and then looked at the Kingsguard standing behind Jon. "Knocking old man Selmy onto his back… now that's something I'll take credit for."

"I seem to recall you having luck on your side, Lord Mormont," Barristan said with a competitive, yet respectful grin.

"We'll have time for another round on the tourney grounds if you're willing to prove that statement, Ser Barristan."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. Though that was a rematch he certainly wouldn't mind seeing. "I can't keep my wife waiting all night. Let us get this ceremony underway."

"Your Grace," both men had replied.

His mother, along with Robb, Daenerys, Arya, and Bran had been waiting for them by the oak heart tree. In the light of the moon, the angry blood-red face carved into the wood seemed almost happy, in a mad sort of way.

Jon took his place by the heart tree, letting his back face it while he looked on at the entrance to the godswood, waiting for his bride.

Seconds passed into minutes. The moon had shifted slightly in the sky when, at the edge of the clearing, he saw her.

In a dress made of white silk and linen, embroidered with green and gold flowers, Margaery seemed the picture of a prim and proper lady. Her golden-brown hair was done in a northern braid, and her doe-like eyes had beamed at him as soon as they set sight on him. Over her narrow shoulders was the vibrant green cloak, and sewn into the fabric was the golden rose of House Tyrell.

Mace Tyrell had led his daughter by the arm into the clearing. Garlan walked behind the both of them as an escort. Yet Jon could only seem to see the woman he loved and nothing else. Even in the glow of the winter moon, she seemed to fit in perfectly. It was as if she'd grown up in the North her whole life and not the Reach.

Even now, she hadn't seemed to shiver. Despite the swell in her belly where their child was growing, she was right at home.

This was the woman he would rule the Seven Kingdoms with. The woman who stood at his side, and would continue to do so until they both passed on from this world straight to the next.

How many children would he give her? For her undying, unshakable belief in him? As many as he could.

"Who comes before the gods?" Asked Jon as they neared closer to the heart tree.

As per tradition, it was Mace who answered. "Margaery of House Tyrell comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered. Trueborn and noble. She comes to beg for the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?"

"I, Jon of House Stark, come to claim her. Who gives her?"

"Mace of House Tyrell, father of the bride." Came the reply.

Jon's good-father turned to Margaery with a bright smile. "My beautiful daughter Margaery… will you take this man?"

Margaery, the whole time, had been looking directly at Jon. Wisps of shimmering moonlight glanced off her brown eyes as she continued to look up at him. "I take this man." She said with conviction.

Jon took her hand as she separated from her father, and together they knelt before the heart tree. The angry face carved out of blood glared at the both of them as they closed their eyes in silent prayer.

You've given me this chance to make things right, to make a lasting impact on the lives of these people until the end of everything… I will not waste it. I promise you that. I thank you for what you've given me, now and always.

Moments later, he opened his eyes. The two large slits still continued their glare, yet Jon thought he saw a brief blazing flash of orange in the blood-red irises of the heart tree. Had he seen them blaze with fire? Of course not! What a preposterous thought to have.

Jon stood, and Margaery with him. Now they were facing each other, and Jon carefully took the collar of the green and gold maiden cloak and slipped it off Margaery's shoulders. She shuddered gently in the cold breeze of the late evening but still kept looking into his eyes as if he were the only thing that existed at that moment. He gave the cloak back to Garlan and took the gray and white cloak offered to him by his mother. The sewn direwolf snarled into the fabric. It would protect this woman of his, this girl who he'd known since he was a boy. And it would protect their children from this day forth.

Margaery tugged at the wolf pelt collar and snuggled into its warmth. It fit her well.

Jon lifted her veil and pulled her closer, smelling the scent of roses and candle smoke. He lifted her carefully into his arms and kissed her. All the while, he felt her arms coil around his neck and pull him close.

When they separated, he looked into her eyes and smiled. "Here you are, Lady Stark." He said. "Ready to take on the world?"

She ran her palm through his beard and grinned playfully at him. There was a hint of conspiracy in her big brown eyes… and mischief.

"I thought you'd never ask."


The time eventually came when his family could no longer stay in the capital with him. Robb had to return to Winterfell to continue ruling the North, and so he took with him Arya, Bran, and their mother.

It would not be long until they rejoined him, of course. Robb promised he would write regularly, and that if she wished it, he would send Dyanna to live with him in King's Landing. In the interim, Jon would have Ghost and Lya for company, and soon enough, another Stark would come into the world.

Jon knew he would need company, however. If not to maintain his sanity, but for the sake of competition. He gave Garlan the position of Master of Laws on his small council. He knew that his friend would wear the role well in due time.

The Citadel had gone ahead and sent a replacement for Pycelle. Of course, Jon preferred Fjalar, the man they'd given him in Queenscrown. The new Grand Maester, however, had quickly proven to be both reliable and likeminded to Jon. And, compared to Pycelle who had been well into his old age, this new man Ormand had been forty-one. If he continued to serve well, which it looked like he would, Jon would keep him in office. If not, he'd send Ormand politely back to the Citadel and have Fjalar come down from the North.

He had offered the position to Marwyn, yet the Archmaester had humbly declined and said, "The old men would not take kindly to a man with my record so close to the throne." Though Jon figured that Marwyn simply wanted to continue his adventures across the Narrow Sea. As a reward for his help, Jon had ordered a personal ship to be built for the Archmaester and said that he would always be welcome in the Red Keep.

As for his small council, Jon did not want the doddering group of old men with split motives and agendas that he'd witnessed upon his arrival to King's Landing. He wanted a dedicated, focused group that was of a singular mind. A team like that would prove unstoppable, and would quickly conquer any objective that was set before them.

So, it only made sense that he could give these positions to men that he trusted. Ormand seemed more radical and less conservative than his fellow colleagues at the Citadel, which Jon welcomed. Then there was the matter of selecting a Master of Ships.

Jon decided that Renfred Rykker would fit the role well, as House Velaryon had knowingly aided the Pretender. Moreover, their naval strength had been severely diminished thanks to Starag. It would be a long time until they could regain their power. Renfred Rykker had been a friend to Jon since the day they met, and was reliable in his food shipments to the capital ever since Jon made requests of the Crownlands lords.

For Master of Coin, Starag had temporarily filled the role during his brief stay, but soon he too would be leaving for the North. Jon decided that perhaps a Manderly, or even a Royce would do well, provided they could learn the systems set in place by Baelish to generate revenue for the Crown.

The position of Master of Whispers would remain vacant, as Jon hadn't considered who would fill the role. He had also considered abolishing the position altogether, as it had not been created by the Conqueror, but by Maegor the Cruel, whose reputation and vile deeds had been well-recorded in the history books. He saw no current use for it, as his focus was primarily on healing the realm and not spying on it.

The role of King's Hand would remain vacant for a time as well, as Jon already handled most of the administrative duties himself with relative, yet hard-earned ease. But he knew that eventually, he would need to hand them off to someone else. Willas Tyrell would make a good fit for the position, and by the time he was to take his father's place as Lord of Highgarden, either Bran or one of Starag's children would be old enough to both learn and fulfill the role.

Jon had been quick to assemble his team. Lord Rykker sailed from Duskendale to King's Landing, and Andar Royce had come down from Runestone. Meanwhile, Willas was waiting for his father's return so he could ride from the Reach.

But when the day finally came, when his family would leave for the North, Jon had put aside the matters of the small council and decided that he would focus entirely on them.

In the main courtyard of the Red Keep, the escort had been gathered. A royal party consisting of over a hundred men-at-arms that would safely guide Robb, and Arya to Silence, which had survived the Pretender's invasion and was still docked in the harbor. Their mother and Bran would be staying, as she told Jon that she wanted to be there for the birth of his child. Meanwhile, Robb would be sailing directly for White Harbor and then would travel to Winterfell on horseback from there.

"You'll visit us, won't you?" Robb asked. "At least come to White Harbor when you can?"

"When I can," Jon said with a smile. "First there's plenty of damage that needs to be fixed. But aye, I will visit when I can."

"Good." Robb clasped his arm around his shoulder and brought him close. "I'm going to miss sparring with you, brother. We'll all miss you."

Jon grinned. "You'll be closer to Starag, won't you? You'll be the Sword of the Morning."

"It doesn't quite feel the same as when Uncle Arthur held the title," Robb admitted. They separated, and Jon saw his brother looking wistfully up into the sky. "It feels… strange… empty almost, to know that they aren't here anymore. Is it the same for you?"

He understood what his brother was talking about. Both their father and Arthur were gone. Two men who Jon had looked up to as a boy, had both gone to the Old Gods. It felt as if… as if something had been torn from him, and he couldn't explain what it was.

"It is," Jon replied. "But they'd want us to keep going."

"Aye, of course." Robb paused momentarily before grinning. "Don't grow too fat, brother. I'll want to spar next time we meet. Wouldn't want to put you out on your ass, now would we?"

Jon shook his head. "There are only two men in this world who can lay you flat on your back with a sword, and I'm one of them. I'll be ready the next time you come calling."

"It's settled then." The two brothers shook hands firmly. It was silently decided that the next time they met, it would be on.

Arya came next. She had already begun crying ugly tears and glared angrily up at him.

"Why can't you come back with us? Can't you be King from Winterfell?"

Jon smiled knowingly. "That's not how it works."

"I don't care how it works!"

"But I do. And so do the people."

"Well, I think they're stupid. And you're stupid too for not coming home with us."

Jon Stark grinned at his sister's insolence. "I'm going to miss you… you know that, right?"

Arya was silent for a few moments. Her anger quickly melted into a sort of pleading look. She leaped up and wrapped her arms around his neck in a fierce embrace. Jon returned it just as fervently.

"I'll miss you too." She whispered in his ear.

The last goodbye was the hardest for Jon Stark. A large weirwood box in the back of a wagon had been brought up in Robb's escort. The driver had halted before the tall bronze gates to the Red Keep, and Jon found himself staring at the wooden crate for what seemed like ages.

Inside were his father's bones. This would be the final journey back to Winterfell for his father. The last time.

Jon Stark recognized that in truth, his father had hated going to the South. Jon's grandfather, uncle, and birth mother had all died below the Neck. And just like them, Eddard Stark had met a similar fate, and would now reside in the crypts beneath Winterfell forever more.

He had to have known… thought Jon to himself. He had to have known that this would be his final trip, one way or another…

How else could his father have been so at peace by the time the sickness had finally eaten away at him in those blasted sewers? When his injuries had finally caught up with him?

And he still decided to go through with it… Jon's father had come to the South knowing he probably wouldn't make it back home alive.

Why?

Because he was willing to do the right thing? Regardless of the danger presented to him?

Perhaps.

Jon Stark placed his hand carefully on the weirwood box. "You always did what you thought was right. Even if it was as simple as taking in a boy without a mother and father, and raising him as your own. Giving him a home. Giving him your name."

What had Starag told him about the Tower of Joy? His father, Arthur, and Starag rode for the North after the other Northmen made their way to King's Landing. Aerys' Kingsguard split, with Gerold going to the Reach, while Oswell Whent sailed across the Narrow Sea. Yet it was on the ride out of Dorne that Eddard Stark had barely slept a wink, had barely eaten a scrap, only riding as hard as he could while cradling a small babe in his arm.

His own sister's child. Jon.

In hindsight, Jon knew he could have taken the Targaryen name. The Seven Kingdoms wouldn't have been able to do anything about it since he and Daenerys still had dragons.

Yet it wasn't the Targaryen name that he was proud of. It was the name of the man who raised him. It was the Stark name that brought pride into his being.

"You are my father. You have always been my father." Jon said to the box. "Now rest. You've earned it. Everything that I do from this day forth, will be dedicated to making you proud."

And with that, Jon Stark let the wagon roll on by the open bronze gates. He watched as his brother and sister finally left his sight. He smiled, thankful that at last, his father would only have to make one final voyage home.


The Dragonpit was an eyesore to Jon.

It was dusty, unkempt, and forgotten. Not a single Targaryen King had seen to its maintenance since the dragons died out. As such, it had fallen into disrepair. For over a century and a half, not a soul had stepped foot in the scorched halls of cold blackened stone.

Jon figured it once was a magnificent place to behold. According to the records kept in the Red Keep, the Dragonpit had once been a marvelous castle in its own right. With gates so wide that thirty knights could ride through them side by side, and at night, the lights would always be shining in the windows because of the main inhabitants: the dragons themselves. Moreover, in the main pit, there were enough benches to seat around eighty-thousand people or possibly more.

Yet now, the dome above the pit had since given way to age. It was broken, with pieces of its structure now laying at the bottom of the pit covered in multiple layers of dust and snow.

"You could build some kind of arena with this place," Came the gruff voice at his side.

Jon looked over his shoulder. Starag had been inspecting one of the large gashing claw marks carved into the stonework.

"I had considered that idea, actually." Said Jon. "If the dome was removed, the pit leveled… regular events could be hosted here to entertain the people. We wouldn't need to rely on tourneys and such as often. And we could charge them to attend each event. A few copper pieces each, nothing more."

"I'll have to build something like it back on Bear Island." His uncle had said. Starag looked at him with a smile. "Good for business. And you'd effectively be taxing them if they wanted to catch a show. Not that you'd color it that way, of course. How soon do you think you can have it up and running?"

"A few years, probably more. The structure is mostly in place, it's just a matter of fixing it up." Jon said. "That'll have to be stored away until we've gotten the glass gardens built and functional, as well as a few other things."

Starag nodded. "I'll get my own arena set up on Bear Island. It'll be a sort of test run if you will. I'll see how it performs and inform you of the results."

"Sounds like a plan."

They walked back the way they came. The main entrance of the Dragonpit yawned open into the crisp gray morning sky. The two men were greeted with a wide view of the entire expanse of King's Landing.

Rooftops lights glowing behind windows, smoke rising from chimneys… Something about the sight reminded Jon of Wintertown. It was a good feeling, one of familiarity. He smiled upon seeing the city for what it was, and perhaps even what it could be in the future. Home…

The two of them made their way to the entry pit, which was large enough to be a tourney ground of its own. The escort of Stark men-at-arms was on the other side, having been told to stay back. Meanwhile, standing by the two nearby pillars were Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister.

That was another thought… Jon actually had a few ideas on who he'd replace in the Kingsguard. A collection of men from the North and the Reach might actually do the trick. And-

Jon pushed the thought aside for later. It wasn't important now.

"You'll be fine down here?" Starag asked him then as they stepped into the entry pit, both of them now being followed by the two Kingsguard behind them.

"I will," Jon said. "Gerold is on his way. He'll take another name, of course. And I'll have Garlan with me."

His uncle nodded but kept silent.

When they finally made it to the middle of the pit, they stopped and faced one another.

"You know, Arthur made me a Kingsguard. All those years ago…" Starag said. "Back before we set out on the Kingsroad, you and I. Not officially, of course. He wasn't Lord Commander. And I didn't swear any vows, but…"

Jon could understand what his uncle was getting at. It was a sort of spiritual appointment. After all, Arthur hadn't officially been a Kingsguard either, yet he was still doing his duty by watching over Jon in his formative years. "Your place is on Bear Island, uncle. Arthur knew that."

"Still," His uncle scratched his beard. "Hard to leave you here."

"You can always visit. You've got dragons. And I thought Bronzie couldn't get enough of you?"

"Perhaps… Rhaenys has to be there if I want a ride, however."

Jon shrugged. "Well, I'm sure you'll figure something out."

Far in the distance, he heard it.

It hadn't invoked the same feeling of dread and fear that he had felt during the battle at the River Gate when Aegon had descended on dragonback to burn away their fleet of ships on the Blackwater Rush.

The sound he felt in his bones, the one that he heard on the wind, had been familiar, and instinctively friendly. And when Jon looked to the north, he could make out the long orange-bronze line that shimmered into existence.

Flapping wings beat harder and harder. The wind picked up and snow flurried angrily around them as the bronze shape neared closer.

Bronzie, and another. A figure that had been clinging to the back of the great bronze dragon. Rhaenys.

When they finally descended into the entry pit, Jon had to hold up a hand so the dust and snow would not get in his eyes. The flapping of wings sounded more akin to thunder mixed with the beating of a heart. It ended as Bronzie touched the ground in one conclusive boom!

Jon had taken note of Bronzie's size. He'd not seen her since he gave her to Rhaenys, but he supposed she was just a bit smaller than Snowfyre. Who was just roughly larger than Drogon. This had been the case as Jon later found out that Daenerys simply hadn't fed her dragons as often.

Bronzie had craned her neck down immediately so that the young woman on her back could get down. Jon laughed as he saw Rhaenys practically almost jump off the bronze dragon's back and break into a sprint toward them.

He wasn't terribly surprised when his half-sister had thrown herself first against Starag in a fierce hug, jumping up and looping her arms around his neck and peppering him with kisses. Jon nearly laughed when Starag had almost doubled over. Starag, upon regaining his footing, had likewise wrapped his arms around Rhaenys and twirled her around as he held her.

Jon smiled at the sight. It reminded him of when he'd seen his parents together as a boy. And of the tender moments he'd share with Margaery. But now, Rhaenys had been away from her man for several moons, knowing full well he would be facing off against fire-breathing dragons and tens of thousands of bloodthirsty mercenaries and soldiers. Jon remembered the overpowering reception he'd gotten from Margaery when she'd seen him again so many moons after White Harbor. She couldn't seem to let go of him.

When Starag had set Rhaenys down on the ground, she stared up into his eye. "Aunt Ash told me everything! About the dragons and the army and-" She stopped herself from rambling. "Please tell me you're coming home this time. Please?"

Starag grinned. He looped an arm around Rhaenys' shoulders and brought her close. "We'll go home soon, love. Believe me."

That seemed to placate Rhaenys. She then looked at Jon and remembered he was there. Now it was his turn to be hugged, as she threw her arms around Jon's neck and squeezed.

Jon returned the embrace, of course. "We're still alive, Rhae," he said. "No need to worry."

"I know, I know…" She said as she let go of him. "But I couldn't help it. I mean, what sort of madman takes on an army five times larger than his own and three fire-breathing dragons?"

Both Jon and Starag shared a look. It was the latter who chose to answer that question. "You know who you married, right?"

Rhaenys folded her arms. "I suppose I should have expected nothing less from you, my dearest husband." She then relented, having attached herself to Starag's arm. "But I'm certainly glad that both of you are safe."

She then noticed the two men standing behind Jon and smiled warmly. "Ser Barristan. Jaime." She dipped her head in greeting.

Unsurprisingly to Jon, both men had actually bowed in the typical knightly fashion. Barristan Selmy seemed to have aged down a few years simply from seeing a girl who he'd thought was long dead. And Jaime, having saved Rhaenys during the Sacking of King's Landing himself, had smiled back. "My lady," They both said at roughly the same time.

"You're just as beautiful as your mother was on the day I met her." Said Barristan Selmy. "It warms my heart to know that you've found both home and comfort in the North."

"And to hear of your survival," Added Jaime with a sharp, yet amused look at his comrade.

Selmy gave Lannister an equally entertained glance. "I was going to say that."

"Oh, of course," Jaime smirked. He then set his emerald eyes on Rhaenys. "My lady-" He began, before he was rushed by the girl whom he saw as a little sister, and was embraced in a similar hug.

"You don't need to say anything," Rhaenys said as she parted from Lannister. "I never got to thank you for saving my life. Because of you, I would not have my handsome and dashing husband or my four beautiful children. I would not have the dragon you see before you, and I would not have done my duty to my family." She kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Uncle Jaime."

Jon swore he saw a flash of pride in Jaime's emerald green cat eyes, not just for Rhaenys, but… also for himself.

"I was only doing my duty, my lady." Jaime managed to recover himself, having panned out the shade of pink in his cheeks. "And, might I say, you could not have picked a finer husband. Lord Mormont happens to be one of the best men, and friends, that I know." He paused thoughtfully. "Your father… Rhaegar that is… would be proud of how far you've come."

Rhaenys seemed to beam brighter with each sentence that came from Jaime's lips. "Thank you," She said simply with a smile, parting from Jaime and now rejoining Starag. "I hope you'll all visit us sometime? I'll have the cooks prepare only the best-roasted venison you'll find north of the Neck. Or perhaps we will visit you?" She asked with a pleading look at Starag.

Mormont, of course, waved the matter away with his hand. "Of course, we'll visit. We're not barbarians. Well, not all of us at least." He pinched Rhaenys playfully in the side. "Let's get going, then. I've got a horse to recover, and I want to sleep in my own bed again."

With one last wave goodbye, Jon watched as both Starag and Rhaenys made their way over to Bronzie. Briefly, the great bronze dragon gave Jon a soft glance of recognition, and he swore that she almost purred in reaction to seeing him.

Once both Lord and Lady Mormont had climbed aboard the dragon's back, Jon heard the distant, "sōvēs," in High Valyrian. Immediately in response, the thundering drum beat started, with flapping copper and green wings beating again and again and again while more flurries of dust and snow swirled around them like a hurricane.

Then it calmed down all so suddenly. And far in the distance, the great bronze dragon blended into the horizon, becoming nothing more than a shining golden star.

The End.