Howl of the Dragonwolves

by Elphaba818

9 years ago, the Mad Queen and the Queenslayer died and left their bastard twins grow up in the cold shadows of House Stark. Torrhen and Lyaella Snow know their parents never got the happy ending they deserved. Now they have the chance to change things. They'll ensure their parents win the game of thrones. Or they'll die trying. TIME TRAVEL AU! Co-Author: Longclaw 1-6 as of 2-22-21

4. The Dragon of Castle Black

Merry Christmas everyone!

I went to great lengths to make sure I finished this chapter yesterday that way I could get it posted now, today on December 24th! Consider this chapter my Christmas present to all of you, my loyal readers! I'm sure there are some of you that don't celebrate Christmas, but I do! It's my all time favorite holiday, and I wanted to share my Christmas spirit with all of you by posting first thing today! I hope all you loyal readers enjoy this chapter and are grateful that Christmas came a day early! :D

One thing I'd like to note before moving onto the story, I have exciting news! I will be starting an internship fairly soon for screenwriting! I eagerly interviewed for the position, and I was astounded when I found out that I got it! Wish me luck! This could help open a lot of doors for me in the screenwriting field! I also might be doing a bit of freelance work for animation for a client I did a bit of work for over the summer! They said they might have some work for me after the holidays are over, so I'm staying hopeful! Keep your fingers crossed for me! I not only could use the money now that I'm out of a job, I could use the work experience!

Now, onto the story itself! I'm thrilled that all of you enjoyed the previous chapter so much! I also managed to get the first three chapters posted on Ao3 this past month while drafting chapter 4, and I'm equally pleased by the reception on there, too! Everyone's been so excited to see which kid will end up with which parent, and here we finally see part 1 of the twins arrival in the past! FYI, this chapter will be the last back-to-back chapter in Lyaella's POV for awhile. We'll be switching to Torrhen's POV come next chapter and will be staying with him until possibly the middle of Chapter 6. Rest assured, I haven't forgotten about writing things in his POV! I just... well, I'd like to remind all of you that chapters 2 and 3 were originally supposed to be one long chapter mashed together. The first half of the chapter was supposed to be in Torrhen's POV, and the second half in Lyaella's. However, the chapter turned out way too long, hence why it got split up and why it seems like favoritism towards Lyaella. I won't deny that I personally connect with Lyaella, but I'm NOT playing favorites in terms of POV's! This was an accident due to chapter lengths between chapters 2 and 3! From here on out, there may occasionally be times we'll see chapters in back-to-back POV's of one of the twins, but when that happens, it happens for a reason, NOT because I'm playing favorites!

A few more things I'd like to note for everyone who keeps asking in the reviews:

1.) I will NOT be explaining when/how Jon died in the original timeline the twins came from yet, so I respectfully request that you stop asking.

This is a plot hook that is keeping all of you interested and I already know WHEN in the story it will be revealed. It's gonna stay a mystery for you readers for a LONG time, so just keep reading! You'll find out eventually! ;D

2.) I will NOT be explaining when/where the twins were born yet, so again, I respectfully request that you stop asking.

I've already stated in the story itself that the War for the Dawn took nearly a year to win in the original timeline that the twins came from. More details about their births with be gradually be revealed by the twins in chunks as the story progresses, but the circumstances of their births... let's just say that this bit of backstory for the twins is an important detail for various reasons I cannot and will not be discussing to avoid spoilers so I can't say anything more. Not even Dakkaman or Longclaw know what was going on in the world during the exact moment the twins were born, and I'm actually grateful that neither of them ever asked about it. No offense, Dakkaman, Longclaw! I'm just adamant to keep particular details of the twins' backstories a secret from even you guys, that way both of you will also be surprised by certain things that happen in the story, lol!

In other news, there was a grand total of 19 reviews since I posted the last chapter, bringing the overall total review count up to 47. That's only three reviews short of my hopeful review count goal of 50... Oh, well. Perhaps we can try again with another review goal? Let's try to get a grand total of... 70 reviews this time. That's only twenty-three reviews all together! Considering the overall estimation of reviews for the past two chapters was eighteen reviews followed by nineteen, I don't think that'll be too hard! If everyone who reviewed the last chapter review again and four people who didn't review before review now, we can make this goal! Come on, everyone! You can do it! Just type a quick note when you're done reading regarding your thoughts on the chapter! It shouldn't take more than five minutes unless you have a lot to say, lol!

Well, that's everything for now! I hope you enjoy the chapter! And like I said, be sure to review when you're done!

Happy Reading and Have a Very Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays!

- Elphaba818

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Chapter Four: The Dragon of Castle Black

Jon was numb as he trudged out of the tunnel and out into the open snow beyond the Wall. It was a good thing Thorne was still out of commission due to his injuries during the battle the night before, because if he had been up and about, there was no way he'd be able to go through with this risky plan. It was a stupid plan, like Sam had told him, but what else could any of them do? Mance Raydar was the King Beyond the Wall, a former man of the Night's Watch. He was the one who gathered all the Free Folk together, taught them how the soldiers and men in the Seven Kingdoms fought together in coordinated attacks rather than attacking randomly and with no organization.

Killing Mance was the only thing that could ensure the Night's Watch would survive.

Jon was silent as he shuffled forward across the long stretch of bloodstained snow to the snowy trees of the Haunted Forest. He didn't want to do this, but what choice did he have? There was nothing he had anymore that made life worth living. He had never had a mother. His father was dead, beheaded by the Lannister's on false charges of treason. His brother Robb was dead, betrayed by the weasel Walder Frey and the Northern backstabber Roose Bolton at the Red Wedding, corpse mutilated by sewing Grey Wind's head on top of it in place of his own. His sister Sansa had vanished after Joffery Waters had been poisoned at his own wedding. His little sister, Arya — his favorite sibling — also missing since the day his father was arrested, though she was most likely rotting in some Flea Bottom gutter somewhere. And Bran and Rickon, the former crippled and latter his youngest baby brother… presumed dead by the rest of the world after that shit Theon Greyjoy betrayed their family, but Sam told him he'd seen Bran go beyond the Wall sometime last year with Hodor and the children of Howland Reed of all people. No sign at all of Rickon, but if Bran had escaped the burning of Winterfell, it was possible he had too. Yet that didn't change the fact that his youngest brother was still in the wind. If any of his siblings were still alive, they were long gone. The only family he had were his fellow brothers of the Nights Watch.

And now that Ygritte was gone too… what was the point of living anyway? The Army of the Dead would march on the Wall eventually. The Night's Watch was but a ghost of its former self, especially after Lord Commander Mormont's failed Great Ranging Expedition and now after last night attack. Jon knew Ygritte would never have forgiven him for betraying her and the Free Folk to warn the Night's Watch about Mance's plans, but still… she was the only woman he'd ever loved.

But he was a man of the Night's Watch. He was to man the Wall 'til his dying breath. He would take no wife, father no children. His duty was the only thing that mattered.

Killing Mance now would undoubtedly seal his death warrant with the Free Folk, but that was fine. Jon had nothing anymore. No family, no home, no one who loved or truly needed him. So long as he could do his duty one last time, what did his own death matter?

Approaching the tree-line, Jon kept his hands held high over his head as various Free Folk warriors pointed the sharp tips of their spears at him. Maintaining a facade of harmlessness and that he meant no harm was the only way he could go through with this reckless plot.

None of the Free Folk warriors said anything to him, though one vanished inside the largest of all the small tents that had been set up between the trees. A few moments later, the massive former of Mance Rayder emerged. Like the rest of his army, Mance said nothing to him at first. Just gave him a long look from head to toe.

"Yeh're all in black again," he said at last. "Thought yeh were on our side."

"I've been sent to negotiate with you."

Mance let out a humorless breath of laughter at that, but he nonetheless nodded. Turning to two middle-aged warriors, he jerked his head in Jon's direction. Wordlessly, they walked up to him and searched him for hidden weapons. Thank goodness he had left Longclaw behind with Sam. Had he had it now, he'd would've never seen Jeor Mormont's legacy to him again. And besides, he might be stupid, but even he wasn't stupid enough to sneak a weapon with him right now. The Free Folk were already on edge around him after he betrayed them. Trying to slip a knife past them would only guarantee he'd end up in some Thenn's cooking pot by nightfall. Killing Mance would require quite a bit of improvisation on his end.

Appeased, Mance motioned them to lead Jon inside his tent. Thankfully, no one made any attempt to physically restrain Jon or bind him with ropes. So far, everything was looking moderately okay.

Taking a look around as Mance motioned him to sit in one of the only two stools available, Jon saw that there was a typical fire pit in the middle of the tent and a Free Folk spearwife was spinning a rabbit over the flames on a spit. There was a log table just a short ways off to her right, and the carving knife she'd used to skin it was embedded into the surface. That would be his play. If he could just get Mance to lower his guard long enough to snatch that knife, he'd slit his throat before he, his bodyguards, or the spearwife cook could do anything to stop him.

Jon averted his eyes from it though as Mance settled into the seat opposite him. "Seems I was wrong to trust yeh, Jon Snow. Won't be the first time that's happened," he said. "I'd hoped yeh were loyal when yeh joined us, Jon Snow. I really was."

It took all of Jon's willpower not to sigh. "The Halfhand ordered me to join your army, bring back any information on your people I could back to Castle Black. He forced me to kill him. It was the only way you'd trust me. So I was loyal. To my Night's Watch vows."

"All yer vows?"

Jon wanted to stay strong, but he couldn't help it. Not when the heartbreak of Ygritte's death was still so fresh. He looked away.

"She couldn't turn yeh. She wasn't enough," Mance mused. "Were yeh enough to turn her?"

"She shot three arrows in me when I escaped. One missed my heart by six inches."

Mance's lips quirked up. "Yeh see her again at Castle Black?"

"Aye."

"And?"

His throat tightened. "She's dead."

Mance's partial amusement faded away. "Yeh're fault?" he asked.

"No," said Jon. Nothing relieved Jon more than that. Had he been the one who had killed Ygritte… he couldn't even imagine the idea. Killing the woman he loved just because the rest of the world saw her as a monster? That was something he wouldn't wish even on his worst enemy.

Mance was quiet for several moments. "We'll drink to her," he said. Nodding to one of his guards, the warrior collected two mugs and a jug of some sort. Putting the glasses down in front of Jon and Mance, he poured them both the drink. Jon had no idea what it was. It looked white, but what kind of alcohol was as white as milk? Was Mance playing the same game as him? Was he trying to get him to lower his guard?

His eyes flicked up to Mance. This time, the former Night's Watchman seemed to guess his thoughts. "There's a thousand ways I'd kill yeh, Jon Snow. Poison would be the last."

Tension fading, Jon picked up the mug. They both raised them up high.

"Ygritte."

"Ygritte."

They drank. Within seconds, Jon was spluttering. "That's not wine!"

"No, it's a proper Northern drink, Jon Snow," Mance said. "I'll admit, I'm impressed. Yeh did well. The Night's Watch fought hard. Killed some of our best men. One of our giants managed to get into your tunnel, but never came out."

That brought another sigh to Jon's lips. "He's dead, too. He killed a friend of mine. Grenn."

Mance genuinely frowned. "Mag the Mighty. He was the giants king," he explained. "Last of a bloodline stretching back before the First Men."

"Grenn came from a farm."

Mance nodded, then lifted his mug for a second toast. "Mag and Grenn."

"Grenn and Mag," Jon agreed, doing the same. They both took another swig. Jon managed to swallow it this time without spitting it out.

"Kullback," said Mance, glancing back over his shoulder. "Think yeh could get us something to eat? Don't think our guest's eaten anything in quite some time." The Free Folk warrior nodded and approached the spearwife still tending the rabbit on the spit. As he carved off a few chunks of meat, Mance turned back to Jon. "So, yeh say yeh're here to negotiate?"

It took all of Jon's willpower to maintain a neutral expression as he nodded. "Go home," he told him. "Turn your army around and go home. Promise to stop attacking the Wall."

"We both know yeh're low on arrows. Yeh're low on oil. Yeh're eying that rabbit over there like a starvin' hound. Yeh're low on food. After last night, yeh're low on men. How many are left? A hundred? Fifty?"

"I told Tormund and Orell our numbers. We still have more than a thousand men."

"And I showed yeh my army. A hundred thousand strong, all willin' to fight or die getting beyond yer Wall. And what did the Night's Watch do? Yeh fired on us with everythin' yeh had. It wasn't much. Know what I did when I saw that?"

"What?"

"I sent four hundred men to climb the Wall. An unmanned stretch a few miles west of here. A lot will die climbin', but many of them will be up and over by nightfall. That's me being honest, Jon Snow. That's more than yeh've ever been."

That left a bad taste in Jon's mouth. He had never intended to become a spy when he asked Lord Commander Mormont if he could with the Halfhand during the Great Ranging. He had only wanted… what had he wanted back then, anyway? He'd been a stupid green boy who had no idea what the reality of killing and warfare entailed. He had looked up to his father all his life, admired him for his honor and honesty. Ned Stark would be ashamed of him though if he were still alive. Between learning to respect the Free Folk to betraying them with lies. And now, for eying that knife over on the table.

What choice did he have though? It was either kill Mance, or let the Free Folk kill everyone in Castle Black.

"My people have bled enough," he went on. "We're not here to conquer, we're not here to hurt innocents."

"Tell that to all the farmers and the people in Mole's Town. They were innocent. Now they're dead."

That made Mance pause. "That will stop. Immediately," he promised. "We're here to hide behind yer Wall. Just like you. Just like everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms, but we need yer tunnel. We both know Winter is coming. If my people aren't south of the Wall when it comes, we'll all be worse than dead. Yeh wanna strike a bargain with me? Here's the bargain: Yeh go back, yeh open the gates to us. I swear, no one else will die."

Jon knew he had a point. He might not have been at the Fist of the First Men when the dead attacked, but he'd seen them himself. But what could he do? He wasn't Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, so he couldn't even agree to these terms even if he wanted to. And considering Thorne never gave him clearance for this supposed negotiation, he couldn't even take Mance's offer back to the Night's Watch to get everyone else there to consider the possibility. Whatever sympathy he felt for Mance and the Free Folk… he had to quell it now. There was nothing he could do for them.

No, he had to grab that cooking knife now and—

"Ah, so that's why yeh're here."

Jon froze. He hadn't even realized his eyes had fallen back on the knife on the table. Shit.

There was a rush of movement out of the corner of his eye. The Free Folk rushed to unsheathe their knives and point their spears at him, but Mance waved away their caution. He didn't even really look at any of them as he did so. He kept his eyes fixed on Jon, critically appraising him.

"I reckon yeh could do it before any of them could stop yeh. They'll kill yeh, of course. They'd kill yeh slow… but yeh knew that when yeh came in here."

Jon said nothing. Mance was right. He had known that when he came in here. Death was something he had already accepted. That was not new knowledge to him. He didn't need to be reminded.

The King Beyond the Wall recognized that, and furrowed his brows. "Are yeh capable of that, Jon Snow?" he asked. "Killing a man in his own tent when he's just offered yeh peace? May not be the peace everyone wants, but still peace. Killing the man who trusted yeh? Is that how far the Night's Watch has fallen? Is that how far you've fallen?"

His mouth was dry. His stomach was in knots. He didn't even know what the right answer was to those questions. He hadn't thought of it that way. Still… didn't Mance have a point? Two seconds ago, he had been an entirely certain his father would have supported this decision. But now? What was he supposed to do?

He didn't get any more time to muse over this though, because all the sudden, a loud war horn was suddenly blaring from right outside the tent. A Free Folk war horn.

"Riders coming!" a man yelled.

That was all Mance needed to hear. Quick as a flash, the older man was on his feet and had the knife Jon had been eying a few moments ago right at his throat.

"What's happening?! Yeh attacking us?!"

"N-No. It's like you said," Jon rasped, eyes darting wildly between Mance and the tent flap. "We… We don't have the men."

Something in his expression must've convinced Mance he was being honest this time, and he slowly lowered the blade from his throat. Instead of anger, the older man's face matched Jon's own confusion. Nodding to two of his guards, he motioned them to haul Jon up and follow him outside. Despite how roughly the Free Folk warriors handled him, Jon couldn't find it in himself to mind all that much. Like Mance, he too wanted to know what was happening out there.

Mance shoved aside the tent flap and they all stumbled out. What they saw was nothing short of a nightmare for Mance, but the greatest hope imaginable for Jon and the Night's Watch.

Great legions of mounted cavalry knights were riding hard and fast from someplace far off from the east. And not just one or two. Thousands. No, tens of thousands! All of them were yelling war cries as they rode swiftly alongside the Wall, the hoofbeats of their horses drumming like thunder in the early morning air. Before long, they all sharply turned to ride full tilt towards the Free Folk's war camp.

Mance was stunned and turned to Jon questioningly, but Jon didn't even look at him, he was so shocked. He could only stare at the mysterious army with wide eyes and his mouth agape. He was grateful for the timely attack. He would've probably died for certain ten seconds ago had this intervention not happened when it did, but who did this army belong to? Who had finally answered the call for help that the Night's Watch had been pleading for across the realm for so many years now? They carried flags, but they were all flapping in the wind so much that he couldn't make out the sigil.

The mysterious army soon reached the edge of the Haunted Forest, and seconds later, the familiar cry of steel clashing and men hollering before they died rang through the air.

"Hold!" Mance suddenly yelled. "To me! To me!"

Some of his men listened, but the Free Folk were nicknamed Wildlings for a reason. They chose to follow Mance because they respected his leadership, but in life or death situations like this, they followed their own instincts. Warriors and spearwives whooped loud war cries as they did their best to fight back, but before long, a second platoon of thousands of mounted knights was approaching the war camp, this time from the opposite side of the dense woods. Jon was admittedly impressed. Whoever was in charge of this army, they knew their battle tactics. They had successfully cut off the Free Folk from retreating, forcing them to fight to the death or surrender. Smart.

The Free Folk knew this too, because those who had opted to fight were mercilessly cut down by the second wave. Warriors were beheaded. Archers were disemboweled. Spearwives were skewered straight through. And like Jon predicted, those who tried to run met the same fate. It wasn't even a battle what with how easily the Westerosi defeated them. It was a full out slaughter.

It lasted for almost a solid minute, but finally Mance accepted the reality. "Stand down!" he yelled, throwing down the knife. Jon glanced at him, surprised. He was the King Beyond the Wall. Wasn't he supposed to be the last one to accept defeat, to be the one rallying everyone to fight to the last man? Mance noticed his stare and sighed. "I said my people have bled enough. And I meant it."

Jon nodded in respect. Mance Rayder might have deserted the Night's Watch, but he was ten times the man and leader than Thorne could ever be. If there was one more reason Jon could admit to himself that he missed about living North of Wall with the Free Folk, it was being under Mance's command. He was sure that if his father could have looked past Mance breaking his vows to the Watch, he would've liked him, too.

As the fighting gradually dwindled down, the sound of horses galloping through the snow echoed through the woods. Jon couldn't tell where they were coming from at first. There was so much smoke and snow flurries fluttering through the air in the aftermath of the battle that it was impossible to make out anything more than the basic shapes of anything not in his nearby vicinity. But soon enough, two riders in heavy armor emerged from the trees. One was older than the other, with graying hair on a balding head and a thick beard, but the other was definitely middle-aged, with a stern face and a rather serious demeanor. Unlike the rest of the soldiers, neither of them wore helmets, but they still appeared to command respect. One of them was clearly the one in charge, because the soldiers nearby immediately stopped rounding up the surviving Free Folk men and women and instead stood at attention as they dismounted and approached.

One Free Folk warrior clearly wasn't ready to surrender to these men, because he raised his battle axe and charged toward the two with a furious yell. Neither of them blinked as he lunged forward, nor when another knight on horseback casually galloped forward, slicing his head off with relative ease.

Wordlessly, Mance unsheathed the two extra longknives he had strapped to his waist. He tossed them to the ground without even looking at them, his full attention still on those approaching the group. When they finally stopped in front of them, the middle-aged armored man stopped a few steps closer to them than the older man did and stared at Mance solemnly. He was the leader, then.

"You're the King Beyond the Wall?" he asked gruffly, after a slight pause. The corners of Mance's lips curled up a bit, and he nodded once, curtly. "Do you know who I am?"

"Never had the pleasure."

"This is King Stannis, of House Baratheon," said the older man. "The one true king of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jon stood slightly straighter at that. Stannis Baratheon? The one his father died for to make sure he knew of his rightful place as the late King Robert's heir?

"We're not in the Seven Kingdoms," Mance pointed out, speaking a little louder as the wind kicked up, "and yeh're not dressed for this weather."

Stannis gave Mance a hard look. Jon was a little worried how he might react to that for a moment, but thankfully, Stannis let it slide.

"Kneeling is customary when surrendering to another king."

Now it was Mance with the stern expression. He stared at Stannis for the longest time as the wind got a bit louder, gaze unwavering. No one dared to speak a word as the leader of the Free Folk silently deliberated, especially not Jon. Finally, he let out a humorless snort and shook his head.

"We're the Free Folk. We do not kneel."

"I'll have thousands—" Stannis was cut off momentarily as the wind unexpectedly whistled. He pressed his lips together in annoyance and waited for it to die down a bit before speaking again. "I'll have thousands of your people in chains by nightfall. Nowhere to put them, nowhere to—" another sharp whistle, this one even louder than the first "—nowhere to feed them, nowhere to properly house them. I did not come here to butcher beat dogs. Their fate depends on their king."

"All the same, we do not kneel."

"So be it. Take these men away and— curse this wind!"

The wind was roaring now, almost blocking out all other sounds entirely and blowing snow everywhere. Despite how his Night's Watch cloak was flapping wildly from the strange gust, Jon stood firm and steady to keep himself from being blown away a few paces. He could handle the wind, he could even handle the snow being swept onto him wind the air currents. He was a Northerner, through and through. An icy gale like this meant nothing to him, but the roar of the wind itself was what annoyed him. He'd never heard the wind become this loud from anywhere aside from on top of the Wall. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn it was even louder.

Mance chuckled as several of Stannis' men dropped their swords to slam their hands over their ears or grab hold of each other or tree trunks to keep from being blown away. He wasn't the only one, either. Many Free Folk did. But they swiftly stopped as the ground began to tremor. It was so unnoticeable at first that Jon didn't pay attention to it compared to the wind, but he was knocked off his feet entirely when a sharp jolt rocked the earth. Horses bucked their riders and whinnied in terror as the trees swayed from the force of the ground shaking, snow tumbling off their branches in large clumps. Everyone was panicking, no longer caring who was Free Folk or part of Stannis's army as they tried to find some sort of cover.

Earthquake. A massive one, too.

Jon didn't know what to make of the sudden change in events, but his survival instincts were already kicking in. Rolling out of the way of a falling tree branch, he crawled as quickly as he could towards a cluster of boulders a short ways off. It wasn't much, but at least he could huddle under them and stay alive in case one of the trees toppled over. If the Wall itself came crumbling down though because of this… he couldn't even imagine it. They were dead already if that happened.

Stannis and the older man with him seemed to have the same idea when it came to finding shelter. They were both crouching behind the rocks already and yelling at everyone else to find cover, too.

The older man gave him a rather fearful smile as he scooted aside, giving him room. "Didn't expect to find a man of the Night's Watch in a Wildling camp," he murmured, keeping one eye on Jon and the other at the unexpected catastrophe happening all around them.

"I came to talk terms with—" Jon cut himself off, pressing himself as far up against the rocks as he could as one of the horses fell over in front of him, missing his legs by only inches. "—with the King Beyond the Wall." He'd lost sight of Mance in all the chaos. Even though they were enemies now, he hoped the man was okay.

"This is the one true king, boy. You will address him as, 'your grace.'"

Jon was prepared to assure both Stannis and his apparent adviser that he meant no disrespect, but all thoughts vanished from his mind when a blinding flash of white light appeared out of nowhere. Many men cried out in alarm, but Jon squeezed his eyes shut and threw up his hands. What was happening now? He wanted to know very badly, but he resisted the temptation and kept them closed. He could tell from behind the safe darkness of his closed eyelids that whatever this light source was had yet to let up. The last thing he needed was for his vision to get all spotty in case some of the more temperamental Free Folk warriors decided when this was all over to use this strange disaster to their advantage and attack him and Stannis' men.

But as quickly as the strange light and the earthquake started up, they stopped rather abruptly, and the wind gradually died down to a tolerable breeze. There was a brief stretch of silence, and then he heard people slowly coming to their senses and checking each other over. Jon couldn't help but feel slightly worried though, and hesitantly opened his eyes. Everything seemed to be in order though. Aside from a handful of Stannis' horses being killed by a fallen tree, no one appeared to be hurt. Mance and several other Free Folk warriors had run into the main war tent for shelter, but they too were venturing out and showed no signs of injuries. Jon was relieved as he slowly rose up. He'd had more than his fair share of death due to war to last a lifetime. But death from a natural disaster? That could almost be considered far worse, as there was no way to know when and where such a tragedy would occur. Aside from a handful of Baratheon soldiers and Free Folk warriors shouting at each other in stupid attempts to blame the enemy army for whatever caused the mysterious earthquake to just happen, nothing seemed to be amiss now.

"Ser Davos," said Stannis, he too standing up and brushing away the snow that was clinging to his armor. "Find the other officers in charge. Tell them that what just happened changes nothing and to still—"

He was cut off by a scream suddenly piercing the air.

A child's scream.

---

It was cold. Bitter cold. Playing outside in the snow back in Winterfell after sundown in the middle of Winter couldn't compare to how cold she was now.

Lyaella slowly opened her eyes. She was lying face down in a thick clump of freezing snow, her lyre clutched tightly in one of her fists. How did she end up on the ground anyway? Only seconds ago she'd been running to Torrhen and Shadow with Sōnar at her side before Lady Kinvara's spell could take effect. But then the fire circles started spinning around her and Sōnar while other fire circles did the same around Torrhen and Shadow. There was that flash of white light and then… nothing. What happened?

Groaning lightly, she pushed herself up into a sitting position, checked over her lyre for half a second to see if was damaged — it wasn't, thanks goodness! — and looked around. She was outside. She knew she had to be since she was lying in snow, but she was not in the Winterfell godswood anymore. She could just barely make out the red leaves of a weirwood tree poking out above the branches of other snowy trees some ways off, but the weirwood was in completely the wrong place to be the same one back in Winterfell. And these other trees… they were unfamiliar to her. They were snowy pine trees, not frozen maple trees. She seemed be sitting behind some snow-covered bushes rather than in the middle of the godswood path where she'd been a moment ago, running to Torrhen.

Torrhen… where was he? And where was Sōnar and Shadow?

"T-Tory…?" she whispered, her voice trembling even more than usual between the extreme cold and her sudden anxiety. "Shadow…? S-Sōnar…?"

There was no answer. Not from her brother, nor from their direwolf brother and dragon sister.

Lyaella swallowed thickly. Her arms, hands, and face were still a scratched up mess thanks to King Bran's ravens, but not even the fear of his birds attacking her could compare to the anxiety that was gripping her heart now. Torrhen, her twin… Where was her brother?! Where was his direwolf?! Where was her dragon?!

"Torrhen? Torrhen, w-where are—"

"What the fuck was that?! You Wildlings know magic or something?!"

"We're the ones who should be askin' yeh that, yeh Southern twats!"

Lyaella froze. People were yelling just on the other side of the bushes. And judging by the sound of it, they didn't sound all that friendly.

"The one true king might dabble in blood magic, but he had nothing to do with whatever that shit was! That had to be a sneak attack from you fucking raiders!"

"If we knew how to do stuff like that, Mance would've had us over yer fuckin' Wall last night! Damn Crows would be dead already!"

The little girl clutched the rim of her lyre so tightly as she started trembling, her fist turned white. She was beyond terrified. She had no idea who these unknown voices belonged to or what they were talking about, but knowing that they were just on the opposite side of the bushes shielding her from view changed everything. Figuring out where Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar were could wait. Right now, she had to get as far away as possible from whoever was on the opposite side of these bushes. For all she knew, they could be sworn enemies to either House Stark or House Targaryen, or just plain murderers in any regard. Swallowing a whimper, she stayed low to the ground and slowly crawled towards a nearby tree. It was less than three feet away from her bushes. She just needed to quietly slip behind it until these people left and then she could—

"Oh! You think your fucking Wildling king can protect you?! Fine! Let's see him protect you from this!"

The whistle of a blade sang through the air. Seconds later, the lifeless body of a large man with a tangled beard and dressed in thick furs fell into the bushes, blood gushing out from the deep slash across its throat.

Lyaella couldn't stop herself. She screamed.

Big mistake on her part, because seconds later the snow-covered leaves of the bushes were shoved aside, revealing a baffled middle-aged man in Southern-style armor. He wasn't the only one, either. Other men in armor hurried up behind him curiously, only for their faces to become equally shocked when they saw her.

"Seven hells…!" exclaimed the first man, bulging eyes fixated on her silver hair. "You're… You're a—!"

A second scream and a crunch of snow, and the unknown soldier yelped as he toppled backwards into the other knights due to a snowball in the face, and Lyaella sprung to her feet and took off running deeper into the snowy woods. The other soldiers were admittedly distracted by their comrade almost falling on them, but they all cried out in alarm when they saw her run off and sprinted after her.

"No — kid — stop!"

Stop? They wanted her to stop? She wasn't stupid. These men were killers, whoever they were. They already killed that man back there just because they didn't like him. They would probably kill her, too!

Lyaella's heart pounded in her chest as she flew between the trees. She had no idea where she was exactly, let alone when it was in terms of history. There were only three thoughts of genuine consequence running through her mind: get away from these people, find her brother and their pets, and don't drop her lyre. Wherever she'd landed in time, she was obviously somewhere where a major battle must've literally just taken place. There were armored horses and knights everywhere, and so many dead people in thick fur clothing strewn across the frozen ground. Were they Wildlings? They looked like Wildlings… Didn't matter, most of them were dead, but those that were still alive simply gaped at her in confusion as she bolted away from them. But the other soldiers? They dropped whatever they'd doing when they saw her and joined the original group of men in chasing her.

Who were these people? Northerners? Southerners? They obviously recognized she was of Targaryen descent with her silver hair. Were they against House Targaryen? If so, they'd kill her for sure. She needed to get out of here! And more than anything, she needed to find her brother and their companions.

"Torrhen!" she shouted, trudging as fast as she could between a tight cluster of trees. Tree clusters were good. They wouldn't be able to surround her between them. "Torrhen, where are you?! Shadow!"

"Kid, slow down—!"

Crunching snow, running feet. "What's happening here?!"

"Your grace! That child — look!"

Sharp gasp. "She's…? Stop her! Now!"

Lyaella whimpered, pine needles scratching her face and arms as she slapped aside a low hanging branch. No… No, no, no! Not a king claimant! She was dead for sure now unless she found her twin and their pets. It didn't matter if her last name was technically 'Snow.' This king would undoubtedly kill her in order to protect his claim.

"Tory! Tory, come on! Answer me!"

She wanted to keep sidling her way in between trees, but she skidded to a halt when the faces of two of the men bundled up in thick furs appeared between the gaps of tree branches just ahead. Seeing her, they did their best to quickly squeeze their way through the tree trunks in order to reach her. No, weren't those people Wildlings? Why where they siding with this unknown enemy army to capture her? Was nowhere safe for her now? She spun around frantically, looking everywhere for a possible escape route without anyone around to stop her. Her eyes soon fell upon the trees off to the right. It didn't look like anyone was in the immediate vicinity over there. That way was her best bet.

Her breath came out in fast pants as she dodged around boulders and trees. She felt slightly breathless, but her chest wasn't tight. Were her lungs acting up again? If they were, then they needed to get better on their own. She had to ignore her minor breathlessness and keep going. Once she found her Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar she could afford to stop and rest. Right now, the only thing that mattered was getting away.

She just barely cleared the trees and entered a small wooded clearing when there was an abrupt flash of silver out of the corner of her eyes. Before Lyaella could blink, she found herself being tackled to the ground and physically restrained by one of the armored soldiers. He'd leapt out of hiding from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing, clearly waiting to catch her off guard. She shrieked and thrashed wildly, her lyre flying out of her hands as he struggled to maneuver them back to their feet again, all the while keeping a firm grasp on her upper arms.

"Let me go! Let me go! T-Torrhen, help!"

"Hey! K-Kid, stop — Your grace! I-I-I caught the girl! — Ow!"

There was the sound of approaching footsteps running towards them. More than Lyaella could guesstimate, but she didn't care how many there were anyway. Escaping from them was the top priority, and she kept writhing and jerking as hard as she could in the soldier's arms, desperate to break free.

"Torrhen…! Torrhen, w-where are you?! Help… Help me!"

They seemed to arrive all at once, flooding out of the trees like a great swarm of angry wasps. Wildlings and the soldiers. The Wildlings were still staring at her in obvious confusion, but the unknown army gawked at her in utter disbelief. All their staring made her panic further, and her fast panting came out as desperate rasps for air. Who was their leader? Where was their supposed-king? And where was her brother, their direwolf, and their dragon? Had all three of them already been captured by these people? Was that why none of them were coming to save her?

From out of the crowd came a handful of men. The first two men obviously seemed to be in charge, as they both wore the same type of armor as the rest of the men in plate mail. They were both equally shocked by the very sight of Lyaella, but one also looked vaguely familiar to her despite being significantly older than the other and having balding white hair. Why he looked familiar was beyond her comprehension at this time, she was in such a frenzy, and her eyes slid from them to the next man — a middle-aged Wildling being manhandled by numerous soldiers. Definitely a prisoner, but unlike the rest of the Wildlings, this one seemed to understand what her silver hair signified. He stared at her with just as much shock and disbelief as every other man in the unknown army. The last to appear out of the corner of her eye was a dark-haired young man dressed all in black from his boots to his thick fur cloak. Lyaella couldn't get a good look at him since he lingered back a few paces behind the other older men, but whoever he was, he didn't look to be part of the unknown army or a Wildling. That made him a wild card in this situation and there was no reason to focus on him. Not when the rather stern-looking middle-aged man dressed in fine armor had successfully overcome his surprise and was slowly approaching her and the soldier retraining her.

He was in charge, no questions about it. The king claimant. Lyaella struggled twice as hard at the sight of him, her captor only barely managing to keep her in his grasp.

"T-Torrhen!"

The Southern king did a slight double take at her when she shouted, but it happened so fast and his head jerk was ever-so slight Lyaella wasn't entirely certain he'd done it at all. Regardless, he paused only for a moment before addressing the man holding her.

"Was there someone else with her?"

"N-No, your grace. She's — ugh! She's alone! Shit, kid! Stop squirming!"

"Shadow! Shadow… I need y-you! Help!"

The king stared at her as she kept wailing for help and thrashing in the soldier's arms. She didn't care what he thought. She didn't care what anyone there thought. She had to keep struggling. Should she stop, they'd see she was ready to die. But she didn't want to die, not when she still hadn't yet met her parents, hadn't yet changed the future to ensure their survival. And if she stopped screaming for even a second, then Torrhen, Shadow, and Sōnar might never find her. Screaming for them was her only chance, now. Unless all three of them showed up now, she'd be dead in the next few minutes.

Finally, the unknown king shook his head lightly and glanced back over his shoulder at the older man. The one who still seemed vaguely familiar. "Help him with her."

"Your grace?"

"We're taking her with us."

The older man blinked at him before looking over at Lyaella. He hesitated briefly, but then slowly trudged towards them. The soldier restraining her roughly dragged her behind him so he could meet the balding man halfway. Lyaella's heart pounded like crazy in her chest with every step. She was breathing so fast she couldn't even feel herself exhale. She was going to be killed, no question about it. This king claimant was going to execute her for sure. It was only the day after her ninth nameday, and she was about to die. She'd never see Torrhen, Shadow, or Sōnar again. She hadn't even met her parents yet. But it didn't matter. She was about to die. The realization was enough to make her mouth go dry and lips tingle.

"Torrhen!"

She felt dizzy. Her vision was spinning before her eyes. Wait… wasn't the old man the one approaching her a second ago? Why was it the king claimant now? No… now he looked that Wildling prisoner. Now a soldier in the army. Another Wildling. The old man again. No, the man all in black.

"Shadow!"

It was too much. Too much stimulation, too many people. She couldn't keep her thoughts in order or walk straight. She abruptly dug her heels into the ground, squeezed her eyes shut, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

"SŌNAR!"

Less than a second later, a shrill screech echoed from further ahead in the woods. A screech no one there aside from the terrified little girl had ever heard before. Time stopped. Every man there seemed to forget all about the mysterious child and instead whipped around to where it came from. They were frozen with confusion.

But not Lyaella. No, the moment she heard it, her spinning vision corrected itself and her lips stopped tingling. She could feel herself breathe again as her panic ebbed away. Great floods of joy and relief washed over her whole being, and she found the inner strength to stomp down hard on the foot of the soldier restraining her and jam her elbow into his gut. He wasn't really hurt thanks to his protective armor, but he was caught off guard thanks to the distraction of the mysterious screech and unintentionally loosened his grip. That was all she needed. Stomping down on his foot a second time, Lyaella broke free from his arms and sprinted with all her might towards the screeching.

She didn't dare look back, but she could definitely hear several pairs of feet following her.

"No, stop!"

"Don't let her get away!"

"You nuts, kid?! What in seven hells are you—?!"

"S-Sōnar!"she cried, tripping and falling into the snow in her mad scramble to the trees. If she'd hurt herself, she didn't even feel it. She was back on her feet again and dashing to the trees before anyone could blink. "Sōnar, over here! HELP ME!"

A second screech resounded, this one sounding much louder and closer than the first. Moments later, the white dragon sprang out from beyond the pines, sharp fangs bared and hot embers trailing from her jaws. People cried out in shock and terror as they leapt back, most falling over themselves in their panic to get away from the dragon. Lyaella didn't, though. No, the moment she saw Sōnar, she ran to the dragon with open arms.

"Sōnar!"

The white dragon kept her eyes fixed on all the soldiers and Wildlings staring at her and her small mistress in unmistakable disbelief, but she rumbled and stretched out a wing invitingly as Lyaella crashed into her side, hugging her tightly. As the little girl sobbed into the crook of her scaly neck, Sōnar growled threateningly at all the strangers while letting out a few more embers. Should any of them get too close without Lyaella's consent, they'd all be burnt to a crisp before they could so much as raise their swords.

Lyaella paid no attention to the onlookers as she peppered Sōnar's scales with dozens of kisses. She didn't care about them now. Sōnar was here now. Her dragon. Her sister. So long as she was around, she was safe. Sōnar would protect her from these people. She wouldn't let them hurt her. Not ever.

"S-Sōnar…" she wept. "Where… Where were you? I was s-so scared!"

Sōnar warbled, glancing away from the crowd momentarily to lightly nuzzle Lyaella with her snout. Her affection definitely soothed the child, but not enough to make her stop crying. Lyaella pressed her body as far into the dragons' side as she could, desperately needing the familiar warmth and love of her dragon's purrs. Sōnar seemed to understand that, and all at once the comforting rumble vibrated from deep within. Lyaella hugged her even tighter.

"Don't leave me… P-Promise me, Sōnar! Don't leave me again!"

Soft croons and gentle nuzzles answered her, and Lyaella felt such joy and relief. Her dragon would stay with her. She wouldn't go off on her own again. That little bit of assurance was more than enough for the little girl.

A sudden shift of snow from behind made them both snap to attention. Lyaella whipped around in alarm. The soldier who had grabbed her before had taken a hesitant step forward. He automatically backed away again when Sōnar snarled and twisted her whole body around Lyaella protectively, puffs of smoke erupting from her mouth. Lyaella appreciated her friends' vigilance, and patted her gratefully before turning her fearful gaze back out to the soldiers and Wildlings.

"Go… G-Go away," she whimpered, still pressing up close against the scaly hide. "Please… leave us alone…"

No one moved, though. People just kept gawking at them in shock with their jaws dropped, though quite a few had overcome their initial terror and were cautiously murmuring to one another.

"Fuckin' hell…"

"A dragon! A livin' dragon!"

"House Targaryen…"

"Where did she come from?"

"Could she be a Blackfyre descendant?"

"We're beyond the Wall… She's gotta be a Wildling…"

The last random statement made the king claimant come back to his senses. Shaking away his initial shock, he reluctantly tore his eyes away from Lyaella and Sōnar and turned to the middle-aged Wildling prisoner.

"That true? She one of yours?" he asked.

The Wildling didn't answer right away. He was still too shocked to hear what the false king had said. Finally, he shook his head. "My people are dyin' left and right. Our only hope's beyond that damn Wall. She were mine, we'd've killed all the men at Castle Black last night with that dragon."

Lyaella's ears perked up. Castle Black… that's where her father had been stationed when he was part of the Night's Watch. If she was beyond the Wall right now, and one of the king claimants from the War of the Five Kings was here fighting a Wildling army… then that must mean that this so-called king was Stannis Baratheon. And that Wildling prisoner… was he Mance Rayder, the King Beyond the Wall? She had no idea what Mance and his people thought about her and Sōnar, but Stannis Baratheon? She was dead for sure. Stannis wouldn't hesitate to kill her to protect his claim.

Finding Torrhen and Shadow would have to wait. She and Sōnar had to get out of here. Now. Her brother had no classic features of House Targaryen aside from his violet eyes. He could blend in easily and no one would think twice unless they got a good look at him. He always was the braver one out of the two of them, never afraid to speak his mind or do whatever he needed to do. So long as he stuck by Shadow, he could look after himself. Her though? She was such a crybaby and so shy. She couldn't even swing a sword well enough in a play-fight against her twin. Were it not for Sōnar appearing right when she did, her head would be on a spike already.

Quivering in terror at that thought, Lyaella did her best to organize her scattered thoughts. If Sōnar were only a tad bit bigger, she could simply climb onto her back and fly out of here to escape these people. But her dragon was just barely the size of a horse and not big enough yet to carry people and fly at the same time. She and Torrhen had tried before, about a week before their nameday. They'd wanted to see if she could at least carry one of them alone, because if so, they'd planned to sneak out after dark with Shadow and a few packed necessities and take turns riding their dragon out of Winterfell to officially run away. Sadly, Sōnar had only made it a few feet off the ground while carrying only Torrhen before stumbling back down again.

She wouldn't be carrying anyone until her next growth spurt, at least. That meant getting out of here was going to be exceedingly difficult. The easiest course of action was to simply order Sōnar to burn everyone here, but she didn't want to do that. She wasn't a murderer. If someone tried attacking her or Sōnar, she'd give the order, but only in self-defense. Not cold blood. Maybe she should take Sōnar and run back into the trees where her dragon had leapt out from. That way had to be clear, considering how fast Sōnar had found her. But wait… that Wildling man said they were beyond the Wall right now. Was the Wall in that direction? Her father was part of the Night's Watch right now if her theory on the current time period was correct. He was only a hop, skip, and a jump away, and if Torrhen and Shadow were somewhere nearby, that's where they'd be going to. She had to get to Castle Black. What if running through those trees led her farther away from the Wall?

She was jolted out of her musing rather unexpectedly when Stannis Baratheon decided to approach, and the familiar older fellow next to him followed a few paces behind him.

"Child, where did you—?"

Lyaella screamed in terror again as Sōnar let out another furious roar, even going so far as to literally spit out warning flames a few feet away. Stannis and the other man got the message and backed away again, but Lyaella didn't notice. Her heart was pounding like crazy in her chest. She was so scared she could feel her eyes glistening with tears. She didn't want to cry, though. She didn't want anyone there to see just how afraid she was. She swallowed thickly and did her best to hold them in despite how much her lower lip was trembling, but it was no use. Her eyes were becoming wetter and wetter with each passing second, and her shoulders started quivering from her repressed fear. It was just too much for Lyaella. She spun around and buried her face deep into the crook of Sōnar's neck to hide as she completely burst into tears.

"G-Go away!" she sobbed. "Leave us alone! Just… Just go away!"

For a little while, all was silent in the clearing aside from her frightened sobs and Sōnar's occasional growls. Lyaella knew she should take advantage of the silence and start dragging Sōnar with her deeper into the woods, but she couldn't find it in herself to move. She was cold. She was scared. She was alone. She didn't know what to do.

"Nice lyre. Belongs to you, I assume?"

Lyaella didn't know who spoke, but their words caught her attention for two reasons. They mentioned her lyre. She'd been in such a frenzy when that guard had grabbed her before, she had completely forgotten about how she'd dropped her lyre when he tackled her to the ground. And whoever this was, they had a Northern accent. They weren't part of Stannis Baratheon's army. She turned her head out from Sōnar's neck a bit, just enough that she could catch a glimpse of the crowd from the corner of her eye. The dark-haired man dressed all in black was holding her lyre, studying it. Everyone else was staring at him, but he disregarded their stares. He turned her instrument over and over again in his hands, inspecting it for any signs of damage.

Lyaella trembled. She didn't dare fully turn her head to see him better, but her anxiety increased exponentially. That lyre meant everything to her. It was her only connection to Torrhen, to the memories she had of them honoring their parents. Did he mean to take it away from her?

"That's… That's mine. Give it b-back."

He was too far away for her to make out his expression, but she did see him take a few hesitant steps forward. Sōnar instinctively started to growl at him, but Lyaella patted her side to assure her it was fine. As soon as that man put down her lyre in close enough range for her to grab it, she'd order him to get back while she grabbed it. After that she and Sōnar would run. They had to find Torrhen and Shadow, wherever they were. If they were lucky, both the Baratheon army and the Wildling army would leave them in peace.

That couldn't happen though until that man returned her lyre to her, and he was walking very, very slowly towards her and Sōnar. He carefully contemplated every step he took as he kept one eye trained on her, and the other on her dragon. No one said anything as he cautiously drew closer to her, but as soon as he was a little less than a yard away, Lyaella tightened her hold around Sōnar's neck. Sōnar growled, low and threatening.

"T-That's far enough. Drop it and b-back off…"

Slowly, he put down her instrument and stepped back. Not far enough back that he rejoined the rest of the crowd, but enough that Lyaella was assured that he wouldn't be able to grab her. Hesitating only for a moment, she took a few uncertain steps away from her dragon with her eyes fixed solely on her lyre, then abruptly shot forward, scooped it up, and nearly tripped over herself as she scrambled back to the protective safety of Sōnar's side. Sōnar seemed to sense she still wanted to hide, and unfurled her wing slightly so she cocoon her against her scales.

Lyaella expected that the man would gradually back off now, but he didn't. Instead, he stayed right where he was, gaze shifting back and forth between her and Sōnar. "A dragon. Can't believe it," he murmured. "A real dragon…"

Lyaella hadn't gotten a good look at him yet, but he didn't sound angry or threatening. Just bewildered. Feeling more tears gather in her eyes, she turned her head a tad bit further. She didn't dare meet his eyes. She was still too scared to do that, but she did study his clothing. She'd noticed before he was dressed all in black whereas in silver armor like the soldiers in Stannis Baratheon's army or in white and gray furs like all the Wildlings watching, but upon closer inspection, she noticed that his clothes were of a completely different style than either party. If anything, his armor resembled what the guards back in Winterfell generally wore, and his cloak had lots of thick, bushy wool along around the collar. It was relatively dirty and stained, but it looked like it had originally been of somewhat high-quality and was made from some type of warm, twill-like fabric. The kind that only lower-class Northern lords and ladies bought… or upper-class nobles spent on their bastard children whereas purchasing warmer, fancier cloaks of fine burned-out velvet or chenille on their true-born families.

This man… he had a Northern accent. He was wearing Northern apparel befitting of lords and ladies, but not quite of the same quality as real highborns. And everything was dyed black… didn't the Night's Watch have a policy that everything that the brothers wore while guarding the Wall had to be dyed black? Lyaella wasn't entirely certain considering the organization had been disbanded once the War for the Dawn ended, but part of her suspected they did. Could he be one of watchers on the Wall?

Hope sprung in her chest. If he was… then perhaps there was a silver lining to her landing in the past in the middle of whatever battle was happening right now at the moment she did. The Night's Watch were supposed to be neutral in regards to politics throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Unlike Stannis Baratheon, they would have no reason to hurt her just because of her Targaryen heritage. She'd be safe with him… but more importantly, he could be her key to getting into Castle Black. He could take her to her father.

Still, she wasn't entirely certain. She needed to know for sure before letting herself get excited. "You're all in b-black. Are you… part of the N-Night's Watch?"

From the corner of her eye, she saw the faintest trace of a smile. "Aye, that's right. I help man the Wall. But I never thought a little girl like you would end up on this side of it, let alone a dragon."

Lyaella said nothing to that. She didn't know what to say, period. She just tucked her face fully back into Sōnars' scales to hide. It was a good thing she did too, because an icy gust wind suddenly breezed through the clearing. Lyaella shivered and pressed up even closer to her dragon. She was a Northerner. She'd grown up in Wintefell during a neverending Winter, yet she was colder now in the ten minutes she'd arrived in the past beyond the Wall than she could ever remember being before during the coldest nights back in the castle.

"Cold wind… Not good. Means it's gonna get even colder later. Being alone out here when that happens? Can't imagine it…"

"I'm n-not alone," she mumbled, still not looking out again. "I… I've got Sōnar with me. And… T-Torrhen and Shadow."

"Torrhen? Shadow?"

"My twin. Twin b-brother… and Shadow. H-He's our friend."

She heard his breath hitch. "Brother?" He was quiet for a moment, but Lyaella didn't know why. She refused to look back out at him again. So long as she hid her face up against Sōnar's scales, no one would see just how scared she was. "Well… where is he? And what about Shadow?"

Lyaella tensed and didn't reply. She didn't know. Where was her brother? Where was their direwolf? Why did only Sōnar come to her rescue?

There was a heavy sigh. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Is that why they're not here now?"

Tears prickled in her eyes again. She sniffled a bit, trying to suppress them. It was no use. A small whimper escaped her as the first drops of water ran down her cheeks, and soon her whole body was trembling as she quietly cried.

"Look, why you come with me back to the Wall? Get out of the cold, at least. We'll… We'll figure out something from there."

This was it. Her window of opportunity to get into Castle Black and meet her father. She'd be stupid not to take it. But still…

Sniffling hard, she turned her head just enough to ensure everyone there could hear her, and she made sure her eyes were fixed firmly on her feet as she spoke. "I… I'm not gonna be k-killed? You're not gonna… gonna h-hand me over to Stannis Baratheon?"

"What?"

"He w-wants the throne… Is he gonna k-kill me and Sōnar?"

Silence. Heavy silence. In her peripheral vision, Lyaella saw the man in black freeze up for a moment before slowly turning to look over his shoulder at the Baratheon leader. He wasn't the only one either. Everyone there — soldiers and Wildlings alike — immediately turned to the stag king. She couldn't make out Stannis' reaction unless she fully turned to look at him, but she did catch a glimpse of the older man murmur something quietly to him. Wait… now she understood why that old man looked familiar. That was Ser Davos! He looked so much younger and surprisingly enough had more hair now compared to when she'd last met him back in her time-line, but she was almost positive it was him.

Stannis and Ser Davos conversed quietly for several moments, but finally they nodded to each other and glanced back to her, Sōnar, and the man of the Night's Watch.

"I shall reserve judgment on this for now. I won't have her or the dragon harmed."

That satisfied the man in black, and he turned to look back at Lyaella and Sōnar. "Hear that? No one will hurt you, I promise."

"People… People often b-break their promises…"

"I don't. You know why? Because my father was Warden of the North, the most honorable man I ever knew, and he taught me how important it is to stay true to your word."

Time stopped. The world fell away. Nothing else mattered to Lyaella. Not after hearing that.

Sucking in a breath, Lyaella poked her head out from Sōnar's scales and slowly turned to look at him. He was young, no mistaking that. Older than a boy, yet not quite a man. His hair was dark, she'd noticed that before, but she hadn't realized that it was pitch black and curly. Wild, tangled, and flyaway, but curly nonetheless, and the unkempt state of his short beard was equally untidy. There were quite a few pale scars marring his face, scars which Lyaella knew for a fact weren't on the face of a certain statue down in the Winterfell crypts that she and Torrhen had sat next to only the night before, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that this man was an almost spot on older version of Torrhen.

Aside from his eyes. Torrhen had violet eyes. This man had gray eyes.

Her eyes.

Her lyre slipped out of her fingers. Her vision swayed. She stared at him, incredulous. It couldn't be…

"You're… You're Jon Snow," she said, wonder-struck. He blinked at her, seemingly puzzled. She disregarded it. She was too shocked. "You… You're—"

"Aye," he said slowly, giving her a queer look. "I'm Ned Stark's son."

"—like me."

He blinked again, as did those watching. "What?"

More tears sprang forth, but Lyaella didn't care this time. These were happy tears. She took a single step away from Sōnar, wanting to run to him, to hug him. The world spun around her the moment she did, and it took all her energy to stay upright.

"I… I'm Lyaella," she whispered, smiling shyly up at her father. "Lyaella Snow…"

And with that, the world disappeared into darkness.

---

It was pure instinct that made Jon rush forward and catch the little girl when she fainted. And that same instinct made him nearly drop her when her dragon lashed forward and snarled at him.

Vaguely, Jon registered that everyone else was quickly drawing their swords, worried that the beast might attack. He didn't dare look back to see for himself, though. His eyes were locked solely on the enraged dragon bearing down on him. He wished he hadn't left Longclaw back at Castle Black with Sam. He had no idea whether Valyrian steel could pierce dragon hide, but some protection would be better than none right now. Holding onto the girl, he took a single step back, but the dragon growled harshly again, teeth bared and eyes narrowed.

It took all his willpower not to falter. "I… I'm not going to hurt her," he said thickly. He had no idea whether or not the dragon could understand human speech, if it only obeyed the little girl in his arms, or if only those with the blood of Old Valyria could connect with such a beast. But calming it down was the only chance any of them had at avoiding an instantaneous death by fire. "I swear it…"

For a little while, everything was silent in the clearing. No one dared to so much as breathe as the snowy white dragon stared him down, growling every few seconds or so. If the beast attacked, they were done for. It was no Balerion the Dread reborn, but even a dragon the size of a horse would have no trouble burning them all if it decided they were threats to itself or its little mistress. But miraculously it stopped snarling and flashing its fangs. Its blue eyes stayed fixed on the child, but all immediate signs of attack decreased exponentially. The tension in the air dissipated as people sighed in relief.

Jon wanted to relax too, but he couldn't. Not when the dragon was still keeping a watchful eye on him and the little girl. The girl… he glanced down at her, curious. She was covered in scratches all over her arms and hands, and her wintry cloak and blue dress were definitely of traditional Northern design, not anything the Free Folk would wear. And she has the same lilt to her voice as he did, a Northern dialect, not to mention she had known who Stannis Baratheon was. Wherever this little girl had come from, she was definitely from south of the Wall. But still… she was a Northerner. A Northerner with Targaryen blood judging by her hair color and that dragon. And a bastard on top it. Weren't all the Targaryens aside from the Dragon Queen in the east supposed to be gone? Who was she? Where in the world did she come from? And what about that twin brother she mentioned, and that oddly named friend Shadow? Where were they? What about the rest of her family?

So many questions were running through his head, but he had no time to muse over them. Not when the most important thing to do right now push them aside and get this girl back to Castle Black. Figuring out that stuff could happen later. Right now, he needed to get her out the cold before she either froze to death or was attacked by some attention-seeking Baratheon soldier wanting to get favor with his king. Castle Black certainly wasn't the safest place in the world for a little girl all alone, but at the moment, it was better than the alternative.

Lingering only a moment longer to collect the child's dropped lyre, he hesitantly turned around, letting the dragon fully absorb each movement he made so as not to set it off again. A low growl resonated from the back of its throat, but other than that, it stayed mostly calm. It followed him as he slowly carried the girl and her instrument back to the main crowd. People instantly froze as it approached, but aside from quick precursory glances at anyone holding a weapon, the dragon ignored them. The only thing it appeared to care about was the safety of the little girl. What was her name again? Layla…? Leela…? Lyla…? She fainted so fast right after she said it he hadn't absorbed it. Whatever it was, it sounded like a Targaryen name, just not one he ever heard of.

He was just approaching Stannis and his hand — Davos, wasn't it? Jon could have sworn he heard Stannis mention it in passing earlier — when the king stepped forward. The dragon's eyes immediately flicked to him, but aside from a momentary flicker of tension in his jaw, the Baratheon king remained unfazed. "You handled that well. I can see why the Night's Watch sent you out to negotiate with the Wildlings."

Jon didn't know what to say in regards to that, but he nodded anyway. "Thank you, your grace."

Stannis glanced down curiously at the little girl, her long silver hair covering her face a bit as she curled up unknowingly against his chest as she slept. Jon had no idea what could be going through Stannis' mind right now. Was he going to go back on his word not to harm her or the dragon? Jon didn't know the kid, and he had no attachment at all to House Targaryen after what happened to his grandfather, uncle, and aunt due to both the Mad King and Prince Rhaegar, but he had still promised the girl that she'd be safe with him for the moment. If Stannis decided it was too much of a risk letting this little girl live even though she claimed to be a bastard, there wasn't anything he could do. He was only one man amongst thousands of soldiers who were all in Stannis' service.

It seemed like an eternity had passed when he finally tore his eyes away from the little girl, but he didn't look up at Jon. Instead, he glanced over at Mance Rayder of all people. Mance made no visible reaction to Stannis' gaze, but he did glance over at Jon and the sleeping girl with undisguised interest.

"What? Yeh still think she's one of mine? I've never seen her before. Her or that dragon."

Stannis said nothing back to that, but he did turn away from Mance. He stared at the girl again, still deep in thought.

"Your grace, this is a child," said Davos abruptly, genuine concern in his eyes. "It's… It's one thing to be against King Tommen, he's a bastard sitting on the throne that is rightfully yours. But this girl… she might be a bastard too, but she's done nothing against you. Don't harm her."

Stannis was quiet for a moment and he mulled over those words, but then he glanced up at the dragon. The dragon sensed his gaze and snapped its head around at once to glare at him. The hairs rose on the back of Jon's neck as a slight snarl escaped its throat, so low he wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been standing so close to it.

Stannis also heard it, judging by how his shoulders tensed. "And the dragon, Ser Davos? How do I know she's not of some unknown direct relation to the Targaryen girl in Essos?"

"You don't know that for sure, your grace. Better to know for certain than make a terrible mistake."

That seemed to resonate with Stannis somewhat, but not enough to fully sway him. There was a long pause, but finally he turned to look over at Jon.

"You're really Ned Stark's son?"

Jon blinked, but quickly nodded. "Aye, your grace."

"Your father was an honorable man."

"He was, your grace."

"What do you think he'd have done with her? Honor dictates he should've turned her over to my brother to be executed, regardless of her last name. But everyone knows he hated what happened to the Targaryen children."

Jon stared at Stannis for a moment, not even sure what to say. That was an interesting question. What would his father had done if he were here right now? He stared down at the little girl. She was still out cold, head resting against his chest and her face still stained with dried tears. She'd been so scared before, running away from everyone in terror and not even wanting to look at anyone directly. She might have a dragon, but she didn't strike him as dangerous.

"She's a little girl, your grace," he said. "I don't know where she or that dragon came from, but she could've killed us all without thinking twice, and she didn't. She just hid behind it, terrified. I don't know what my father would've done about reporting her, but I think he would've brought her back to Winterfell. Fed her, clothed her. Figured out who she is, at least. Unless you say otherwise, your grace, that's what I was planning to do with her."

The king considered him silently, then nodded once. "Very well, bring her back to Castle Black. If the Lord Commander turns her away though, I would request that the Night's Watch allow me to deal with her… and this dragon." His eyes slid over to the creature in question, expression unreadable.

"We have no official Lord Commander at the moment, your grace. Lord Mormont… he died quite some time ago. We haven't had the chance to choose a new leader yet."

"I see, well in any case, I'll discuss this with the acting officers then. But about that dragon… It seems tame for now, and it better stay that way. My wife and daughter should already be at Castle Black, I was not going to leave them behind at Dragonstone with only minimal guards for protection in the event the Lannister's tried something. I intend to make it clear to the Night's Watch that no one is to harm them, let alone look at them the wrong way… but if either of them — especially Shireen — is harmed in the slightest way because of that dragon… there will be consequences against it and that girl, regardless of whatever the Night's Watch decides."

Jon stiffly nodded. He couldn't really fault the man for that. He was only looking after his family. As Stannis turned and started nodding at his generals to gather the Free Folk prisoners together, realization then dawned on Jon, and he quickly spoke up again. "Your grace, if my father had seen the things I've seen here beyond the Wall, he'd also tell you to burn the dead before nightfall. All of them."

Stannis stared at him, as did Davos. Jon didn't know what they were thinking about his suggestion, but something in his eyes must have convinced them that this wasn't an idle request. Wordlessly, the stag king nodded and signaled to his generals to gather the bodies of the deceased.

And that was that. No further complaints or inquiries. For now, no one else would attempt to harm the little girl, or her dragon. It was surprising, but everything else could wait until Jon got her back to Castle Black. With that, he ignored the unease welling up inside him as Stannis' men gathered up what remained of the Free Folk, and joined everyone when they began the long march back to the Wall.

Many stared at Jon as he trudged through the snow with the girl, Stormlanders and Free Folk alike, but no one said a word. Her dragon was directly behind him, and although Jon didn't glance back at it and kept his eyes focused straight ahead, he sensed it watched him like a hawk. It was amazing, how protective it was of the child. It reminded Jon of how protective Ghost was of him and his friends. Still, Jon couldn't help but wish they could get to the Wall already so he could put her down and get out of the way. He didn't want to be under the scrutiny of a dragon any longer than necessary.

They had just cleared the trees and were beginning the long walk across the open space of land between the tunnel and the Haunted Forest when the girl began to stir. She groaned a bit as she came to her senses.

"Huh…? What… W-What's going—?"

"You fainted before. I'm taking you back to Castle Black."

Blinking rapidly, sleepy eyes focused on him. Smoke gray eyes. "Oh," she said simply.

Jon hadn't even noticed what color her eyes were before, but for some reason, they tugged at something deep inside him. He wasn't even sure what, exactly. "When we go through the tunnel, I'm going to put you down right before we get to the other side. Don't follow me right away. Stay with your dragon inside 'til I call for you."

"W-Why?"

He paused, deliberating his words. "I'm not sure how people will react to both of you. Let me give them a heads up first so no one attacks you right away, especially after last night."

"Last night? I… I w-wasn't here last night, though."

"No, but everyone'll be on edge after the battle last night. Fifty brothers died after the Free Folk attacked the Wall."

"F-Free Folk? Do you m-mean the Wildlings? Aren't… Aren't they d-dangerous?"

He frowned. The simple question sat poorly with him. There was once a time when he too thought the Free Folk were the greatest threat beyond the Wall aside from the stories of he'd heard as a boy about giants and ice spiders. Now, he knew the people who lived in the True North were the only good things out here, period. And Ygritte… she'd been deadly with a bow, but she should still be here. Alive. Not another corpse rotting in Castle Black in the aftermath of last night.

"They're just people, same as you and me. End of story."

"Oh."

Jon was relieved. She still seemed relatively quiet and stuttered a lot, but if that was because she was scared as opposed to her true nature, than she was certainly calmer now than before. He nearly put her down as they entered the tunnel, but she suddenly wrapped both her arms around his neck and tucked her head into his shoulder to hide. She held onto him tightly, seeming unwilling to let of him before he was forced to put her down for even a second longer than necessary.

He let it go for now, though. She was obviously still somewhat scared and anxious about whatever might happen. Truthfully, Jon himself had no idea what Thorne would do or say once he revealed her to everyone. At the very least, they could house her for one night. From there on… it was anyone's guess as to what would be done about this girl.

As they drew closer to the tunnel exit, Jon halted in his tracks just out of discernible sight from the main entrance and set her down. Her dragon immediately stepped up next to her and sniffed her hair, but she focused solely on him.

"When can I c-come out?" she asked.

He shifted uncertainly. "I'll call for you. Just… wait here for a few minutes."

She frowned and said nothing further, but nodded nonetheless. Satisfied, Jon motioned for Stannis and Davos to follow him out.

As he had expected, many men were milling about in the courtyard and were either dragging in wood from from out on the other side of the Wall to build pyres or were separating out the dead bodies from their deceased brothers or Free Folk. A fair share of them were staring curiously at the forms of a rather severe-looking woman with dark hair, a slightly younger woman with fiery red hair and dressed all in red, and a young girl maybe only a year or two older than the Targaryen child still waiting out in the tunnel. The little girl was obviously Stannis' daughter, Princess Shireen, but Jon didn't know which of the two older women was his wife, let alone who the second woman was. Regardless, the three of them were accompanied by a fair number of Stormlands guards. He turned away from them though as Sam ran up to him.

"Jon! You're all right!"

"Aye, I'm still in one piece," he said, forcing a smile as he accepted Longclaw back and secured it around his waist. "We'll live to see tomorrow, thankfully."

"Ser Alliser's relieved. Made himself get up to see for himself. Maester Aemon's not happy, told him to stay in bed and rest his leg."

"Where is he?"

Sam turned and pointed to the group speaking to the ladies traveling in the Baratheon army. "Over there, speaking to Queen Selyse."

The dark-haired woman was speaking directly to Thorne. The acting Lord Commander looked somewhat shaky on his feet due to last night's injuries, but he pressed through the pain in his leg to do his duties as a temporary leader. Still, Thorne's head swiveled around the moment he sensed Jon and the others stares, and he excused himself from the women to aproach. Jon couldn't make out in his expression what he thought about Stannis' forces coming to their aid, but a quick flash of the older man's eyes focusing on him before flicking to Stannis told him that he was beyond pissed that he'd left to talk to Mance without clearing it with him.

"Stannis Baratheon, I assume?" he said, forgoing titles.

Stannis' expression didn't change in the slightest, but Davos' brows furrowed. "He is King Stannis, the one true king of Westeros."

It seemed to take all of Thorne's willpower to maintain a neutral expression like Stannis as he stiffly nodded. "My apologies," he said gruffly, sticking out his hand. "I'm Ser Alliser, I'm in charge here at Castle Black. You have my thanks for your assistance with the Wildlings."

Stannis' face still remained unreadable as he slowly accepted the handshake. "Yes, I heard about you briefly from your man, here. You're the acting-Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, yes?"

Thorne's fists clenched up. Jon knew why. It was a well-known fact in Castle Black that Thorne despised House Baratheon, hence why he hated him so much. He was the bastard son of Ned Stark, best friend of Robert the Usurper. That he had to extend pleasantries with the younger brother of the man who had sentenced him to the Wall following the end of the rebellion had to be killing him. "I've assumed temporary command over the Watch, yes. Is that a problem?"

"For me, no. For the one still waiting in the tunnel, that depends."

Thorne blinked, as did many other men who were slowly gathering. "What?"

Jon cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Ser Alliser, there… there was something — someone out there, just now. I brought them back."

Thorne scowled. "I know you're a Wildling lover, Lord Snow, just like Tarly here. You trying to save them even after last night?"

"She's not a Wildling, Ser Alliser. She's—"

"Oh, you prefer we call your Wildling lover 'Free Folk?' Not everyone's willing to fraternize with the enemy."

"It's a child, ser."

Whatever Ser Alliser expected him to say, it wasn't that. He blinked, surprised. So did Sam and Edd, the latter having pushed his way through the crowd to greet him. The rest of the onlookers murmured curiously to one another at the revelation, and Jon noticed in the corner of his eye that Princess Shireen had straightened up in interest at the news. She too tried to wander closer to find out more, but the bony hand of the strict dark-haired woman caught her shoulder. Queen Selyse, he assumed. Jon couldn't hear whatever it was she said to the Baratheon princess, but it made the poor girl's expression fall and quietly step back into place beside her and the Red Woman.

Jon half-expected the older man to demand details from him, but instead, Thorne's eyes locked onto Mance as he was escorted out of the tunnel by various soldiers. "Oi, Rayder! I knew you'd come back to deal with us one day. All deserters pay for breaking their oaths eventually. Never thought you'd use children to fight us, though."

Mance's eyes slowly turned to Thorne, amusement shining in them clear as day. "I had nothin' to do with this kid. If I had, Castle Black would've fallen months ago. My people would already be safe in the South."

Thorne just looked even more puzzled. There was no point prolonging it. Should they beat around the bush too long, the old knight would only get angry again. Sucking in a breath, Jon slowly turned back to the tunnel.

"Come on out," he called.

There was a pause, but just as Jon started to worry that maybe the silver-haired little girl had taken her dragon and bolted out of the tunnel on the side they'd first entered as soon as he and Stannis left her alone, there was a small sound of quiet footsteps followed by heavy thumping. Moments later she appeared, squeezing her lyre and not daring to venture more than two steps away from the dragons' side.

Thorne's half-puzzled, half-annoyed expression was instantly wiped away. He stared at her, unable to hide his shock. Practically all of the Night's Watch matched his expression, some even backing away fearfully from the little girl despite how scared she seemed to be of all of them. Vaguely, Jon registered that Princess Shireen was momentarily startled, but her fear was quickly morphing away into wonder and excitement. She tried to squeeze her way past her guards to get a better look, but the Stormlands guards quickly shoved her back and crowded protectively around her and Queen Selyse. Her mother dragged her closer to her, keeping a firm grip on her shoulder while staring solely at the silver-haired girl and the dragon. The Red Woman seemed to be the only person there who showed no fear whatsoever. Other than blinking a few times in surprise, she was smiling mysteriously, intrigued. The blood red skirts of her dress swished around her legs as she easily breezed through the crowd.

Stannis turned to her as she approached. "Lady Melisandre."

"The Lord has blessed you with a great victory, my king. He guided you to victory today, and now he has bestowed upon you an even greater gift."

Stannis said nothing in return, but Jon was certain he saw a flicker of approval flash in his eyes. Upon closer inspection, he realized that she was a Red Priestess. She didn't wear any robes signifying her religion, but men came to the Wall from all corners of Westeros. They told stories, he'd heard them. One of the most prominent ones regarding the War of the Five Kings was how one of Stannis' most trusted advisers was a priestess of a foreign Essosi religion. This had to be her.

Ruby lips trailing upwards, the priestess swept past her king and approached the girl, kneeling down before her. Jon half-expected the child to scream in terror and hide up against the dragon again, but she didn't. She visibly flinched and her hands started shaking as she clutched her instrument, but aside from that, she didn't move.

Melisandre didn't say anything to her at first. She just studied the little girl, expression unreadable aside from her smile. The girl cringed away from her, clearly uncomfortable. "Y-You're… You're a Red God w-worshipper…" she whimpered, lower lip trembling. "You believe in… in the L-Lord of Light…"

"Indeed I am. The Lord works in mysterious ways. He has guided you here."

The girl tensed a bit at that, but her dragon rumbled lightly, shifting closer to her. Many in the crowd shot backwards several feet upon seeing it move, but aside from growling lightly at the sudden movements from the crowd, the dragon did nothing in retaliation. Its attention was focused on the stranger in front of its human charge.

"It is by his will that the Prince that was Promised has found you and your dragon. Stannis Baratheon is the one true king of Westeros. The Lord's chosen one, and he shall—"

"He's not."

Melisandre blinked at the interruption. "Beg your pardon?"

Gray darted nervously to Stannis, then slowly returned to the priestess. "His l-last name's not Targaryen. He's not the rightful king."

Jon sucked in a silent breath. What was going through this kids' head? Other men of the Watch and Stormlands soldiers exchanged uneasy murmurs, and Davos glanced over uncertainly at Stannis. Luckily, Stannis didn't seem to be angered by the remark. He didn't react at all beyond quirking a brow.

Melisandre was definitely caught off guard by the honest statement, but she recovered after only a momentary pause. "He is the Son of Fire, Azor Ahai reborn. The blood of Old Valyria runs through his veins."

The girl looked extremely uncomfortable, but aside from glancing over at Jon himself for reasons unknown, she was undeterred. "They r-run through… through my brother's veins, too. But he's n-not a prince. And I'm not a p-princess… We're no one."

The priestess was again surprised, but the girl didn't wait for her to speak again. Tucking the lyre under her arm, she pinched the skirts of her ice blue dress to make a quick curtsy, then slipped past Melisandre to hide behind Jon. The priestess looked like she wanted to say more, but she dropped the matter and stepped aside when the dragon purposefully cut in front of her to stay close to the child.

Jon couldn't help but tense when she scampered behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at her and saw she was peeking out nervously at everyone, unwilling to step out of hiding. She somehow sensed his gaze and glanced up. With a gasp, she flung her arms around his waist and buried her face into his black cloak. She murmured something, but whatever it was, Jon didn't know. They were all muffled by the cloak. He didn't know what to think, let alone do. She'd been so scared of everyone out in the Haunted Forest until he calmed her down, but aside from carrying her here, he didn't do much. Why was she suddenly so attached to him?

For the longest time, no one seemed to know what to say. People just stared at her, him, or the dragon in complete silence. Jon didn't want to hurt the girl when she still so upset, but she needed a place where she could calm down in private. And judging by the look Thorne was giving him, he owed his brothers in the Watch a full explanation about what happened out there beyond the Wall. She needed to be elsewhere right now.

"Ser Alliser, she's all scratched up. Maester Aemon should take a look at her arms."

Thorne considered his words, then gruffly nodded while turning to Sam. "Tarly?"

Sam thickly gulped, eying the dragon worriedly, but he still stepped forward.

"Hello there," he said kindly, kneeling down to the girl's level. There was a definite trace of anxiety in his tone, but luckily the girl didn't seem to care. She reluctantly poked her face out from the folds of the cloak. "I'm Sam. Samwell Tarly. I… I don't think I caught your name, though?"

She sniffled. "Ly… Lyaella," she mumbled. "Lyaella S-Snow…"

Jon felt much better after hearing her say her name once again and made a mental note to remember it. Lyaella Snow. Pretty. Very pretty, but what type of Targaryen name was 'Lyaella?' He couldn't remember any women from House Targaryen during his studies with Maester Luwin that had such a name.

Sam didn't seem to care about that, though. "Layla? That's a nice name."

"N-No… It's Lyaella."

"Lyla? All right, Lyla. I'm gonna take you to see Maester Aemon, okay? We'll see if he can't do something about your arms."

"But—"

"Come on, this way."

Sam held out his hand to her, smiling warmly. Lyaella bit her lip, reluctant to separate from Jon. She glanced up at him anxiously. Despite how puzzled he personally felt by the whole situation, Jon forced a smile.

"Go on. Sam's a good guy, and so's Maester Aemon. You'll be all right."

She hesitated a moment longer, then stiffly nodded. Taking Sam's hand, she thickly swallowed and jerked her head at the dragon. "C-Come on, Sōnar…"

Was that the dragon's name? Sōnar? Had to be, considering how it warbled at the child. Sam quivered as he stood up, but aside from glancing back repeatedly at the dragon, he kept his cool about him as he slowly led Lyaella through the crowd and up the steps of the wooden walkways, Sōnar on their heels the entire time.

Even after Sam politely knocked and entered Maester Aemon's small workroom with Lyaella and Sōnar in tow, no one said anything. They just stared in bewildered silence as the door shut behind them. It almost seemed like it would stay that way for awhile, but Ser Alliser abruptly spun around and coughed loudly to get everyone's attention.

"All right, you lot! Back to work! Keep building those pyres!"

One of the builders stepped forward, befuddled. "But Ser Alliser, what about—?"

"You not hear me? I said, 'back to work.' Now! We'll deal with the Targaryen child later."

Those in the Watch didn't appear to be appeased, but they obeyed nonetheless. The Baratheon soldiers also wanted to know more, but a quick look from Stannis quelled any inquiries before they were even made, and they wordlessly assisted in gathering the dead and building pyres. Jon nearly slipped away to assist Edd in carrying the lifeless form of Pyp down from the upper walkways, but Thorne quickly blocked his path.

Thorne glared at him darkly. "Lord Snow."

He fought the urge to sigh. "Ser Alliser?"

"You found that girl out there? With the Wildlings?"

"Yes, ser."

"She's dressed in Northern clothes though… You say she was alone?"

"She mentioned something about having a twin brother called Torrhen and a friend named Shadow, but there was no sign of them, ser."

"And the rest of her family?"

"She didn't mention them."

Thorne mused over this for awhile, they curtly nodded. "We'll discuss this more later. Help out with the dead."

Jon didn't need to be told twice. He jogged off without a second word. He hated Thorne, no arguments there, but at this moment, he was relatively grateful to him. Had the acting-Lord Commander decided to throw Lyaella out, it was anyone's guess what would've happened to her.

Hours went by as they continued building pyres for all the fallen brothers. Sam rejoined them after the first hour passed, but despite how everyone had immediately started pressing him for details about the girl, Sam couldn't really tell them much. She had allowed Maester Aemon to tend to the scratches on her arms, but she hadn't said much of anything the entire time aside from asking if the Night's Watch had found any trace of her brother or their friend Shadow, or if she was otherwise forced to talk. It was clear based on the few questions he and Aemon had asked her that she was oblivious of her relation to the former Targaryen prince. Sam explained that the two of them had agreed that it was not the time to discuss it with her since she still seemed so shaken up. No one said anything in disagreement. They all had questions about Lyaella Snow, but they wouldn't be getting any answers from her. Not until she calmed down.

It was practically sundown when everything was finally ready. All that remained of the Night's Watch gathered together in the courtyard in front of the pyres, a select handful carrying lit torches to light the pyres once the overall funeral proceedings were over. Stannis' company lingered to watch and pay their respects, too.

Aside from Thorne, Maester Aemon was accompanied only by Sam on the platform in front of elevator leading up to the top of the Wall, and that was only so he could be the eyes the hundred-year-old man had lost to blindness and old age so many years before. As soon as Sam saw that everyone was ready, he whispered the news to his mentor.

Maester Aemon smiled sadly as he stepped up to the balcony railing, the links in his silver chain jingling a bit as he moved. "They came to us from White Harbor. From Barrowton. From Fairmarket. From King's Landing. From North to South, East to West. They died protecting everyone in Westeros. Men, women, and children who never knew them, nor will ever know them. It is up to us to remember them, our brothers… And we shall never see their like again."

"And now their Watch has ended," Jon called out solemnly with the rest of the crowd.

Maester Aemon nodded, moisture gathering in his sightless eyes. "And now their Watch has ended," he echoed.

All was quiet as Sam gently led him down the steps and up to the nearest pyre. Accepting a torch from a nearby ranger, he passed it over to him. Maester Aemon lingered for a moment, then carefully tilted the flames down onto the pyre. Everyone else with torches followed suit, making sure to keep the flames hovering over the wood until hearty flames were crackling across the wood and catching onto the bodies. Black smoke soon filled the air, making it impossible to see clearly from one side of the courtyard to the other. Jon was standing with Olly and Edd since Sam was helping Maester Aemon, but he did his best to try to find Sam in the crowd anyway. His friends' cheerful optimism was probably the only thing that could keep him from sinking into grief right now.

However, it wasn't Sam's eyes he ended up locking onto from across the smoky haze. Instead, it was the eyes of the Red Woman, Melisandre. She gazed at him, intrigued, not even caring that he was fully aware of her staring.

It took everything Jon had not to shudder as he averted his eyes. Whatever Melisandre wanted with him, he wanted nothing to do with it. She could believe whatever she liked about prophecies and the Lord of Light, just so long as she kept him out of it. Still… something told him he was still being watched, but not just by Melisandre.

He looked around anxiously, trying to pinpoint where it was exactly the second set of staring eyes was coming from. It wasn't until he glanced up at the upper walkways that he found the culprit.

Lyaella Snow had slipped out of the sick bay so quietly no one else there had even noticed her yet. She sitting at the edge of the railing in front of Maester Aemon's workroom, her feet dangling off the edge as she leaned her head against her dragon Sōnar's side. Sōnar was content with simply nuzzling the little girl affectionately with her snout, but aside from a few absent-minded pats, Lyaella otherwise ignored the dragon. Her full attention was on Jon, but he couldn't determine what she was thinking. She was too far away for him to make out her facial expressions.

Still, she tensed when she saw he noticed her staring, and politely averted her eyes to look back at the funeral proceedings. Jon didn't look away from her though. He watched, confused, when a few second later she chanced a second peek out at him from the corner of her eye, only to slap her hand over her mouth to suppress a small gasp. Bending her head guiltily, she swung her legs back onto the walkway and hurriedly stood up, motioning Sōnar to stick close to her as she tiptoed back into the sick bay. No one there aside from Jon seemed aware that she'd left, let alone been watching at all.

Jon shook his head. Strange girl, Lyaella Snow. Very strange. Whatever was up with her, he only hoped it would be sorted out soon.