A/N: Longclaw: This chapter was the original idea that made us want to do this story! I hope all of you enjoy :)
BRuh4: As promised, here's the new one because you guys flooded us with comments. We really appreciated it. I sure hope y'all enjoy what we put together. We've been waiting since May to share this one with you.
Hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 19: Dragons Don't Plant Trees
Slashing through another neck of a Stark bannerman, Daario snuck further into the small encampment. They'd been tracking the scouts for miles. If they wanted their moments to stay unseen, tracks needed to be covered.
Three more bannerman sat around a fire, the one standing on the edge of the camp just fell to the ground. Feeling confident, Daario stepped out into the open. Seeing him, the Starks rose and drew swords.
"Tsk, Tsk," Daario said, waving a finger at them. "Don't even try it. We outnumber you." Then his outstretched hands signalled the seven other Second Sons come out of the brush. "Drop your swords."
Without hesitation, two of the men tossed their swords aside. But the third chided them, "What are you doing?! We can't surrender."
"Ah, but you should, the alternative isn't so good for you," Daario remarked, twirling his special blade through his fingers. With a huff, the final man dropped his blade. "Good man, I like a man who does what he's told." He turned to his men behind him and nodded, saying, "Leave one for me."
With that the Second Sons took off after the Starks, lashing down two of them to bits. The third took off running into a clearing nearby. Daario followed close behind, yelling after him, "Oh! We got a runner!" He pranced after for a while before burying his dagger in the man's back. The poor fellow fell on his face in the grass, skidding for a bit. Daario ripped his blade out only to force it back in the skull for good measure. Rising he wiped the blood off on his tunic, happy for a good day's work.
"It's better you fucks don't see us coming," Daario said to himself. "It'll be more fun."
The Stark, Tully, Wildling, and Crannogmen made been traveling for a fortnight at least since leaving Harrenhal. Their forces are mostly on foot so progress is rather slow. Just merely cutting off Cersei's supplies didn't seem like an insurmountable objective. But walking for miles and miles makes any man a bit reckless and careless. They reached a clearing. finally, strolling out into an open field.
Jon, Brynden, Edmure, and Howland rode out front, behind them Tormund and Karsi engaged in an argument about who would win in an arm wrestle. The fully volley of troops laid behind all of them.
"How long ago did we send out the scouts?" Jon asked to no one in particular.
"About two days ago at first light," Edmure replied, gazing over the open land.
"Shouldn't we have seen them by now?"
Brynden grunted and spat, "Aye. We shoulda."
"They most likely just got held up, they'll come around soon," Jon said, calmly. As if he was trying to make himself believe it.
"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Edmure huffed. "There's no one out here but us and farmers."
Trotting up next to Jon, Howland said, "So, why are we out here again?"
Jon smirked, "We need to cut off Cersei's supplies. There are many farms out here that supply her." They watched the lines of men marching through the rather beautiful, temperate day. Northerners belting out bawdy songs, wildlings scarfing down plentiful food and drink plundered from Crownlands knights loyal to Cersei… they were marching further south than Robb Stark had ever hoped. This is for you, brother. Cersei was the last in the rogues gallery that wronged his family - unless Daenerys Targaryen could be grafted onto her father's crimes. "Cersei will be weakened, and when his Grace returns victorious from Highgarden, perhaps the lords of the Westerlands will…"
He was interrupted by Howland… who raised his finger. "Shhhh. Listen." There was nothing… "No, listen." At that point Jon heard it, a low rumbling from the hills to the east. "Lord Tully… are you sure we don't have to worry about those scouts?"
"King Crow!" It was Tormund, racing atop his horse. "The wargs! Saw a whole fucking horde comin' for us!"
"What?!"
"Black clad fuckers and swarms of horsemen. They'll be here soon!" As if confirmation, the rumbling had grown into a veritable thunder. Whoops and screams starting to boom like a wave.
"Nothin' to worry about?" the Blackfish snarled, smacking his nephew on the back of the head. "Just when I thought you had some fuckin' sense!"
Jon had no time to allow recriminations. "FORM UP! GET INTO POSITIONS! FACE EAST!" At their commander's direction, the other Lords raced towards their commands. All jolly marching and bawdy singing ceasing as they quickly formed into shield walls. Cavalry waiting at the flank.
It took less than half an hour before they saw their opposing forces. A solid line of black-clad pikemen, marching in lockstep towards them at an almost inhuman pace. A swarm of horsemen, screaming battlecries as they surged across the grassland. The might of Essos, gathered by the Dragon Queen to wipe them all out. Men trembled, men puked, fear predominating.
"Howland," Jon grimaced, knowing exactly that this was going to be the battle of his lifetime. "Take some of your men and get out of here."
"I can't leave," Howland said, somewhat flippant. "I'm with you."
"You have to go!" Jon insisted, grabbing the older man by the collar. "Get out of here and get a raven to my sister. Tell her what happened."
"You don't think…"
"Just go!" Jon exclaimed, not sparing another glance at Howland as he finally galloped away. His eyes stayed focused on the hordes of Dothraki and Unsullied streaming down the hill before him.
Brynden drew his sword next to him, "We can hold them."
"There's too many," Edmure said, trembling.
"We'll fucking hold them!" The Blackfish yelled. He may have started to yell commands if the noise the clambering Dothraki horses wasn't drowned out suddenly. A shrill screech filled the air. Everyone knew what it was.
A great fire-breathing beast poked through the clouds on the horizon. Ducking down closer to the ground, it looked as big as a castle. The black dragon neared the lines of bannerman long before the foreign droves did.
"Take cover!" Jon yelled as loud as he could.
But no one had any time to move, white-hot flames poured from the black beast. Incinerating a large chunk of Jon's forces, leaving only ash for the wind to blow aside. Gaps large enough for the Dothraki and Unsullied to exploit, their double quick trots and marches turning into an all out charge straight for them. Trumpets and horns blaring out the new orders as they took advantage of their Queen's entrance.
Flames bathing him in heat, nearly knocking him to the ground, Jon stared at the massive hole blown through his lines. Some men screaming, running in every which direction awash in the searing inferno. Some others shockingly still - a few stumbling a few steps before collapsing while most laid on the ground dead. And at the center of the strike was nothing but ash blowing in the wind. What had to be a hundred men, vaporized.
Unable to blink, either because of the ash in his eyes or out of sheer fear, Jon watched the dragon bank off. Petrified as more fire flowed, roasting more of his army. His mind immediately flashed to his vision in the flames that Melisandre showed him. A large black dragon burning Stark bannermen. It was true, the thought didn't seem possible at the time. Yet, here it is.
His commanders were breaking down. "Fuck!" Tormund clutched his head in his hands. "Did you see that?! Fuck!"
"We have to fall back!" Smalljon snarled in his ear.
"Hopeless, hopeless…" All Edmure could think of was King Mern Gardener, marching to his fiery death upon the Field of Fire.
Undulating cries of the Dothraki horde gaining closer and closer, while the sunlight gleamed off the spearpoints of the Unsullied phalanx plodding forward, Jon's attention was focused on the great black dragon. Wings flapping hard as it banked right. Atop its back, Jon could make out a thatch of silver hair, Daenerys Targaryen in the flesh. He had heard the rumors, how she was both brutal with her enemies but freed the slaves of Slaver's Bay. She won't burn her own men. He made his decision.
Smacking the whimpering Edmure, Jon screamed at his command. "Charge! Get among the cunts!" Longclaw spinning in his wrist, the Wrath of the North leapt over the faltering shield wall and charged on foot at the onrushing Targaryen host. "CHARGE!"
Wide eyes just stared at the seemingly mad Lord of Winterfell, challenging Unsullied pikemen and a Dothraki horde all by his lonesome. It was crazy, it was reckless… it was the best fucking thing any of the soldiers had ever seen. "PROTECT YOUR LORD!" Smalljon bellowed, greatsword lifted into the air and leveled directly at the enemy. Northerners surging forth for their beloved White Wolf.
"Forward you cunts!" hollered the Blackfish, dragging Edmure as the Rivermen followed.
Tormund, along with all the Free Folk, merely screamed a piercing howl. Their trusted war cry, one that sunk fear into Crow, Northman, and Westerman alike. Anchored in the center by Wun Wun, they charged right for the join between the Unsullied right flank and the Dothraki.
Wind biting at her eyes, Daenerys clenched tighter to Drogon's spines. Gritting her teeth at the tight bank over the rolling hills of the central Crownlands. A place that her ancestors Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya had once soared over in their conquests - a conquest she would be attempting alone. It was sobering, the Last Targaryen facing the prospect of burning to death brave soldiers without any other to provide comfort. To provide a warm embrace to wash the pain away. You are the blood of the dragon.
A dragon does not plant trees. Her nature, her blood… her destiny. She would not feel anger at herself for being who she was.
Musing interrupted by a hoot from Drogon, Daenerys followed his head - as if her son was gesturing to the battlefield. Peering down at the clashing armies, Daenerys couldn't believe her eyes. The Usurper's dogs… they weren't running away but charging directly into her forces. Slamming hard into them, breaking most unit cohesion for either side. Seven fucking hells! The Mother of Dragons wouldn't burn her own men. "Drogon, ilagon!" Her child roared and complied, plummeting towards the earth below.
Time seemed to stand still as the two hosts slammed into the other. Northmen and Wildings crashing into the line of Unsullied, phalanx shuddering with the frenzied bloodlust of the First Men. Their disciplined lines used to withstanding Dothraki charges, sellsword companies, or the light slave soldiers of Essos, the mighty fighting force were woefully unprepared as the men-at-arms and berserkers literally hacked and clawed through them. Yanking the front line by their spears or shields, axes, swords, and knives making quick work of them.
Mounted knights and horsemen of the North and Riverlands followed Larence Hornwood into the Dothraki horde nearly five times their size, screening the wildlings and their fellow Rivermen. Lances and greatswords scythed through the feared screamers and their mounts, strong Westerosi horses leaping over gory bodies of man and horse alike in their mad charge. Daenerys had proclaimed that the Dothraki would tear down the men in metal suits, yet none amongst the horde knew how truly difficult - and bloody - that would be.
While most of the archers followed Karsi's lead and surged forward to engage the Dothraki and Unsullied at point-blank range, a hundred brave souls had stayed behind. Loosing volley after volley at the unarmored sellswords and horsemen. Forcing the armored phalanx to slow to a crawl, shields up to protect themselves and losing their momentum against the attacking men-at-arms. Their commander, a bastard archer from White Harbor by the name of Simon Snow, yanked back his bowstring and let the steel-tipped projectile fly - not knowing that it would punch through the leathers of a Second Son lieutenant almost running a lance into Wun Wun. Hearing the great dragon roaring in, he barked the order "Scatter!" while nocking another arrow and firing.
Daenerys spotted the target apart of the great clashing masses of friend and foe. Men already breaking. "Dracarys!" A split second passed before Drogon's maw ignited, a torrent of Dragonfire lancing down to envelop Simon Snow and over half of his command into ash. Wingbeats sending a dozen others sprawling into the trodden ground as the black dragon gained altitude. Some sent arrows at the beast, but the few that hit bounced off his scales.
Axe crushing through both artery and windpipe, splattering blood over the ginger beard, Tormund kicked the lifeless husk of a former slave soldier back into the next one. "Go for their throats!" he bellowed, leaping over the corpse to engage the one in the rear… ignoring the spearpoint grazing his side. "Fuck you, cunt motherfuckers!"
"Arlī mēre qogron!" Grey Worm marshaled his forces in the initial assault. Ordering them back which the unflappable elite spearmen did. "Rudhy egrio!" Spears bristled outward, stabbing through the thin or nonexistent armor. While the ground was carpeted with the black leathered Unsullied dead, the berserker charge of the First Men began to peter out into the confused, bloody melee. Bristling spears of the phalanx locking with the pikes of the Winterfell - formally Bolton - men, Free Folk and men at arms continuing to try and hack their way through one line at a time.
Bashing his fist against an Unsullied's chest, feeling bones crack as the eunuch collapsed. Ears picking up nonsensical but authoritative words coming from a specific figure, Tormund leaped at the man in charge. Anyone barking orders had to be important.
Hearing the piercing battlecry, Grey Worm managed to spot the charging wildling - red-bearded face looking like a fire demon from the sermons of the Red Priests - just quick enough to stab forward with his spear. But Tormund was quicker, ducking out of the way and grabbing the shaft, yanking forward and pulling Grey Worm out of the formation. Unable to wrench the spear away from his enemy, he drew his knife in his left hand and swung downward with his ax. Blocked by the shield, Grey Worm drawing the spear back and leaping into the furious duel.
Fist crashing against his back, Jon cried in pain as he spun Longclaw, stabbing back and impaling the sellsword through the stomach. Only minutes into the battle he was already bathed in blood - some his, most not. A pair of Dothraki charged at him, only for Devan and Lord Cassel to engage on horseback. Brawlers no match for the trained swordsmen.
Drawing the Valyrian blade out of the dead Second Son, he jerked his hand to quickly clash against an Unsullied. Spearpoint thrust directly at him. Almost skewering him through if not for deflecting the steel point with Longclaw, blade twirling to slice the spear in half. Jon slashed across the former slave soldier's chest with a snarl, Unsullied staggering… but keeping his feet and charging.
Fuck! Shield smashing against his boiled leather cuirass, Jon was pushed back half a dozen paces before he dug his feet into the ground. Bashing the wolf's head pommel on the Unsullied's helmet. The eunuch slave soldier was tough, but not that tough. Disoriented enough for Jon to bellow a war cry and swing Longclaw, beheading him. There was no time for the Lord of Winterfell to even catch his breath before disemboweling a dismounted Dothraki screamer, guts spilling on the dead grass.
Another wave of heat slammed into his body, blood and sweat close to boiling when the Dragon Queen roared above. Flames blanketing the hills to their west. Hemming us in. Taking note of the carnage all around, the only way to win would be to knock the dragon out of the sky and hack their way through the foreign hordes. Not bothered by the heat - rather reveling in it, the fire driving him to a new sense of ferocity that only ice had before - Jon raised his sword and lunged towards a cluster of spearmen.
Not one hour into the clash and already the blood ran like a rain-swollen river over the cold, dead stretch of the Crownlands. Piles of corpses, broken, burnt, and hacked apart littered the ground. Lines of Dothraki screamers jumped off their horses at clumps of men-at-arms in a frenzy of bloodlust, others clashing with the stalled heavy cavalry charge or engaging in a long-range duel with Karsi's wildling bowmen.
However, even their vaunted courage and disregard for their own lives were broken in the face of the massive Wun Wun. The giant's large hands ripping bloodriders in half and crushing Unsullied underfoot. Only beaten by the Wrath of the North in morale-boosting for the northern army, an attempt to shatter the attackers by the Dragon Queen was beaten back as Wun Wun tossed a still kicking horse at the mighty dragon. Not enough to hurt but enough to break Drogon off. A cheer rose from the Northmen, Free Folk, and Rivermen as they threw themselves again at the Unsullied and Dothraki. Knowing their only salvation was in advance.
This was understood by Daario Naharis. Commanding the far left of the Targaryen line, his Second Sons had been raining arrows into the warriors of House Umber and House Cerwyn for minutes, trying to soften up the tough Northerners. Out of options and in need of a breakthrough, he spun his arakh and led a furious charge. Sellswords whooping as they rode.
"Stay firm, you cunts!" Smalljon snarled. Boring in on the man just to the right of the standard-bearer, he darted forth and aimed the slice of his greatsword for the horse's legs. Daario tumbled to the ground as his horse let out an agonizing screech, scrambling to his feet just as the Northern Lord hacked at him. Power and strength clashing against agility and speed.
Drawing Longclaw out of the stomach of a limp Unsullied, Jon managed to find the Blackfish in the middle of the chaos. He was covered in soot, the ash of dozens of his comrades. "Dragon Queen immolated our center," he coughed. "Took all of our reserves to patch up, and still the horse savages got a hundred men into our rear! Find that shit Baelish got us and take it out!"
In the fog of battle, Jon had forgotten. "Where are the crews?!"
"Fucking dead for all I know!" Another roar as Drogon made another pass, dozens of men caught out in the open going up in smoke.
Looking out, Jon found one of the wagon tenders. Wheels knocked off and the bed leaning on its front axle. Dothraki bloodriders screamed through the area, slaughtering any Northman they could find. "Fucking hells, WITH ME!" Blood splattering off Longclaw as he spun it into position, Jon booked it for the scorpion. Rivermen forming a wedge to protect their commander.
"Why…" Tormund slammed his ax into Grey Worm's shield. "Won't you…" The Unsullied pushed back, swiping with his spear which Tormund leapt over. "Fucking!" He charged, bashing against the shield. "Die!"
Muscles straining - helmet knocked off what had to have been hours before - Grey Worm narrowed his eyes and surged forward. A hidden reserve of strength knocking back the burly wildling. Raising his spear to skewer him through the middle when a trio of stampeding horses separated them. Forcing them apart in the slaughterhouse. Sensing this, knowing the ultimate plan, the commander of the Unsullied whistled. "Hakogon arlī!" The order carried down the line. "Hakogon arlī se gūrogon qogror!" Slowly but surely, the Unsullied - joined by enough of the Dothraki still on horseback, began pulling back to regroup.
All his guards had left him, shearing off to engage the Dothraki - leaving Jon a straight shot to the scorpion… which he took. Keeping low and trying not to be noticed.
"Andal!"
Apparently not well enough. Dismounted, towering at least a foot higher than Jon, a bloodrider was coming right for him. Long braid almost brushing the backs of his knees, the curved blade in his meaty fist looking like a child's toy. Jon was struck with a sudden sense of deja vu to fighting the Thenn Magnar at Castle Black… only the bloodrider was even larger. Snarling, he raised the arakh and swiped at Jon.
Only just ducking, Jon slashed at the Dothraki. Rocking back and swinging his arms to redouble the attack, aggressive charge gouging a shallow cut on the broad chest and putting his foe off balance. The bloodrider sneered, flushing an enraged red at the small Westerosi not dying from the first few strikes. Arakh back in the fight, the wound slowed him down little as it furiously clashed with Longclaw.
The burly Dothraki was far more agile than his size made him seem. Meeting Jon's every attack, forcing the White Wolf on his heels with his strikes. A strong slash nearly knocked Longclaw out of Jon's hands, hilt twisting around to slam into Jon's shoulder. He cried out in pain but sprang back, feet firm on the ground.
Before he could counterattack, the bloodrider charged into him. Getting inside his swing radius and using his bulk to knock Jon onto his back. Jon landed with a grunt of pain, eyes finding the Dothraki bruiser leering. Readying a death blow when an arrow punched into his shoulder. It didn't slow him down but proved enough of a distraction for Jon to spring nimbly to his feet and slash from the left. Valyrian steel cutting through flesh to cleave the massive bloodrider in two… but not before he had claimed a victim. "Karsi!" Jon knelt, pulling the Free Folk chieftain in his arms. "You'll be fine."
Karsi smiled as the life drained from her. "Get to it, King Crow. Before we all die..." She went limp in his arms
Jon needed no prodding. Remembering just how Littlefinger's men operated the machine, he bounded onto the wagon and brought it around, muscles straining to cock it. "Devan! Get the over here!"
Covered in blood, the squire raced over. "It's not mine… at least most of it isn't," he explained.
"Can you walk without dying?"
"Yeah…"
"Then get your ass on this wagon and load the bolt!"
The fire raced through Daenerys' veins. "Let's go, my child. Ilagon!" He beat his wings and dove. Rocketing towards the enemy.
"Load!" Bolt securely in place, Jon swiveled it towards the coming dragon. The sun was high in the sky but the black beast was just below it. Eminently visible against the blue of the cloudless sky. "Come on, come on, monster."
"Dracarys!" Drogon's mouth opened wide.
It sobered Jon. Shifting ever so slightly, he released the trigger mechanism. Bolt racing rapidly towards the dragon, serrated steel tip punching through the scales of Drogon's shoulder, cutting through his flesh, and shooting through the exit wound. A through and through, but one that knocked Drogon off course with a loud shriek. Forcing a frantic series of wingbeats to stay upright.
"You got him, my Lord!" Devan cheered.
Jon didn't rest on his laurels. "Reload!"
And he heard it. A roar of hooves from the north. Narrowed eyes suddenly widening as he spotted thousands of fresh Dothraki screamers charging across the plains. Thundering south to complete a classic envelopment - one that would annihilate his army. Seven hells. The battle was over. All their sacrifice, all the blood spilled to near triumph over a numerically superior enemy yet again ending for naught. He would have cried had he been less wary.
"Run!"
Devan's scream grabbing his attention, the ear-splitting roar of the black dragon as it slammed onto the ground just before him would have only a split second later. Amber eyes blazing with anger and hatred - one he knew the beast's rider shared. Jaw opening as sparks sizzled within, Jon reacted and dove. Just barely escaping the blast radius before the scorpion was immolated in searing Dragonfire. Daenerys' smirk was wide in triumph as she ordered Drogon into the air. Ready to finish off the enemy army once and for all.
Coughing, hacking up whatever last meal was in his stomach, Jon found a shadow draped over him. "Get up, King Crow." Tormund bruised and battered but still intact. "Looks like we're fucked."
"Aye. Jon saw several of his subordinates crowding around him, all dismounted. "Any other scorpions?"
Cassel shook his head. "One broke down about a mile back. The other was incinerated with the archers. Perhaps Wun Wun…"
Shaking his head, Jon sighed. Running a hand through his filthy, blood matted hair. "Sound the surrender."
Edmure Tully's jaws dropped. "We've got them on the run…"
Jon grabbed him by the collar and forced him to look at the northern horde. "Look at it! We're exhausted and bloodied, and those are fresh troops with a fucking dragon. The scorpions are gone! It's either death or surrender and I won't be Mern fucking Gardener! Do you understand?!" There were no further naysayers. "Sound the surrender!"
Daenerys could have hugged Grey Worm for his ingenuity. The main assault force pulled back, ragged but in decent enough order, the much smaller Northern force was caught between both blocs of her army and the roaring flames to the west. It exposed the enemy and feeling the pain of Drogon's wound the Mother of Dragons hungered for vengeance. She angled Drogon in a shallow dive. "Drac…"
A sight stopped her mid-word. The enemy were tossing down their weapons - swords and spears sunk into the earth as they waved frantically. Many strips of white cloth appearing out of nowhere to flutter in the gentle breeze. Surrendering, they were surrendering.
They are your enemies! One voice snarled within her, roaring like a caged beast. Set an example, burn them all! It would be easy, and there would be no threat from these men if she did. Much of Westeros would probably bend the knee after…
She shook her head. Daenerys had no qualms about burning her enemies, not after the Harpy Rebellion, but not innocents. Not men who willfully surrendered. "Drogon, bank." The dragon roared at her command.
Shouts and frenzied movements all around Jon, he heard the entire Northern army breathe a sigh of relief as the Dragon Queen and her massive beast sharply turned away. Soaring off towards the hills to the east. Already, weary sellswords and Unsullied approached their lines, spears, and swords at the ready in case of a trap. "Keep calm men," Jon said, voice steady if resigned. "It's over."
"I would have been honored to die by your side, King Crow," Tormund breathed, clutching a cut on his arm. Superficial, but by the way he grimaced it still hurt like a bitch.
Jon shook his head. "There's no honor in death. At least now we live to fight another day." Watching as a bearded sellsword approached him, confident swagger and sneering arrogance on display as he yanked Longclaw from the ground as a spoil of war, Jon realized that for the first time since Ygritte and her band captured him that he tasted defeat.
Dragon roaring in the distance as it landed atop the tallest hill, he hoped that the Mother of Dragons would be as forgiving - or gullible - as Mance Rayder was. The stench of burnt flesh that lingered on the battlefield made obvious the consequence of false hope.
A/N: BRuh4: Well, there you have it, Daenerys was always supposed to attack Jon. As you can probably guess, this is going to change the dynamic a bit. More than a bit actually... well you'll see. I don't wanna give anything away. Though I'm sure it's pretty clear, Jon and Dany aren't going to exactly be huge fans of each other. They just saw each other for the first time so, you've got that. But we did say that it was eventual romance.
Longclaw: The battle was loosely based of the Battle of Sadowa, but with plenty of adapted content as well. Jon is much smarter than Jaime or Randyll Tarly, and has a better read on Dany than any other. Thus, he managed to protect the majority of his men from being burned alive.
Anyone familiar with my work knows of "Longclaw's Rule of Happy Endings." And my co-writer absolutely agrees with me. So, I think y'all will trust us to make sure things go well as we jump right into this unique take on Jonerys.
Edit: ummmm... I get this was not gonna be popular as a plot point, but come on. It's war. Dany was in her right to attack Jon's men and Jon was in his rights to counterattack. This is not the same as the Mad King burning Rickard and Brandon Stark. The Northerners were a legitimate military target that was at war with both Cersei and Daenerys. Dany is not a monster and Jon is not a wimp for surrendering. She accepted the surrender and did not kill anyone after she had won. That's... pretty much how war works.
My co-author and I are going for something very unique here. It will work and it will be epic. If we didn't think it would work, we wouldn't have written the story. Be patient and trust us. I think we've earned it.
And fyi, Jon and Ygritte and Jon and Tormund were enemies that basically killed each other's friends and allies until at least season 6 (in Tormund's case). Enemies can bridge the gap, please stop saying "Jonerys is dead." It's really one-dimensional.
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