A/N: Longclaw: Sorry we're late guys. Life got in the way and updates had to slow down, but all is good now. I don't think it'll take as long as we did for this one but I make no promises.

BRuh4: Hey, everyone. The updates have slowed a bit. Mostly because regular life has sort of began again for both of us. But we're still committed to working on this story. That being said, the chapter once every month or so might be the new schedule. But we'll see.

Anyhoo, here's the next chapter.

Enjoy.

Chapter 37: Be Seeing You

Hitching a sack to his shoulder, Jon looked at the dark visage of Dragonstone towering over him as he began to drift down to the beach. Spotting the skiffs that would take him to the waiting ship.

Take him far away from this imposing place.

Take him far away from Dany.

"Jon!" He turned to find a slender man in Ironborn sea leathers trotting to him. "You probably don't remember me…"

"Theon Greyjoy." Jon regarded the man, he walked stiffly but held a deeper kind of hardship in his distant eyes. "I know of you."

Theon scratched the back of his neck a bit nervously. "Seems... what I heard was true."

"What exactly is it you think you know?"

"Just that you've forgotten some things after coming back."

"It's complex. I don't even fully understand my condition sometimes," Jon sighed. He looked Theon up and down. "Heard you got it bad," Jon said. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault… It was bad though. The fucker beat me half to death, stabbed me in the shoulder," Theon said, then rolled his left shoulder. To accent his point, he groaned in pain. Jon hadn't noticed until then but, Theon's did have some lingering bruises and marks. They were definitely fading though.

"Sounds horrid. You look to have recovered well enough."

"It took some time. I'm not even fully there."

Jon nodded. "Could've been a lot worse, I see." Naharis hadn't been so merciful with him.

"Guess I did get a bit lucky all things considering."

For some reason, Jon adjusted the sling of his sack. "Why is it you're here now? At the beach. Come to see a man who doesn't fully remember you off on his journey?"

Theon frowned, "What? You didn't hear? I'm captaining the ship that's ferrying you to Duskendale."

"Oh? Seems I was kept out of the loop. Not that it matters. Unless you're not capable because of your condition."

"I'm... fine. I could captain a ship from bed with a flagon of wine," Theon managed a somewhat confident smile.

Jon shrugged, "As long as you get me where I need to be. Still, the beating you took would keep a normal man out of commission for some time."

"Reminded me of a much shittier version of our spars back in Winterfell," Theon said, proposing the memory. He expected a reaction out of Jon but he didn't get one. Theon smirked, though it quickly faded.

Jon huffed. "If that was supposed to jog a memory for a collective laugh… It ain't happening."

"I can see that. You really don't remember."

"Not in the way I should," Jon surmised. "Since coming back, I don't remember much. Especially things from early on in my life. It's all a blur. I know it happened. I know I grew up in Winterfell. But most of the things I know now is because I've been told as such."

"Wait," Theon stiffened, then stepped closer to Jon. "Do you remember anything?"

"Not everything's gone," Jon said, shaking his head. "I remembered my name. I… Well, it wasn't gone. More… murky. A lot of things came back. Some others didn't. Maybe gone forever."

"But Winterfell, you don't remember all the people there? All the things that happened?"

"Not much. I don't know if any of that will come back."

"Why not go there? Maybe being home would help you?"

"There's nothing for me there. Only questions. I'm looking for answers."

"Makes me wonder why'd you ever leave this palace," Theon chuckled. Peering his eyes to Dragonstone, looming overhead. "Be a lot safer. That's for sure."

"If I cared about being safe, I wouldn't have crawled out of bed. There isn't safety anymore. It doesn't exist. Even when you think you are," Jon said, scowling hard. His gloved fist clenched. "A blade lingering in the darkness. Waiting to strike. Stabbed in the back."

"Daario," Theon spat. "I wish I could've seen him go."

Jon turned away, facing the crashing waves against the beach. "No. You don't."

Before Theon could reply, a group of seamen walked past them towards the skiffs, all carrying supplies. As such, their conversation ended. Together they helped load the small boats. Jon didn't say another word. Theon spoke only to direct his people.

A small party came down to the beach to see them off, including Lady Missandei and Ser Barristan. Jon acknowledged them with a quick glance of his eyes. He hadn't intended on doing anything further than that. Yet, Missandei began to approach him. Her blank face gave nothing away as she drew near. He noticed Barristan stuck on her heels. Ever since Jon killed Daario, the older knight stayed on his toes around him.

Jon faced Missandei. She reached her hand out to him. He hesitated but took it gingerly. She covered his hand with her other. His eyes locked there before he heard her begin to speak. "I hope you find what you're looking for," she said softly. "I wish you luck on your journey."

Jon withdrew his hand and eyed her in the face. His only response was a curt nod. He turned from her without a second thought. Walking towards the skiffs at a brisk pace, ignoring the cold water as it soaked his boots. He found an empty place among the crew, then helped push the boat into the sea. His head stayed forward, not daring to look back to Dragonstone. For the place gave him much, perhaps love, but mostly pain.

Overhead, the crew of the Ironborn carrack craned their heads skyward to watch the massive black dragon soar above the waves. Behind was the white one, slightly smaller but no less fearsome as they streaked towards the south, beating their large wings.

"Off to war," Jon murmured, praying silently to the… old gods, he figured, that she'd be safe.

"Explains why her Grace didn't see us off," Theon replied. "You sure you parted on good terms?"

The memory of the kiss still filled Jon with warmth. An alien feeling, but one not at all regretted. "I assume so."

Alone atop the deck, leaning their crossed arms against the railing as they watched the mainland grow ever closer on the horizon, Theon looked at Jon. Trying to find some of the physical pain that the rumors on Dragonstone talked about. Of nights tossing and turning in pain - of the Queen being the only one to calm him, some stories going in rather ribald descriptions of how she did so. Theon didn't believe those parts, but he could find no sign of any pain on his features. If Jon was in agony, he kept it behind his brooding visage.

"Are you going to stare or ask me the damn question?" Jon asked gruffly, eyes still trained on the approaching town and keep of Duskendale.

Theon sighed. "You truly remember nothing of your past? Of your family or your home?" They have glossed over it before, but here, they had more time.

A pair of tired eyes swiveled to Theon. In them, the last surviving child of Balon Greyjoy could see deep, penetrating exhaustion behind the Stark greys. "Home… a strange concept." He shrugged. "I don't need to know my past to realize that as a bastard - even legitimized - I haven't known a true home since I was born."

Only the gods knew how right he was. Theon remembered Lady Stark's coldness well - even he, the one person there close to Jon's situation, had done his best to hurt the poor lad on his bastard status. "In Winterfell, there were people that loved you. Do you remember any of them?"

Jon closed his eyes. Flashes peppered his shut lids, ones that drove him to agony the more he tried to focus them. To extend them into something resembling a coherent memory. "I remember bits and pieces," he finally told Theon, hanging his head. "Snippets. A flash of training swords, flowing red hair, a young girl hugging me… a direwolf." That one, in particular, brought Jon the same comfort as stroking Rhaegal's scales had. "Beyond that is a vast desert… at night. Sometimes I can't tell up or down."

"I'm sorry," Theon said sincerely. "So that's why you're going to Stannis." It wasn't a question

"Aye. He's the one where all of this intersects." Much as his heart ached to leave Daenerys, if the gods destined him to come back this was the only way to return in any form of healing. "My bastardy, my legitimacy, and my family. All run through him in some way, and I owe it to myself to figure it out."

"I see. A lot of the things you know now are things that've been told to you. You wanna see if any of it's horseshit. Or if all of it's true."

"That's an odd way of putting it. But yes, in a way. It's not that I don't trust what I've been told. I mostly do. It's just that seeing it for myself would help me. Or at the very least hearing the same thing from different groups. Put my mind at ease."

"Capn!" a sailor called out. "We've hit the seabed, twenty fathoms!"

Meant they were close enough to the harbor. "Slow the ship down! Ten knots!" The sailors raced about their work, ropes pulling on the groaning wood to reposition the sails. "Looks like this'll be over soon, Jon. On your own."

"I know." Jon eyed his temporary companion. "Can you tell me a little something about them?"

"Your family?"

"Aye, the ones that loved me." It brought the greatest pain to not know about them. "You grew up with me, so you'd know more than anyone of that time in my life."

Nodding, Theon looked out at the water. "You and your brother Robb were always close. Lady Stark preferred he associate with me because at least I was trueborn, but under no circumstances was he to keep you out of our games."

Jon felt a small smile tugging at his lips. He had no memories of Robb but felt his heart warm at least someone in his corner. A bastard… even a recognized one was lower than even lesser nobles or captured wards on the ladder. "I'm glad I had a companion my own age."

"You were even closer to your younger siblings. Arya idolized you, especially since you encouraged her desire to learn to fight. Even forged her a sword."

So that's what that was. Jon listened to the tales of Bran and Rickon, even chuckling at some of the antics they got into. "And Sansa?"

Theon's smile fell. "Sansa… she usually copied Lady Stark to you." He watched a cold scowl touch Jon's face, one devoid of actual recognition but knowing what it meant. "That changed… after what happened to her with Ramsay Bolton."

"Ramsay Bolton… I remember that name." It was a fuzzy memory, but what memories of his weren't fuzzy… The ones of Dany and I in the cave. "I faced him in the snow, I think…"

"Yes, you bit off his ear." Jon seemed unfazed by that. He did worse to Daario from all he heard, so Theon didn't doubt mere mutilation would faze him. "He… he abused Sansa." Best not mention his own suffering.

Something almost feral flashed in Jon's eyes. At both the thought of it, as well as something out of pure instinct. "Is he dead?" came the cold reply.

"He's dead. I… I killed him." They stood in silence for a moment. "After everything you two have been through, Sansa is completely devoted to you. One can't imagine that either of you ever once weren't on good terms if they saw you now… well, before all of this."

Breathing in and out, Jon allowed that knowledge to temper his ferocity. To calm his heart. "In a way, that does relieve me. The way I am… that there's a family out there that I belong to that truly cares." Daenerys, Sam, Aemon, Davos, Sansa, Arya, Bran, Rickon… Some were just names to him, others more than that, but they all loved him in their own form.

Theon smiled. "You're a Stark, Jon. Some didn't wish to acknowledge it, but you are."

"Half a Stark," was Jon's reply. "I don't know much, but I know that I never knew my mother or who she was."

"No… you didn't," Theon was forced to admit. "Lord Stark knew, but he never told anyone." A particularly uncomfortable subject that was avoided as the ship began to lurch towards the harbor. "Well, looks like it's the end of this, Jon. Please stay safe."

"I don't plan on dying." Just as he had told Dany.

"I don't think you did before either." Jon intended to snap at Theon, but he stopped. The Greyjoy's expression was soft. "I… I tried to stop him. Daario. I was there but I wasn't strong enough. I fought with all I had."

"Don't blame yourself," Jon replied. "It's not your fault. You gave all you had - nearly gave your own life as well. There isn't any more I could've asked for." He went silent then. His face turned from Theon. The wind howled, the scent of the sea washed over them. "The man responsible is dead. I just wish I could rest. I thought I'd sleep after Daario was dead but like everything else, slumber doesn't come easy." He shook his head, hand trembling. "But even after death, he takes from me. His damn blade haunts me. Stabbed in the back. Damned coward."

Slowly, Theon walked over to him. Putting a hand on Jon's shoulder, "I hope you find peace, Jon. You deserve it."

"Peace is a dream I'll never catch," Jon said. "I'll be haunted for the rest of my days. I'm just looking for an end to the pain."

"Relief, then?" Theon smirked.

"Aye, some damned relief would be good."

Jon moved away as the harbor came closer and closer. He was the first person off the gangplank. Still aboard the ship, Theon called out to him, "Be seeing you, Stark."

Raising a hand, Jon replied, "Goodbye, Greyjoy."

Almost an hour later, hood pulled over his head, Longclaw strapped to his hip. A horse underneath him, Jon watched the dreary town go by him. Nothing but morose smallfolk and the occasional column of marching Unsullied. Finding a tavern, he leaned down. "Excuse me," he called out to an old man in a chair by the entrance. "There was a battle near here, correct?"

The old man gave him a sour stare but was mollified as Jon tossed a copper star to him. "Aye, bout a day's ride west of 'ere. Still can't miss it."

Without even a reply, Jon urged the horse forward. Before the journey south, he had one place he needed to visit.

Not knowing whether it would repair his soul or shatter it all over again.

It was a bracing experience. The wind against her face, the heat of her mount, the stars spread out in the sky like a twinkling mosaic… oftentimes she never had time to savor it, but Daenerys remembered such serenity upon the Great Grass Sea. Having managed to placate Drogo, Rhaego in her womb, often she would rest upon the grass and look at the stars, enjoying the heavens.

Nothing, however, could compare to the same elements while on dragonback. It truly was the realm only gods could ever inhabit, but the Targaryens challenged such solitude.

Holding Drogon's spines as the vast emptiness of the sea gave way to the darker outlines of the Dornish coast, Daenerys sighed. Wishing Jon was here to experience this with her. Direwolf that he was, if anyone deserved the honor of this it was him. My love… you were given far less than you truly deserved. The urge to burn those that wronged him… seven hells, wronged both of them often simmered in her soul, but Dany set aside those feelings. The task at hand was too important.

Turn left, my son. Fly lower, I need to see the ground. With a rumble from deep in his belly, Drogon signaled his affirmation in his own way. He lurched upward only to bottom out in a shallow, slow dive. From a hoot in the distance, the lighter shape of Viserion followed his older brother without much fuss. Thank you, darling, she called back to her youngest hatchling. Even the size of a large carrack, they would always be her children… the only children she'd ever have.

"Oh, Rhaegal… I wish I knew what troubles you so." Her middle hatchling was despondent for nearly a week, refusing to budge from the Dragonmont even at her and Drogon's urging. It was coincidental with Jon's departure, but Dany had no reason to believe the two connected. She asked her uncle, but he demurred with a knowing smile… it bothered her that he didn't deign to tell her, but two dragons were enough for this particular mission.

Seven hells, she had defeated the Northmen with one dragon… but was unwilling to risk it now.

Eyes peeled in the darkness, Dany found nothing. No keeps glowing brightly against the countryside. No single lights of farmhouses. Absolutely no sign of human habitation - this part of Dorne was sparsely populated, but the sheer desolation did rest uneasily with the Queen.

House Targaryen hasn't endured a good history with the desolated countryside of Dorne. At one particularly black part of the mountainside on the shadow of the moon, she absentmindedly stroked Drogon's scales. Remembering the tale of Daeron I, of Rhaenys and Meraxes. Such had been tales Viserys - manically eager to imprint his hate and thirst for vengeance on his impressionable sister - never skimped on the gory, backstabbing details. Making sure she knew only to trust those of the dragon… which he only claimed to be it turned out.

And here she was, flying to save Dorne from the invasion of their father's loyal bannermen after falling in love with a legitimized Stark bastard. Wherever Viserys was, that likely burned worse than the molten gold that killed him.

There, just at the bottom of the darkness spread out over the Dornish countryside were a sprinkling of flame. Pinpricks in the black, but ones that drew Dany's attention like a moth to a flame. Drogon, land there. A rumble in his gut answering, the massive dragon banked down. Circling the lights with Viserion close behind him. Luckily, the rocks and crags gave way to several caves large enough for the dragons to wait in. Clever Arianne. If this was evidence of her intelligence, Daenerys rather liked the new Princess of Dorne already.

With Drogon landing, the dismounting Daenerys didn't have to wait long to meet her last remaining Westerosi ally. "Daenerys Targaryen," stated a young woman Daenerys' height, skin a dark olive under the torchlight of two swathed guards. "On behalf of Dorne, I am glad to see you depart from Dragonstone and arrive in your lands."

Her words were biting even in such a gracious tone. While she would never regret the time she spent with Jon, the fact that whatever initiative knocking the North and House Tully from the war was lost in the last moons did perturb Daenerys. "Princess Arianne." Striding up to the Princess of Dorne under the watchful glare of Drogon and the just now landing Viserion, she was treated to a traditional trio of kisses upon the cheek. "The march of Stannis on Highgarden was unexpected. Mistakes that will not be made again."

"I'd hope not, your Grace." The two walked side by side towards the Dornish camp. "Only two dragons? I was hoping to see three."

"They are… unpredictable creatures." Such was all she could say about Rhaegal - Daenerys didn't even truly know what his mood was. "But enough about them. What is the situation before us?"

The camp was deserted or merely seemed so. There was much activity if one actually looked, hundreds of Dornishmen and women coming and going with sacks of weapons and other supplies atop donkeys or their backs. "We've only just reformed," Arianne explained. "The Hightowers have us outnumbered on both light and heavy horse. We had to… decentralize just to evade them once they crossed the Torrentine."

"Smart, but are they close?"

Arianne pointed towards the southwest. "Baelor isn't making Harlan Tyrell's mistakes. Once they reached the barren ground they confined themselves to the coast where the Redwyne fleet can supply them."

Dany frowned, trying to remember the various war stratagems Ser Barristan taught her over the years. "I would have expected Baelor to attack towards the Wyl." Aside from the Torrentine and regions directly around Sunspear - though much less in the latter - the far northwest of Dorne was the breadbasket of the region. Take it and the Dornish would starve.

Impressed, the Princess nodded. "Aye, but what our spies tell us…" Dany has a feeling that by spies Arianne meant the whores that often followed armies around. "The Hightowers think we're in these hills and they want to crush us first. Our attack would be seen as desperation of a cornered rat, which is why we want to male a go of it…" She glanced back at where the dragons slept. "Now that we have an advantage."

"Does Baelor have any scorpions with him?"

"I do not believe so."

"Good." Unlike Jon, Daenerys doubted the army of the southern Reach had the military minds needed to innovate tactics.

Be a dragon.

"We attack two days hence, at midday."

It was a beautiful day. One not at all ravaged by the winter that had descended upon the lands of the Seven Kingdoms. All around the birds were chirping, insects buzzing, and every variety of grassland animals that inhabited these parts grazing upon the succulent winter grass that grew everywhere.

Yet there had been a great battle here not moons ago.

"Easy, boy," he told the horse, a smaller stallion a few namedays old - best befitting his wish to travel without incident. Tugging lightly on the reins, Jon eased him into the fields off the main track. They passed through the knee-high grasses, sensing nothing but a few scattering rabbits and quail. "Well, this is pathetic," Jon told… the horse? Himself? The wind? Frankly, he did not know.

What he did know was that whatever he had suspected, perhaps as grand as a churned-up field burnt to a crisp and packed with rotting corpses or as mundane as simply what could have been described as a battle, none of it was even close to true. No battlefield, just a serene prairie just as flush with life as his mind was flush with emptiness and death. Death of memory and purpose that is.

The sun hung high in the air, looming over him as it baked him with its heat. Pleasant, all things considered, after being on Dragonstone for all that time. The colder air off the seas and hard winds didn't provide Jon with much joy. Perhaps the somber snow up in the North might've been better. Perhaps he should've gone there instead, as Theon suggested.

Why did I think I could ever find answers here? He was no better off than when he started - Jon's talk with Theon left him with more answers than his journey had.

And yet… There… Shattered and foggy as his mind was, Jon's eyes remained sharp and thus the metallic glint was easy to spot. Reining back the horse, he quickly swung out of the saddle, landing on the grass with a dull thud. Without a word, he bent down and picked up whatever piece of metal was hidden in the tall shoots…

Dust-covered and rusty, the helmet was still obvious to him. There was a large dent in it, likely from a mace or speartip banging into it. A snarling direwolf was stamped on the front, telling Jon that this was a northern helmet - one of his own bannermen. The first chink in the serene grassland.

Knowing where to look now, Jon finally came across the detritus of battle. A spear… a sword… several arrow shafts embedded into the ground… and bones. Many bones. Skulls, broken and hacked off limbs… even the whole skeleton of a horse with an arrow embedded in its skull. From the weapons he remembered Daenerys' bloodriders, the arakh he found close to the horse indicated that this was a Dothraki mount that fell.

Northmen against Dothraki… And from the various Unsullied helmets and shields he managed to find, they were part of the battle too. My bannermen against Daenerys'... we did fight. We were enemies. Did they fight personally? Jon had wanted to ask her but always demurred. Drawing Longclaw, he closed his eyes, working through various strikes and parries. Trying to see if he could jog his memory.

It worked… to an extent…

Blood…

Steel…

Death…

"Get to it, King Crow. Before we all die..." The source of that voice going limp in his arms.

Head throbbing, Jon's eyes flew open. He sucked in a breath at the rather… strong memories. If he concentrated, he could almost smell the stench of death. Hand pressing against his heart, he willed himself to calm down before going back on his hunt.

The grass around here seemed duller than the majority of the field, mixed in with loose dirty laying on the surface. Like the green would never return... likely because of the dragonfire he assumed. Carriage-wide lanes of the grass were discolored. Outside of where the fire burned appeared trampled to the point of uprooting seeds. The closer Jon was to the ground, the more he picked out the details missing in the big picture. As much as life had returned to the fields, the scars of battle still appeared. Remnants of the cataclysm that had befallen here.

Not completely.

He blinked. Thousands died. But not as many as there could have been. Not nearly as many.

She could have burned them all… me included.

But she didn't… The woman in front of him only days before, the one that felt so small and soft in his arms as they kissed… to anyone else, there may have been a sharp dissonance between that young girl and the conquering Dragon Queen that rode her beasts into battle. To Jon, he couldn't help but feel that perhaps there was less of a division between the two personas.

That the small, passionate young woman was who she truly was. Though she had used Drogon on that fateful day. She had the capacity for great violence if need be. As any might if they had control over massive fire-breathing dragons.

Head throbbing, he continued to push through the grass, eyes peeled for more debris from the carnage.

Trudging along the dusty grass, Jon stepped through a thicket of bushes. A flock of birds dashed off into the air, startling him for a moment. "Seven hells," he muttered, pushing aside the thick brush until he came upon something that truly drew his attention.

A circle that marred the ground. Dull as the fire lanes were, this was even worse. The soil was purely blackened as if the fire had erupted at point-blank range - to which, Jon knew exactly the thing that caused it. What else could have? Perhaps wildfire, but then Cersei would have had to trudge the volatile substance all the way from King's Landing to here? No, only Drogon could do this.

Jon walked right up to the scorched ground, soil and sand almost crystallized into glass below him. Kneeling upon the ground, the lack of even a single track mark seemed to show the local fauna avoided the place like the spring sickness. "I… I know what happened here," he said aloud, running a hand along the crystalized soil. Something catching his eye - a partially melted iron ring, the trout sigil of House Tully still visible even covered in grime and ash.

He surmised this separate blackened circle on its lonesome must've been where The Blackfish met Drogon. There was little left of the man that once stood there. The grass hadn't returned. Much like the other spots in the meadow that saw fire from Drogon on that day. The dragonfire melted down the man, clearly. Jon found no remains. Reduced to ash, Brynden was. Blown away in the wind.

"You were the best of us, Stark."

Jon blinked, the flash being rather vivid. He shot to his feet, head snapping behind him as someone stood there, whispering to him. His pulse quickened mightily, jumping out his chest. No longer a pounding throb… but this time he nearly doubled over, shards stabbing through his flesh and bone. Skull, chest, legs, arms, they all were affected. In spite of himself, a scream rang through the air. The pain was simply unbearable.

"Fight like hell and see if you can make something out of all this shit."

There he was on the ground, the flashes bombarding Jon as steel-tipped arrows fired directly at him. Teeth gritted, he fought from screaming again. Fought to keep his composure… until a single word in his mind played.

"Dracarys."

And with it so did his pain disappear. Leaving a shaking man drenched in his own sudden sweat. As rapidly gone as it had arrived, the greatest agony since he had first awoken from his death.

"Dracarys," Jon repeated from the memory. A Valyrian word, one that even he recognized… "Fire, burn, ignite." A command to the dragons, the command that resulted in the Targaryen conquest. In the Dance. In Daenerys Targaryen's rise from obscurity and slavery into contention for the Iron Throne.

The command that left him near death on this very field.

Trudging up a small hill, the flashes continued to plague Jon. A dragon… Drogon, waiting behind the form of Daenerys. She was beautiful as ever but clad in a dark leather battledress, face not showing the warmth and love he so fondly remembered. It was dark, powerful… fierce. The dragon of House Targaryen. Fire and Blood. Making his way to the summit, Jon fell to his knees. This was where she stood and watched the men - his men - rounded up and made to kneel. Naharis was there, as was… Tyrion? Grey Worm? Such was fuzzy, but he remembered Dany.

Oh did he remember Dany...

"Daenerys," he murmured. "Why…"

But Jon knew why.

His feelings swirled around his body. Unable to decipher anything worth a damn. Everything he was told was true. Dany had burned his army. The Blackfish… Not that his death weighed heavily on him. It didn't. He barely remembered the man, much less what he meant to him. Though when he really racked his brain about it. Jon felt himself grieve. The man had vaporized before his own eyes after all along with thousands of other nameless faces that followed him. He was the White Wolf, the Wrath of the North - a man with an unbroken string of victories from Castle Black to Harrenhal and he had failed them all.

And then there was Daenerys. Did her boots tread over where my knees are? Was this where she gave the command to burn the Blackfish? To have Naharis bring him forward, the little shit. Dany hadn't been deceptive though. She as much as admitted it to him that they had fought as enemies, and in a sense, he was glad she refused to lie to him or manipulate him. It would have been so easy to. But she refrained. She cared for him to the point where she would let him discover such a horrible secret. Funny, if the roles had been reversed, Jon wasn't sure what he'd do.

"Take cover!" He felt the white-hot inferno bathe him in heat, massive black shape shooting past as the jet of flame incinerated a hole in his lines.

Jon nearly pitched back, rushing to clutch his head as the memories kept coming. Pounded at his skull - a roaring winter's gale turning his mind to madness and screaming white noise into his hearing. Gritting his teeth, Jon fought his own cries of pain, visions beginning to overcome him.

Blood…

Screams…

Rage…

Fire…

Ash…

All of a sudden the field before him disappeared. Replaced with a slaughterhouse of death, greasy black pyres that extended high into the sky, the stench reeking of pitch and cooked flesh.

His men.

A roar so loud it shook the very ground.

A shadow so massive that it blocked out the sun… Balerion the Black Dread reborn.

"Keep calm men… It's over."

"I would have been honored to die by your side, King Crow…"

"There's no honor in death. At least now we live to fight another day."

Alive… undoubtedly many lived, though himself but a cursed life of agony. Of shattered minds and a purposeless drive. And love… love for a woman that comforted him, stood behind him in his fight for justice, gave him a refuge from the pain and agony that was Jon Stark's existence at the very moment.

The same woman that burned his men, burned them alive in her quest to win. No parlay, no offer of surrender, no chivalry. Just fire… fire and blood.

"Dragons don't plant trees," Jon murmured, an ancient saying just appearing in his head, as if by magic. "Daenerys… why?" These shards of glass and metal drove him to sheer torture more than even the memories burning through his mind - consolidating the woman he fell for to the woman that rode Drogon onto this field moons before… it seemed impossible. "Why did you do this?"

And yet perhaps he knew…

"A monster. She's a monster." Monsters burn men alive.

But to what end?

"Mad King Aerys," Jon thought out loud. "Far gone, only able to make his subjects cower by burning them alive." He knew the stories, remembered them even as his memories disappeared into the cold abyss. That was a monster.

Ramsay Bolton, who raped his sister, he was a monster.

Walder Frey, who butchered the wife and child of the brother Jon no longer remembered and broke guest right in the process. He was a monster.

Cersei Lannister, a monster.

Daario Naharis, a monster.

The Army of the Dead, monsters all.

Daenerys Targaryen. Monster? Perhaps.

And yet the thought that filled his battered mind unbidden made him tremble. Jon Stark. Jon Snow. Monster? Sam told him of his exploits. Davos, Aemon, all regaled him of how he fought as a Brother of the Night's Watch and Lord of Winterfell. Killing Qhorin Halfhand, leading to the death of his first love, butchering Walder Frey without honor. The bloody pile of meat that used to be Daario Naharis wasn't a struggle to be remembered.

He did that. He did it all. So was he a monster as the others, as he had thought Daenerys was - vile and irredeemable? Jon didn't know… he couldn't be sure at all.

Daenerys burned thousands with dragonfire. This battle likely wasn't the first time she'd used her dragons on people either.

She cared for him with no gain for her - gave him justice and love.

He tore apart men with the deepest anger and hate.

He saved his sisters and brother from a fate worse than death.

Monsters yet not monsters. Face falling into his palms, Jon trembled at the weight of it all. Unsure of anything anymore, faced with the truth about even himself.

"Kill the boy, Jon Stark."

Everything about this… something gnawed at his mind, at his heart - a lesson worth knowing. A lesson that needed to be learned. Something that would finally rip apart the confusion and chaos that his soul had become… only laying just out of reach. Beyond his grasp.

"Kill the boy and let the man be born."

"What do you want from me!" Jon snarled into the empty field. "I fought for Stannis and nearly died, I softened to Daenerys and became a husk! Now I've… I've…" He hadn't admitted it aloud. He was too afraid too, afraid of something like this. "Mayhaps I love her?" Jon murmured. He wanted her, that was for damn sure - desired her greatly, needed her, but love? Regardless of what the depths of his feelings were, the current circumstances made it all up in the air. "I've come to care for her, only to find out we're both monsters."

Was this the ultimate fate for him? The curse of the gods upon a bastard that rose above his station? Orys Baratheon lost his hand. Daemon Blackfyre lost his life. Ramsay Bolton died an unspeakably brutal death. Was this his punishment for his father's sin? A broken mind, eternally to live in agony for the rest of time?

In comparison, Daemon Blackfyre's fate of his half-brother's arrow in the throat looked pretty appealing.

Then, strangely, several rabbits and a deer took that moment to scramble through the grass. Running like their lives depended on it. Jon didn't need to wait long to know why. A large wolf emerged from the tall grass, its fur a dark grey as it loped forward. A direwolf? No, far too small for that, Jon instinctively knew. And yet quite a coincidence given the sigil emblazoned on his gorget.

Stopping, the wolf looked up at Jon. Red eyes seeming to glow as they bore into his very soul even. Jon didn't say anything, merely staring back. In an instant, the wolf threw its head back and howled into the air. A light melody, almost musical before it bolted back into the grass. Disappearing from his sight.

His eyes scanned over the battlefield in its entirety. Seemed much of the ground and grassy areas had been damaged seemingly permanently. The vastness of blood and fire that this land saw that day was inconceivable. Despite seeing the wolf and other animals, the environment hadn't returned to the original life it might've seen before he and Daenerys battled. Typical wildlife sounds such as birds chirping, woodpeckers, or various bugs and the like, nonexistent.

It was almost as if the animals thought this land to be cursed. The damage done to it made it uninhabitable.

Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the animals were beginning to learn that things damaged aren't to be cast aside or ignored. Some things might be able to be repaired. Return to some sense of normalcy. Of course, never to be exactly the same ever again. Yet, it can come back from the seemingly eternal wounds. Because they were never eternal in the first place. Healing might be possible. It's just not easy, and it will take some time.

As this revelation rolled through Jon's head, he began to think of his own self. Much like him, the field was exactly like his own mind. In some ways, recovery began. Certain things began to regrow and reappear. As some of the grasses did. At least those that were not ravished by Drogon's fire. Those places were damaged, maybe forever. Just like fractions of Jon's mind and memories. In many ways since Daario's blade pierced his flesh, he'll never be the same. Some things about him will never return to the way they were. Others perhaps changed forever.

I doubt anything in my life was ever easy. He bore the scars to prove it, not just the ones of his death.

Wordlessly he remounted his horse, lips pressed into a thin line. One last look at the battlefield where Daenerys captured him. It was still a haze punctuated with vivid snapshots, but the truth of everything burned in his mind like a brand.

Jon sighed, turning away and leading the horse back to the road. The past did nothing for him beyond providing answers, destiny lied in the future. In moving forward no matter what fate brought.

Regardless, his journey to Duskendale had been essential. His mind clearer and his senses were sharper. Maybe even breathe a little easier. Problem was, there existed more for him to discover. Why'd this battle even happen in the first place? He'd heard some rough details from Sam. But he didn't know the full story.

He and Dany didn't dare speak of that day together. At least not after the came back. Not at length. He got gist she didn't wanna bring it back up. After seeing the battlefield, he didn't blame her. His feelings with her felt shaken up as he rode away. Their relationship should be a mainstay, might still be. But he just didn't know what she was capable of. Now he did. They'll surely have plenty to speak of when he sees her again. Whenever that happens. This journey might be a long one.

He certainly wasn't angry with her. But his feelings got mixed up. Confusion filled his mind more than ever. But for the first time since coming back, his mind felt a little bit clearer. Unbound by trauma. Perchance because he faced the horrors head-on. It may be because he located a newfound inner strength and mental fortitude. Either way, for the first time, he felt absolved from Daario's blade.

So, he just might have to see where it all started. Or at least someone who can fill in the blanks. If only he didn't have to venture so far south, places he's never seen before.

The last thing Jon ever wanted was more mysteries.

A/N: BRuh4: We talked about a lot of the stuff in this chapter for a while. More than our regular discussion for sure. Jon returning to Duskendale has been in our minds for months. It just took a hot minute to get it right. Essentially the scene outlines the reasons Jon had to leave. He's making progress to returning to normal. In Dragonstone he was just on idol, no progress.

More shit to come.

Longclaw: So Dany is heading to battle again as Jon leaves. The Targaryen version of bearing with heartbreak, lol, though she probably knows Jon will come back - or hopes it.

I suppose this is Jon's identity crisis. Coming to terms with all he went through without preconceptions. He's seen both sides of Dany from the view of an outsider, and it isn't black and white like he may have once thought.

Next up, Davos returns to his King and Dany takes on House Hightower.

Tell your friends.