"You can kill as many of them as you like, but you're not allowed to use your fire, okay, Nightfury?" I asked my baby Fatalis as we finally came upon the first Wildlings. And, boy oh boy, there were a lot of them. I counted at least a hundred of them, just kind of loitering about in the path going up to Blackrock Keep. It seemed like my prediction had come true. The Wildlings had taken over the ancestral house of... whoever was the liege of Halga's village, which was why nobody came to help them. Unfortunate, but I kind of expected it already. Still, just looking at the Wildlings made me irrationally angry, which was why I have Nightfury the go signal.

However, the thing about not breathing fire was because I did not want my baby Fatalis to set the whole island on fire.

Acknowledgment. Makes hunting prey more fun. Can I eat?

"You can eat these ones."

I kept my skeleton army in reserve, just in case. But it honestly didn't seem like Nightfury would need any sort of help from me. For one, I don't think the Wildlings had any weapon that could physically hurt the young Fatalis as even Monster Hunters with their crazy ass weapons were just barely capable of denting the skin of the ancient Elder Dragon, let alone cause it to actually bleed.

Beside me, Halga took on a fighting stance.

The Wildlings noticed us, of course. And a few of them began screaming immediately as soon as they saw Nightfury. But it was too late by then as the baby Fatalis pounced from my shoulders, briefly flew forward, and began massacring them. Nightfury's wings sliced apart their bodies, his tail whipped about and cut down legs and arms, and his claws rent open their muscles and their bones. Nightfury became a whirlwind of blood and death. When he roared, the ground shook. And wherever he went, death followed. The Wildlings couldn't even muster a simple defense. They fell and died within moments. Limbs and entrails flew across the open air as the spray of their blood painted the trees and the ground. Nightfury surged left and right, and men and women alike fell to his power even as they ran for their lives.

And all I could do was stand and look on as a hundred people were killed within the span of a few minutes – a fucking hundred. I actually felt kind of bad about it, before I reminded myself that these were Wildlings, not humans. And so I didn't particularly mind it, either, when Nightfury began devouring their corpses.

I did feel kind of bad about not being able to use any of my spells though. I've been wanting to experiment with the Tier 1 stuff lately, but I guess I could make use of them when we encountered the next bunch of Wildlings. I glanced at Halga, who stood wide-eyed and frozen at my side, her hands trembling at the aftermath of the massacre before her. "You'll get used to it."

"I fucking hope so," Halga said, shaking her head. In the distance, Nightfury happily munched on any human body part he could find – organs and entrails and limbs and bones alike. I was pretty sure his jaw was strong enough to crunch through solid rock as though it was nothing more than partially-melted butter.

"We should keep moving. The sooner this day ends, the better."

Lord Jason had a dragon.

Lysa still wasn't sure how best to accept that little fact as she sat down and stared at the cackling flames.

She'd been told by her mother that the last dragon died... decades ago, long before her own mother was born. Jason had a dragon. And that thing had been the size of a hound, maybe even more, wrapping its serpentine form around Lord Jason's body, its furled wings like a tattered black cape at his back. It was terrifying, being in the presence of that creature; staring into its blazing eyes made her feel so utterly small and helpless.

Just... who was that man? And how could he have tamed such a creature? Where did he even find one? Lord Jason ran out Tamara's hut and came back with a dragon over his shoulders.

Surely, he must be of Targaryen blood and descent? Otherwise, he could not hope to tame such a savage beast. Yes, that made some sense. And yet, Lord Jason did not bear the legendary features of those with Targaryen blood. His eyes were as blue as the open sky during summer. And his hair was a deep brown, the same color was dried leaves in autumn. He was incredibly handsome, certainly, tall and muscular, but he didn't look like a Targaryen, which was strange. Then again, surely not all of them bore the same features, right?

But, more important than his features... why was he here? Why now? What could he possibly hope to gain here? She didn't know. She couldn't even think of an answer to any of those questions. Lord Jason Lee was a mystery that she could not unravel. Bear Island was poor in resources. Before he left, she promised him the most handsome gift she could possibly offer him. House Mormont held no riches and Lysa herself was in no position to promise him anything grand. In fact, the greatest thing she could offer was her hand in marriage. Because Lord Jason Lee was not a nobleman, despite the honorific. She saw it in the way he moved, his lack of care for etiquette; northern lords and ladies were often lauded as barbarians by Southerners, but even they had basic courtesies.

Jason didn't seem to know any of them. Even his manner of speech was closer to that of a smallfolk. That said, his knowledge was profound.

Herself.

That was the best thing she could offer him. Lysa Mormont wasn't betrothed to anyone; no lord was waiting for her to reach the right age. She was a woman grown, after all, old enough to inherit Mormont Keep and certainly old enough to marry. Lordship would surely interest him, right?

Unlikely.

The man had a dragon. If he wanted to, he could carve out an empire for himself, just as Aegon did during the Conquest. The Targaryens no longer had dragons of their own. Jason could very easily install himself as the new King of Westeros; with a dragon to back his rule, no one would oppose him. He'd be a usurper, of course, with no claim to nobility nor the blood of an Old House in his veins. House Mormont may be one of the weaker houses in terms of economics, but their lineage was old and coursing through their veins was the blood of the First Men. A marriage with her should be a suitably handsome opportunity, right?

And, besides, Lord Jason was young and handsome, gallant and noble; the sort of man Lysa had dreamed of marrying, ever since she was a child.

He might've wielded strange and awesome magical powers, but those of the north did not fear magic as the Southerners did. After all, even the Starks had magic in their blood; did not Bran the Builder raise the wall through magic? His blood ran through their veins. Lysa wasn't afraid. Tamara and Halga told her of his deeds; Lord Jason used his magic to defend the people of this village, even when they feared him. He was noble and selfless, a true night – a defender of the smallfolk.

Hundreds of Wildlings died by his hand alone, a feat that not even the greatest of the knights of legend held a candle to. And he held the power to command the dead to walk, to raise them up as servants, even as their bodies rotted. The very notion of it terrified her, to be perfectly honest, but magic, like swords, was merely a tool; what mattered more than the tool itself was the one who wielded it. Lord Jason was a good man, a true knight.

She'd be stupid not to offer her hand in marriage. Her own mother would bonk her over the head if she didn't. And, if Lord Jason truly desired the Iron Throne, then she'd be his queen. Lysa herself was young and hale and hearty; she could give him as many heirs as he wanted. And she'd gladly birth as many of them as her body allowed her – as the gods, old and new, allowed her.

Just the thought of having children with him sends shivers and butterflies running and flickering across her body. Their sons and daughters would be handsome and beautiful, like their father, and able to command dragons of their own. A new dynasty.

Even if Lord Jason had no interest in conquest, he was still a dragonrider and a sorcerer; magic flowed in his blood. She wanted it. And she wanted him. House Mormont will not be left to die in the ashes.

"Tamara," Lysa suddenly said. "I'll be out for a moment. I'd like to survey the village – see for myself what happened to it."

Tamara bowed her head. "Shall I accompany you, my lady?"

Lysa Mormont shook her head. "No need. I won't be long."

Tamara grabbed a thick, fur coat, likely sewn together from different animal hides, until it resembled something of a cloak, and offered it to her. "For you, my lady; the winds chill the bones at this time of day."

Lysa smiled and accepted the cloak. It was warm and comfortable, despite its peculiar smell and aesthetic. No different from any other cloak she'd worn. "Thank you, Tamara."

And so, she walked out of Tamara's hovel. The ground was covered, already, in a thin layer of snow. This far up north, the differences between spring and winter were often blurred – one was cold and the other was colder, both were cold. The only place that was arguably even colder was north of the wall, the home of the Wildling barbarians that desecrated her home and... butchered her family. Lysa breathed in the cold northern air as she walked around the village that now suddenly seemed so empty.

The villagers had hidden themselves inside their hovels, deathly terrified of Lord Jason. It was unnecessary, but she figured the smallfolk would never understand that – no matter how many times she tried to speak to them. Lord Jason wielded powerful magic that killed with but a gesture and reanimated the dead. Such a thing was already terrifying. But they tolerated him, then, if only begrudgingly, because they would've all perished in the Wildling raid if not for Lord Jason's magic. The black dragon must've simply been the final straw, the one that broke their spirits entirely. Once again, Lysa couldn't blame them.

None of the villagers went out of their homes to meet her or talk to her. So, her walk to the beach was calm and quiet. Lysa removed her shoes and dipped her toes into the water, feeling the chill of it for a moment, her thoughts drifting back to older and simpler days with her mother, her friends, when they waded out into the waters and enjoyed themselves, thinking nothing of tomorrow. She moved out of the water but otherwise stood on the beach, gazing out into the horizon. Unbidden, tears fell from her eyes as everything came crashing right back – her mother's last words, the death of all she loved and held dear.

Gods... why did this have to happen to her?

And then, her ears perked up at the sound of... wings? Her eyes snapped open.

Lysa Mormont looked up to the sky and her eyes widened. A great black, winged shadow soared through the clouds, leaving behind a trail of smoke, a serpentine tail whipping about. And then it descended and her blood ran cold as the clouds parted and a massive black dragon flew straight down, its gargantuan wings blotting out the sun. And then the black dragon flew straight back upwards and roared towards the heavens, unleashing a plume of fire so huge and so powerful that the sky itself turned crimson.