How to train your dragon…
Jon
The ground quaked as the dragon finally came to a halt.
Each massive step would knock the snow from the rocks and cause avalanches over the slopes. The noise of its every movement was so loud it dominated his entire world. Jon's head was spinning, his body was trembling. He was gripping the dragon's horn so tightly he couldn't even feel his hands any more. There was absolutely nothing he could do but hold on for dear life as the dragon finally came to a stop.
Even through his furs, the mountain winds should have been bitterly cold, but Jon felt fine. Just tired, and battered.
The dragon had stopped halfway up one of the smaller peaks in the Frostfangs, about three hundred feet off the ground along a good ridgetop that had a decently flat area, a small plateau on the snow-covered mountainside that wasn't so windy. Jon was maybe another thirty or forty feet up - his head swimming, disoriented by the truly brutal, disorienting experience of riding the dragon.
The dragon shuddered, let out a breath, and slowly lowered itself down. The dragon was breathing deeply. Jon gagged, feeling remnant vomit almost burst from his throat. What a ride.
In the air, when its wings had been whole, the dragon had certainly moved with ease, as if it were one with the wind, but on the ground it moved with all the grace of a mammoth trying to hop stairs.
It's injured, Jon realised. His eyes roamed over the dragon's immense form. Badly injured.
When the dragon had left its hilltop and waded through the army of the dead, it had been vulnerable. They had escaped the legion of wights and ice spiders, but now there were even more bloody wounds along the dragon's legs and lower hide. Its scales were tough, but not indestructible.
The scales seemed thinner along the back of the joints, along the side of the belly, he noticed. The dead had somehow known where to target.
If they catch us again, the dragon will be in trouble, Jon realised. A thousand pinpricks could eventually even kill a dragon.
Jon's finally let go of the dragon's horn. He had to shake his arms to work circulation back into them, and then he was wincing. He didn't think that he had ever held onto anything that tightly in his entire life before. His whole body felt sore and ready to collapse into the snow, and Jon desperately wanted to rest - but he knew that he couldn't.
If the Others ambush us when we're recovering…
Jon did nothing but wince and curse as he shambled down from the dragon's neck. His body still screamed from the injuries he took during the fight. They were light wounds, but still painful, and he nearly lost his grip trying to clamber down the beast's neck. Even through his gloves, the dragon's white scales were so sharp his hands were scratched and bloody. He fell downwards three feet from the ground, crumpling to the snow painfully.
The dragon curled up with a low growl while Jon limped over the snowy ground. Its eyes were focused on Jon, though.
Up close, the dragon was larger than anything Jon had ever seen before. The dragon put mammoths to shame, so large that even when coiled its body draped over the mountainside.
It made him feel weak just staring at the wall of muscle and flesh. His head was still spinning, struggling to think…
First things first. Fire. I need fire, and I need to tend my wounds. Qhorin Halfhand had always said that any wound that wasn't treated quickly could fester.
Normally, Jon would have hesitated lighting a fire with so many looking for him, but he figured that the giant dragon was already enough of a giveaway. He needed the heat.
He stared around him, but there were no trees on the barren mountainside. He had no kindling.
His shoulder was still bleeding slightly, and Jon gasped as he pulled the ice spider's fangs out of back. The fangs were wicked curved and white, but fortunately they hadn't gone deep through his thick furs and leathers. Still, the venom was making him feel numb, and woozy.
Fire. I need fire.
There was no kindling in sight. He didn't even have a flint.
Jon paused, considering it. He turned to stare at the dragon.
"Fire," he muttered. "You can breathe fire. I need warmth. Fire."
The dragon's unblinking black eyes stared at him. Jon cursed. His furs were thick, but the air atop this mountain was colder than sin, and the lingering venom caused a cold sweat on his brow. Jon tried to close his eyes and concentrate on warging, like he'd done before, but it was harder. He couldn't concentrate deeply enough; his head was aching.
The dragon is from Old Valyria, he remembered the three-eyed crow mentioning. It must have encountered humans before. The Valyrians had been dragon-tamers.
Jon struggled to think. What was the Valyrian word for fire? The only Valyrian he had ever learnt was from Maester Luwin had been the occasional word or phrase that popped up during his lessons.
"Umm… dracatrik !" Jon shouted, slurring his words. He knew the herb 'dragonthorn', which had Valyrian roots as 'dracatrik'. Targaryen names, he thought, Targaryen names were based on Valyrian words. "Draclarion… Dracagar… um… Dracaerys -"
Suddenly, the dragon inhaled. Great plumes of steam billowed from its mouth. Dracarys, Jon realised. It meant dragonfire. The name 'Aerys' had roots from the word 'fire', and 'draca' was a bastard form of 'dragon'. Dragonfire.
Jon saw white flames grow from the dragon's mouth. He jumped backwards instinctively, but the dragon wasn't aiming for him. The white stream of fire scoured over the rocks, causing evaporation to fill the air.
No; not fire. The air was split apart by white jet of... something. A force that burned, but without heat. Something of such intensity that it looked like fire - but it wasn't hot. It wasn't fire.
Rocks split apart in shattering reports of noise, and even ice shattered in a staccato of glasslike cries.
It was the first time Jon had felt the dragon's breath from up close - and contrary from what he had expected, he only felt the area grow colder. Dangerously so. Jon suddenly felt the temperature plummet even further. The backdraft was so cold it scalded his skin.
The dragonfire was colder than anything he had ever imagined. It was so cold that the rocks cracked and snapped, while the frost scoured everything clean. The cold steam billowed like smoke - white mist scorching over the rocks and snow. It was so cold that the stones were still crackling.
The dragon's breath was so cold it burnt. If he had been unwise enough to put his hand in it, he had no doubt his hand would have snapped off. The dragon's breath was icefire, he realised, and it was beyond freezing.
Its breath had left spikes of ice as sharp as needles scattered around it, pointing away from the dragon's jaws like sharp daggers. In an instant, it froze the moisture in the air into spikes. The rocks were still hissing and crackling from the intense, concentrated cold while the icy mist caused him to shiver.
"… You breathe cold." The statement felt so dumb. He was trembling even more. "You breathe cold… Of course you do. Ice dragon, breathes cold."
Despite himself, Jon felt a chuckle hit his throat. The venom was making him woozy. He was chuckling even as his hands trembled. "… You breathe cold…"
His body was trembling. Slowly, Jon moved to put his hand against the dragon's scale, on its torso. The dragon didn't twitch. He could feel its quiet, steady breathing.
Even through his glove, the dragon's body felt cool. Not freezing cold, just cool.
No fire then. Not today.
Jon took a deep breath, pulling his furs up further and cocooning himself in his cloak. It would be a cold night, but there was nothing for it. He needed to rest; the adrenaline and battle fury bled away so quickly he felt ready to collapse on the spot.
The dragon needed to rest too. It was exhausted and tired - it had been fighting for days. It needed to rest and it needed to heal.
Jon stared upwards at the dragon's wings. Its left wing was still injured. It couldn't fly. It needed time to heal, and that meant that it needed a place of safety. There was little safety around in the north these days.
For a heartbeat, Jon debated trying to bring it to the three-eyed crow. Still, the greenseer would not want him to, and the dragon most certainly could not fit in the tunnels. Jon needed a safe place, a place where the dragon could be protected.
The Wall was an attractive option. South of it, he would not need to worry about the Others. Still - the Wall was seven hundred feet high and the dragon couldn't fly. They would be trapped at the foot of Wall, unable to fit through the tunnels. Then there was the issue of the sworn brothers; he had no idea how to even explain all that had happened since he had first left with Qhorin. They must think I'm dead, Jon quietly thought. It had been months.
How will the Night's Watch react if I tried to bring an injured ice dragon into the realm? Jon wasn't too keen to find out, and he wasn't even sure if he could stop the dragon from terrorising innocent citizens. This dragon was immense, as large as any from the stories and histories that Luwin had taught him. If it chose to hunt humans it could not be stopped. Until Jon was sure he could control it, it would be too dangerous to bring it into the north.
No, he decided. I need somewhere secluded, but safe. Somewhere I can learn how to tame the dragon. Somewhere the dragon has time to heal. Somewhere we can protect ourselves from the Others.
He could only think of one place; the most easily defendable location in the North. A place surrounded by a natural harbour, with enough seals and walruses off the coast it could even feed a dragon. It was even close enough to the Wall that they could cross around it if they had to.
"Hardhome," Jon decided finally. "We must go to Hardhome."
So far as he knew, the peninsula was deserted. Once, it had been the closest thing the wildlings had ever had to a true town, but then Hardhome had been razed and all its people slain. Nobody was quite sure what happened. The wildlings avoided the place now - they considered the peninsula cursed.
But Hardhome would be secluded, defendable, and close to the Wall.
They could outrun the Others through the Haunted Forest towards the coast. The wildlings had whispered that the Others' forces came from the Lands of Always Winter, towards the northwest. Heading southeast as far as possible seemed like a plan.
The Others still hadn't moved their forces in bulk. Even at the battle of the Frostfangs, Jon doubted if there had been any more than five hundred wights, and far fewer Others. The Haunted Forest had seen white walkers, but there couldn't be many of them. Perhaps those were only scouts or outriders, in fact.
From Hardhome, I could go to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Maybe I could even cross over to Skagos…
He took a deep breath, trying to focus himself. There was no shelter on the mountainside, instead he had to press up against the dragon to escape from the wind. He crawled under its wing, pressing near its chest. He was a bit scared that the dragon might shift and crush him, but the ice dragon seemed to be sound asleep. Its breaths were deep and even, sonorous in a way that reminded him of a blacksmith's bellows.
Jon propped his head up against the dragon's scales, letting his eyes drift out over the mountain. The sun was foggy behind the clouds, but it felt late. The dragon wasn't warm, but it was welcome shelter.
Strangely, Jon felt better the longer he touched the dragon's hide. He could still feel the cold, but it didn't have the same edge to it. Like the cold didn't hurt him in the same way.
Jon took a deep breath. He knew he should stay awake, but his eyes felt so heavy and it was hard to even concentrate.
The dragon's snoring was a low rumble, so deep it felt like a shiver running down Jon's spine.
"… You should have a name," Jon said, mostly to himself. It felt like the dragon needed a name. "I don't know what your old name was, but I suppose you need a new one."
His head tilted backwards, thinking quietly. A great dragon of white and red, one that could breathe ice colder than any storm…
"Winter," Jon said after a pause. Winter is coming, his family's words. It was the only word that seemed appropriate. "… You are winter."
It took him a while to remember the Valyrian word for winter. The time passed by in drowsy silence, until he eventually figured it out.
"Sonagon," Jon said, just as his eyelids began to close. "Your name is Sonagon…"
…
Jon was woken early by a stinging pain. His eyelids flickered, he winced. After a moment, he realised that there was a raven on his shoulder, it was pecking his face.
The greenseer, Jon realised, slowly coming awake. He had to shake away some of his exhaustion, and then he heard the noise in the air.
The air was filled with the sounds of ravens fluttering around him. The birds cawed noisily, pecking at his cheek and Jon could only stare weakly as he gathered up the strength to move. The greenseer said that he would try to hold the Others back from giving chasing, but Jon doubted he would be able to do so for long. We need to move.
He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He found Ghost again quickly. His direwolf had survived the battle with little but a mildly injured rump, but had been forced to take a different path. The direwolf was circling around these mountains to avoid the wights, and Jon guessed they would see one another soon.
Phantom was harder to find. The shadowcat had almost managed to slip away from him whilst he slept; it had fled much further than Ghost had. Jon had to struggle to pull Phantom in again, but then ordered both animals to come towards him.
Jon clenched a fist, testing his chilled fingers. He let out a breath, and his body was shivering. The ravens were still cawing around him. The dead must be close, Jon realised, eyeing the birds. He would have to hurry.
He tried to stand, and then staggered over himself. He felt stiff, and weak. I'm cold . His furs were good, but not so good to last exposed to the elements. His wounds had barely swollen shut, but he still had bruises and any injuries could easily fester.
And I'm starving, Jon realised, listening to his stomach growl. He hadn't eaten since the battle, and he had no rations with him. God, so hungry…
A raven popped onto his knee, absolutely fearlessly, staring with knowing eyes.
Jon paused. He stared at the raven. "… Sorry about this, crow," Jon said with a sigh, before reaching out to grab the bird. The raven trembled as Jon snapped its neck. The other ravens around him didn't seemed to mind. Jon had never eaten raw raven before, but he was hungry enough to make do. It was a bad taste, but in the moment the warmth of its blood made him gasp.
He handled his injuries as best as he could, before staggering upwards and wondering what he was supposed to do now.
Above Sonagon's deep, throaty breath caused a mist of cold air evaporate across the ground. The dragon is hungry too, Jon knew. Starving, actually. Sonagon's breath became hoarser when it was hungry.
"Easy," Jon said cautiously, approaching Sonagon. "We've got to move. This direction. Come on, we can't rest now, we've got to go that way."
The dragon didn't move. For such a large animal, it stopped to rest frequently and often. It spent most of the day coiled and resting. Jon cursed quietly.
"The Others could catch up to us any day now!" Jon ordered. "The Others. The wights. The dead. They nearly killed you once, you can't let them catch us again. We've got to move now! Before nightfall - move!"
Black beady eyes stared at him. The dragon didn't twitch. For a moment, Jon debated whether he should try to force another warg with it to get it moving, but then he heard a long, slow growl rumble in the dragon's throat.
Jon hesitated for a brief moment, before cursing and limping away. There was a dangerous tone to the dragon's growl.
The dragon isn't the most vulnerable one here, Jon thought, struggling to move. I'm far more likely to die before the dragon does. Jon needed shelter and warmth more than the dragon did. There was so little of either to be had on the mountainside.
His bad leg felt stiff, causing him to stumble. Think, Jon cursed. I need to find a place to set up camp, to make a fire, to tend to my wounds. I'm not going to last long like this…
The thought of the dead elk caused him to stir. I'm not going to last on foot, he decided. Not when I'm bleeding strength. I need a mount, something to carry me.
Around him, the ravens cawed. His hands clenched, trying to focus, staring at the ravens as they circled around him. Jon half collapsed into the snow, gasping for breath as he focused on one of the birds.
The raven was well-used to warging, like a well-worn glove, but it was still difficult for Jon to pull himself into him. The bird's senses were fluttery and wild, so flickering and Jon could barely make sense of it. The raven wasn't grounded; it threatened to pull Jon away, as if the connection between them might snap and his consciousness could get lost.
Still, Jon was desperate enough to risk it. He used the raven's eyes to scout out around the mountainside, sweeping over rocky cliffs, trying to find movement. Jon wasn't so sure what he was looking for, but then he saw a shape clambering easily over the rocks. Through a raven's blurry vision, Jon barely recognised the goat hobbling over the cliffs.
A goat. A mountain goat, Jon thought. A goat would do.
He gasped as he pulled himself back to his body. It took all of his strength to pull himself up urgently, rushing in the direction he had seen the animal moving. He left Sonagon behind him, the dragon still snoozing on the rocks.
Jon found the goat fairly quickly. It was a large mountain goat; a slightly aging male with white fur tinged with black around the neck, snow brushed into its woolly fur, and large, curved horns protruding backwards from its head. The goat stood perhaps up to his shoulder, yet it was bulky and hardy enough to survive the harsh climate. Jon saw the goat hobbling easily over the rocks, moving across the mountains. It must have seen the dragon pass, he realised. It's fleeing from the dragon.
He stared, feeling his legs threaten to give out. I need a mount.
Jon got close enough to hear it bleat as Jon reached out towards it with his mind. The goat protested, trembled and tried to instinctively run. Phantom had tried to lash out, the goat just galloped away. Jon's hold nearly broke, but he was desperate enough to force onwards, pulling himself further into the animal's skin.
The goat felt different. It was prey; its skin felt long and hollow. Jon was so used to the sharpness and focus of predators like Ghost and Phantom; but the goat saw the world in terms of fear and threats, as if there could be hunters hiding behind every corner. It was a way of viewing the world that was totally alien; like being scared was in its nature. Jon sagged, struggling to wrap himself around the goat's body. The goat didn't try to fight back, it just ran from him - making the goat's presence feel so soft and mushy that Jon could barely hold onto it.
With Phantom, the shadowcat had fought violently, but as soon as Jon had defeated it he was in control. With the goat, it was harder, it took longer. Instead, Jon had to take the goat's body slowly, piece by piece until there was nowhere to run. First, he worked on just holding on to it, keeping the goat in his third eye, and then slowly pulling himself into its senses, and into the animal's limbs.
By the time Jon was finally in control, his human body had already collapsed. The goat felt easier to control than a shadowcat, but also far, far more exhausting. Still, Jon turned the goat around and back towards him, feeling the way he bounded over sharp rocks on nimble hooves. His legs were strong, his hooves flexible enough to easily clutch onto the narrowest ledge, while the goat bounded over the rocks as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Jon was gasping for breath by the time he was finally able to touch the goat. He could feel its thick, rough fur in his fingers. Through great force of will, he managed to hold the animal still as Jon levered his body over his back, clutching onto the goat's horns to steady himself. The goat was the size of a pony, but nowhere near as docile. The goat wasn't a trained mount; instead Jon had to constantly force the goat to behave when every instinct the goat had ordered him to throw the human off and run.
Jon felt the goat internally scream in panic as Jon's weight dropped onto it. The goat isn't as strong as a horse or an elk either, Jon thought with a gulp. The goat struggled to carry a human's weight. Still, there was no choice.
What little consciousness he had left, Jon struggled to think of a name for the goat. For some reason he couldn't quite explain, it felt like the goat deserved a name.
"… Hullen," Jon decided. The hard, rugged old goat reminded him of the old master of horses back at Winterfell. Jon had good memories of Hullen - the old man had always treat him fairly, and taught him to ride his first ever steed. "I'm going to call you Hullen."
Jon nearly collapsed on the animal's back, still clutching the horns, while his mind took over the goat's body and carried him through the mountainside. The goat proved unmatched at clambering over harsh terrain, even where there was no path, and Jon made good time he finally found a clearing of pines and brambles over a frozen mountain stream.
It was dusk by the time Jon finally got a fire going, nestling himself into the clearing while Hullen foraged in the hills and Jon loaded up his satchel with as much kindling, berries and fresh water he could carry. He washed his wounds out, cleaning the injuries and then cauterising the deepest of the cuts by heating Dark Sister up over the fire, and scolding the burning blade against injured skin. It wasn't the nicest way to treat injuries, but Jon had no time for anything else.
He spent the rest of the night sleeping, while he pulled his mind into Hullen to scout out the surroundings.
In the distance, at night, he heard Sonagon roar.
The next morning, weary but feeling stronger, Jon mounted up the goat again and he returned back along the mountain to the dragon's side.
The giant beast had barely moved down the mountain from where Jon had left it the previous day. Sonagon's body was still lumbering and weak. The dragon glared at Jon hungrily as he approached on his goat, those dark eyes feral and vicious.
The dragon had been attacked by wights during the night, Jon realised. Not many, but a few - probably scouts sent searching the mountainside for them . The wights must have ambushed Sonagon as it slept; and then climbed onto the dragon's head where Sonagon struggled to shake them off.
The wights went for Sonagon's eyes, Jon thought, staring at the new scratches across the dragon's snout; the wights must have tried to gouge out its eyes . They hadn't succeeded, but they came close. Jon wondered what it would be like to wake up to find tiny undead, clawing monsters scrambling on your face.
If those were scouts, then the Others know where the dragon is, Jon thought with a grimace. If the Others really do warg into their wights, then there is a white walker right now directing even more wights to Sonagon's location. Anything one wight sees, they all see.
Jon stumbled as he dismounted Hullen. "Dragon!" Jon shouted, staring into its beady eyes. "We need to move! There will be more coming!"
It was watching him, but it wasn't moving. Jon raised his voice, but it still barely echoed over the mountainside. "Do you understand?!" he shouted. "We're both in danger here! We have to move!"
There was nothing but steady breathing. Jon cursed quietly, wondering what he was supposed to do now. For a while, Jon milled around the dragon, trying to find some way of moving it.
I need to control it, he decided finally. He closed his eyes and tried to warg with it, but then he heard the dragon's breathing freeze. Jon stared at the dragon's eye. Those eyes were sharp, threatening. It's alert, and angry.
After a long moment, Jon hesitated, retreated backwards and mounted Hullen to move a safe distance away.
Sonagon didn't like it when Jon forced a warg with it. The dragon wasn't a goat; it could quite easily kill him if Jon pushed it too far.
The rest of the day was spent in awkward uncertainty. Jon mounted Hullen, while he uncertainly reached out to Ghost and Phantom to watch for wights, but most of his time was spent struggling to figure out what to do.
Jon learnt quickly the subtle signs that kept him alive. The way the dragon would growl and snap, warning Jon to keep his distance. When the dragon was resting or tired Jon could come close, but it was safe to be cautious. The dragon was not a tame creature; even if it could be friendly - on occasion - but it would never obey. Jon had to treat it like he would an injured bear or wolf; respect it, but always be on guard.
Sonagon moved at its own pace. It didn't wait for Jon, and it didn't ask permission. Ghost would stay by Jon's side, while Sonagon always just expected Jon to stay by its.
The first time the dragon started moving again, Jon jumped as it nearly crushed him when it stood up. The dragon staggered of the ground and moved with great, earth-rumbling stamps each time it moved its legs. It didn't even walk quickly, but its gait was so long that Jon still fell behind.
Without Hullen, Jon would never have kept up with it. The dragon was large enough to clamber over rocks and cliffs that even Hullen had to try and gingerly traverse, particularly when carrying a human. It was only because the dragon stopped to rest or sniff that Jon could keep up.
The first two days Jon was afraid he was going to lose it again - that it would go off its own way and get trapped once more. Jon tried shouting and ordering it, but Sonagon would always just dismiss him.
Only when they warged did Jon feel like he had any measure of control over the creature. Still, Sonagon wasn't like Ghost. Jon could slip into Ghost's skin anytime at will, but the dragon was much more selective. Sonagon would choose when and where Jon was allowed to warg with it.
It was hard work. Dangerous work. Sometimes, when Sonagon started snarling and growling, Jon would be forced to back away a safe distance. The more irritable Sonagon became, the more care Jon had to take.
Jon stuck to the goat's back across most of the mountainside, but it was difficult. When he had to control Hullen nearly constantly, he had so little concentration left to keep the leash on Phantom. He left Phantom patrolling across a ravine in the distance, but the shadowcat was constantly slipping away and Jon struggled to bring her back.
He left Hullen to forage to regain some strength, while Jon lingered on the snow, wondering what to do. The wights will be on us soon, he thought. Sonagon is getting weaker every day, I can't control him, and I won't be able to fight the wights off.
Suddenly, there was cawing in distance. Ravens. Jon saw four birds circling over the cliffs, cawing to attract attention. The ravens would come and go, but Jon knew that the three-eyed crow was always working with him in the background. Jon hesitated for a long time, but he followed the ravens.
He summoned Hullen to carry him through the snow. The goat was tiring as well. They reached the bottom of the cliffside, when slowly Jon heard the trumpeting echo through the air. Behind him, Jon noticed Sonagon perk up at that sound.
The sound of a mammoth's cry, Jon realised. Jon kept on heading in the direction, and behind him the ground shuddered as the dragon pulled himself up to follow. It was the first time Sonagon followed Jon.
They reached at a snowy basin between the mountains, where the rocks met the plains, when he saw the mammoth marching weakly across the snow. A great beast larger than any horse - standing fifteen feet off the ground, with shaggy moulted brown fur and huge, hooked tusks that draped over the snow. Compared to Sonagon the mammoth was tiny, but it was still a huge lumbering beast. Jon stared in awe at the great woolly mammoth, noticing how the mammoth limped. It was injured too - Jon saw old, rusted arrows and blades jutting out of the mammoth's shaggy fur.
A giant clan, Jon recalled the greenseer mentioning. The three-eyed crow took control of the giant's mammoths to sacrifice them as a distraction against the Others.
From the looks of things, this must have been one of the mammoths that had managed to survive. It escaped the Others, but it was struggling to move. The mammoth was weak, injured, and dying.
But the three-eyed crow is still inside it, he realised. The greenseer must have directed it towards me for some reason, maybe as a mount or a—
Without warning, Sonagon snapped. Jon could barely even fall to the snow in time as the dragon bounded over him. He gasped as the great mass of white scales shot overhead. Hullen bleated in pure panic, breaking free of Jon's control briefly. The mammoth only managed to give out a short, strangled cry of panic.
Oh. The dragon needs feeding, he thought dumbly. The greenseer must have directed the wounded mammoth to Jon because he knew the dragon was starving.
Jon stared in shock as the dragon's breath burst in a concentrated white blast before the mammoth could even run. Sonagon dropped onto the beast without hesitation, even as the dragonfire turned the mammoth into cracking ice. In an instant, the mammoth turned into a cracking frozen statue, and then Sonagon's claws and teeth were crunching through it. Sharp teeth snapped through the frozen meat, swallowing chunks in huge, galloping breath.
It eats its meat frozen, Jon realised. The ice dragon uses its breath to freeze its prey before eating it. There was barely anything left of the mammoth by the time Sonagon was done. The dragon had a large appetite; a fully-grown mammoth was a good-sized meal for it.
Jon was still staring in dumb shock and faint awe at the patch of ice-scorched ground that, not long ago, had been an entire mammoth. The dragon growled lowly with a final gulp, before turning to lumber away.
Jon wondered, briefly how quickly Sonagon could eat a human on a goat, but there was nothing for it except to follow.
Later that night, Sonagon was content. It still lumbered and twisted, and panted in pain as it slept, but the much-needed meal had helped a lot. The dragon didn't growl as much, and Jon spent a long time inspecting the dragon from closer up.
It's an animal, he thought. A huge, magnificent animal, but still just an animal. All animals need the same things; they need to be fed, they need to be kept safe, and they needed to be kept well.
That night, Jon stared upwards at the ravens cawing around him, and he started to plan. He looked at the snow-covered mountain goat, thinking about the horses at Winterfell.
Jon remembered how Hullen, Winterfell's master of horses, had reacted each and every time he and Robb had brought in a new, temperamental stallion. Hullen used to brag that he could handle even the foulest stallion, but there was no secret to it except patience and experience. Hullen had never been forceful with his charges, but he would always be present. Hullen could wait and sit by a horse's side for hours, calming and reassuring it with his presence. The trick to horsemanship is patience, Hullen had always said.
I've got to as patient as him, Jon thought.
He gathered up all his determination, even as he was still limping on his bad leg. By morning, Jon had a plan.
He stuck by the dragon's side for as long as he could, trying to keep pace on his goat. Every time the dragon relaxed, Jon attempted to warg with it again. Jon wasn't forceful, always soothing. Whenever the dragon had its moods, Jon would go a safe distance and try to meditate to reach it.
Jon had no idea how the Targaryens of old would tame dragons. He had heard that Valyrians used to use sorcery, fire and whips to bind them. Jon did... not think that would have been a good idea, even if he had the knowledge or the means. He was forced to try and tame a dragon with nothing but patience, and a power that he didn't even understand. But it felt better. Right.
The only thing that kept Jon alive was Ghost and Hullen. Without the goat, Jon would have been left behind on the mountainside to freeze, and without the direwolf Jon wouldn't have been able to survive at all.
He met up with Ghost four days after the fight with the wights. Jon kept Phantom away from him to watch for pursuers over the mountain and to take care of any wight strugglers, but it was Ghost that took care of Jon.
Jon started warging into the direwolf more than ever now, relying on Ghost more and more. He used Ghost to alert him about the route, even to bring Jon meat enough to eat while Jon was busy chasing after Sonagon. Ghost could catch snow hares, one a time a fox, and bring the meat back to Jon in his jaws. Still, Jon knew it couldn't last; Ghost was getting weary too, and not even Ghost could take care of a human as well as himself forever in the harsh terrain.
On the sixth day, Sonagon stopped to rest by an icy canyon and didn't move again for nearly ten hours. Its breathing was deep and thick, but also faster than normal. Weaker. Its strength was fading.
It was only when Jon saw the wounds across its hide and legs that he realised why. The dragon's injuries were sapping its strength.
Sonagon needed treatment, and Jon so added dragon care onto the list of things he knew nothing about, but would have to figure out.
The first time Jon touched one of Sonagon's wounds - an arrow embedded between its scales on its right hind leg - Sonagon hissed and flinched. It took three hours of reassurance before Jon was allowed to come near it again.
Jon pulled the arrow out as gingerly as possible, causing the dragon to hiss and snap dangerously. He was vaguely surprised to see that Sonagon's blood was thick, thicker than a man's, and pale in colour - it was white like milk, so white it was barely visible on its scales and snow - and that the blood ran so cold that the wound would freeze shut. Still, Jon pulled out four more arrows, as well as the broken blade of an axe, and slowly he was allowed near the other injuries.
Many of the injuries were so high up on the dragon's massive body that Jon had climb up the dragon's scales to reach them. It was perilous work, particularly given Sonagon's temperament. Jon pulled out everything from broken sword tips to ice spider fangs, and he cleaned and tended the wounds as best he could. Bandages were nearly impossible due to the dragon's size, so Jon just had to make do.
It was long, tiring and awkward work because of Sonagon's size. Jon spent all day working on it. Sonagon particularly wasn't happy when it came time for Jon to pull out the spears.
Eventually, though, Sonagon began to actively... cooperate. The dragon even unfurled its wings slightly, and let Jon see the painful gashes on its right wing that stopped the dragon from flying. There were cuts straight through leathery skin, even arrows sticking through its wings. Those were much more difficult and awkward to treat. Jon cut out the arrows and even tried to bandage what he could, but there was little he could do for the gashes through its wings.
Maybe if I had a very large needle and rope strong enough, and I was feeling very, very brave, I could try to stitch them shut, Jon thought despondently. Would the wing's wounds ever heal? If a bird's wings were clipped badly enough, then it could be grounded for life. Were dragons similar?
Still, Sonagon wasn't a bird. Its wings were far too big to be bare skin and bone - occasionally Jon saw the wounds on the wings bleed, and there were long muscles all the way across the wing that could clench the leathery skin together. If there was blood flowing through the wings, it made Jon think that eventually the wound might close and the wings would heal.
The wings are a huge vulnerability for a dragon, Jon realised. They were big, hard to protect, and if they were damaged they would ground the dragon. Jon supposed it made sense that dragons would have some way of eventually healing from wing injuries - otherwise even slight holes on a wing could be fatal for large dragons. The muscles in the wings could contract, and the wounds would eventually close as the skin regrew. Perhaps I could find some way of clamping the skin together to help it heal? Jon mused. Some sort of bandage to help the dragon fly again? Maybe a needle and thread?
There were exactly ninety-seven wounds scattered across the dragon's huge body. Jon knew because he counted and inspected every single one.
He spent a long time inspecting the dragon and its injuries. Trying to learn everything about, trying to think how he could help it heal. Even as the dragon slept, Jon was still inspecting it, his head whirring.
Jon reminded how hard it had been looking after Ghost when he was pup. He remembered his father warning him how much care any animal required. Jon supposed that a fully-grown dragon would require a thousand times more care than a wolf. Jon knew in his bones how difficult that would be.
I've doing it wrong, Jon sighed. I've been trying to take control of him with skinchanging, just expecting the dragon to follow my commands.
Sonagon expected differently; you had to look after it before it would allow you to control it.
"My duty," Jon said, to the icy silence. "My responsibility. It's my duty to look after him."
Firstly, food. The mammoth had helped, but the dragon had still gone hungry far too long. Jon closed his eyes and slipped into Ghost's skin as he started to hunt.
He knew Sonagon had trouble feeding himself. Dragons simply weren't meant to hunt on the ground - Sonagon was too large; he would scare away prey before he could hunt them. Previously, Jon suspected that Sonagon had been surviving by eating the wights, but he needed good food.
The dragon was out of his element. Sonagon's sense of smell was impressive, but he was also unfamiliar with the environment. Sonagon's nose could smell the ocean a hundred miles away, but it couldn't pick out the scent of prey in the trees.
However, Ghost could. Ghost was a natural tracker and hunter in the cold. Jon prowled in Ghost's skin all night, searching for food. By morning, Jon opened his eyes again.
"This way!" Jon ordered, half-swatting Sonagon on the neck to wake him. The dragon stirred slowly. "Food. Let's go eat. Food."
There was a low growl from Sonagon, and Jon grimaced but retreated a safe distance. He kept on trying to stir Sonagon by reaching out with the warg. It took three hours to finally convince the dragon to stand up, and another three hours to convince him to follow Jon. Jon mounted Hullen, careful to keep the dragon behind him.
Still, even the dragon picked up slightly when they got close enough to recognise the smell. They headed down to a snowy valley, and eventually even Jon saw the tracks leading towards a small cave hidden in the rocks.
The snow bear was a large, impressive beast. It stood thirteen feet tall when reared up, as large as the one Varamyr used to ride on. The bear should have been the top predator - it wasn't used to ever having to hide or cower - but it had never met a dragon before.
The bear tried to take shelter in its cave as Sonagon approached, but it was useless. Sonagon didn't even need to claw it out, the dragon just took a deep breath and breathing sub-zero air straight in to the cave. The cold breath left the rocks cracking, and the bear broke into a frozen statue while the dragon dragged it out. Jon watched in quiet amazement. The scene made Jon shiver.
It was over quickly. The snow bear was a large creature, a good meal even for Sonagon, but the dragon still gulped it quickly, crunching through icy meat. The dragon growled in satisfaction.
After that, Jon thought that maybe Sonagon started to follow him more easily. Between the mammoth and then the bear, the dragon started to realise that Jon could lead him to food.
They kept on moving, heading east over the Frostfangs for as long as Hullen could manage. Jon took care to change direction regularly, trying to throw off any pursuers.
The next day, Jon left Sonagon alone and followed a trail on his own. Ghost led him straight to a large deer foraging in the woods. Jon shot at it with his bow and wounded the deer, and Ghost eagerly chased it down. Afterwards, Jon used his sword to carve the deer, cutting off two legs - one for Jon to roast and the other for Ghost to eat - while Jon skinned the kill but left the rest of the meat alone.
This time, Sonagon came eagerly. The dragon happily responded to Jon's warg, and then gobbled up the remainder of the deer in a single bite. Later, Sonagon rested peacefully, allowing Jon to stay close while he slept. Jon stitched the deer's hide to create a makeshift bandage, for the deepest and worst of Sonagon's wounds.
Later that night, the wights finally tracked them down again. Jon saw them coming through Phantom's eyes, and he moved to ambush them. Four wights.
His sword sliced the first one's skull open. After that, he jumped down onto the wights in the pitch black of night, with a torch in one hand and Dark Sister swinging in the other.
"My dragon is sleeping," Jon growled. Rotten blood splashed through the air. "Please don't disturb him."
It was getting easier to kill the wights. Jon was learning how to fight them. They could easily take you off guard with their strength and endurance, but the trick was to go for the limbs first. Completely kill them wasn't necessary - a good sword could sever their legs and then they would be left useless. Generally, the wights were so unguarded that they left themselves wide open for attack. The only difficulty was standing strong against their unhuman strength,
Jon tried to take out their eyes first, so the white walkers would have trouble tracking him through them.
He took care of the creatures quickly - cutting off their arms and legs and leaving their possessed bodies to squirm. Two of them were rotten black, but one of the bodies was good enough for Phantom strip the cold meat of the bones. The wights were foul meat that Jon refused to touch, but when hungry enough Phantom had no such qualms. The meat still wriggled slightly even as the shadowcat chewed it.
A pattern emerged. Jon could control Hullen by day to carry him, and he controlled Phantom by night to hunt down wights. The challenge was keeping the shadowcat and the goat separate. Ghost tended to Jon's call constantly.
By day, Jon waited for Sonagon to walk, trying to learn the dragon's habits. It was slow going out of the mountains, but they made do. The ravens still guided the way, saving Jon's life more than once. Jon changed routes constantly, trying to throw off the wights that would be following them.
Jon scouted out the path ahead, and when the dragon was ready Jon would simply gently push him - like Jon was simply extending out an invitation for the dragon to follow.
The route of the mountains was slow, and exhausting. Jon was working on less than two hours sleep most days, with little time to rest. He was too busy tending to the dragon's wounds, following the dragon, tracking down prey for the dragon, even protecting it from wights that tried to pursue the dragon.
"… You wouldn't be able to survive out here by yourself, would you?" Jon muttered, glancing to the dragon. "You're big and strong, but you wouldn't be able to hunt or avoid the wights without me. I don't think you would have lasted this long without me." He took deep pants, feeling the cold ache in his bones. "… I think you need me, and I think you're starting to realise that too."
He took a few labouring steps, before sighing. "… Then again," Jon conceded. "… I wouldn't have survived out here by myself either."
Nothing changed for the next four days. For the most part Sonagon acted as if he didn't even notice Jon's efforts. Like the dragon simply expected Jon to serve it.
Dragons are worse than cats, he thought with a grimace. They expect servitude instinctively.
Then, one day, when Hullen was out foraging and Jon was too exhausted to walk over the rough terrain proved too hard for his bad leg, Sonagon halted suddenly. Jon stared, but the dragon stopped moving hundred feet ahead.
He's waiting for me to catch up, Jon realised. It was the very first sign that maybe the dragon appreciated his efforts too.
Later, Sonagon didn't even object when Jon tried to climb up its neck again. It was the first time Jon tried to mount Sonagon since they escaped from the Others. The ice dragon was almost (not quite, but almost) patient as Jon clambered upwards to grip its horn. Jon's heart was in mouth, clutching onto Sonagon's horn as the great dragon lumbered.
That day, Jon left Hullen behind. The goat could forage for longer by the mountainside while Jon rode on Sonagon's head.
The journey was easier, too. Sonagon walked slowly for a beast his size, and thrashed his head less. Jon's mouth hung agape as he watched the rocky landscape drift by from the top of the dragon's head.
He could see the mountains and rock breaking more and more into pine forests as they headed out of the Frostfangs.
The days became easier. Still rough, but more regular. Jon would scout, hunt and plan ahead as the dragon was resting, but while when they were moving Jon was allowed to climb on as Sonagon would carry him. He rotated between Ghost, Phantom and Hullen, using each animal whenever he was indisposed.
I've survived in the wilderness with no human contact for over a month and a half now, Jon mused. It was a feat that even Qhorin Halfhand would have been proud of.
The Frostfangs was not an easy terrain, and it took a direwolf, a goat and a shadowcat, and supernatural assistance from a flock of ravens to keep Jon alive.
The days ticked by in slow, rough living and constant movement. The Others might be scouring the land for them, but the Frostfangs were big enough to even hide a dragon.
Every time he could, at every free moment, Jon closed his eyes and tried to connect to the dragon. Sonagon was constantly suspicious each time that Jon extended the warg, but he forced himself to stay patient, non-threatening.
And slowly, very slowly, Sonagon let Jon slip under his skin.
Every time he did, it took his breath away.
Sonagon sees the world on a different scale, Jon realised. He sees colours in terms of hot and cold, he can smell wind currents and storms from entire horizons away. The dragon's senses were like no other beast Jon had ever encountered.
During the dreams, they connected more and more. Jon saw visions, vague, blurry old memories, of flying over cold seas and unfamiliar lands that could not possibly have been Westeros. Endless deserts with sand that flowed like water, smoking seas that belched fire, rivers with delicious turtles the size of skiffs, jungles with apes - apes - the size of houses. He remembered dueling in the sky over an endless green wild with creatures that weren't dragons, but didn't look so far off either - but with barbed tails.
And one time, during one particular dream, there was a feeling of immense noise, a gathering of hundreds of roaring dragons at the top of a mountain of fire - and then the ground quaking, splitting apart, and great plumes of fire rising upwards from the earth…
He shivered. Whatever that dream had been - he'd seen only flashes - his skin tingled with the memories of being licked by fires like shadow, fires that ate.
Sonagon's memories. I can see the dragon's memories.
"The Doom," Jon said aloud, to the empty night. "You were there, at the Doom of Valyria."
There was no reply. The darkness was nearly pitch black. Jon stared at the dragon's great hide. White on red . His scales are white with red veins. Jon thought about the memories, and the visions from Sonagon's dreams.
"The greenseer said that dragons are creatures of magic," he muttered. "The Valyrian dragons were creatures of fire, and they burnt in the Doom…"
He stared at Sonagon, inspecting the dragon. "But you weren't always an ice dragon, were you? That's how you survived. You turned from fire to ice."
He thought about it for a while. The greenseer had said that dragons feed on magic, yet they were also shaped by it. Jon pictured Sonagon's white dragonfire and he wondered if it had always been cold.
"Red. You used to be a red dragon," Jon said. He tried to picture what Sonagon would have looked like with red scales instead of white. Absentmindedly, he touched his hair. "And then you turned to feed of cold instead of fire - you froze, your scales became white, your fire became cold, and you became an ice dragon."
There was no reply. Sonagon's eyes were like saucers of pure blackness. Jon kept on thinking about the dragon's memories.
Occasionally, Jon just started to talk himself. He would just talk to his dragon about his own memories.
First, Jon would talk about Winterfell, about his family and his childhood. He could describe his brothers and sisters, although it had felt like so long that he wondered if they even looked the same. He described Robb, Bran, little Rickon, and wild Arya most of all. Then, he started to talk about Ghost and proudly tell stories about the direwolf. Then, he started to talk about his black brothers and the Night's Watch, even mentioning Ygritte and Tormund once or twice.
Later, when they camped for the night, the stories wouldn't stop. Sonagon wouldn't make a noise, but his black eyes were staring at Jon intently.
He's listening, Jon thought, and the realisation sent shivers down his spine. He's listening to what I'm saying.
Jon didn't know how he was so sure of this... but he was sure. Sonagon was intelligent - the dragon was listening to the words. There wasn't a human 's intelligence behind those eyes, not exactly - Jon didn't think the dragon could actually understand the stories, but something about him made Jon suspect that the dragon understood more than one might think. Perhaps even more than Jon was guessing.
The thought made him smile softly. The air was quiet and still. No campfire, no noise, nothing except a cold night. Jon bundled up in furs as he stared into the great dragon's eyes.
Jon struggled to think of more stories to tell. Strangely, the only one that came to mind were Old Nan's tales.
"Once, long ago, thousands and thousands of years ago," Jon said slowly, his voice feeling strangely frail in the quiet. "A winter fell that was cold and hard and lasted beyond all memory of man. Winter came, the snows fell a hundred feet deep, and then in the Long Night, the sun hid for years. Children were born, lived, and died in darkness. That was when the white walkers moved through the woods…"
Jon had heard the tale before as a child. He had never imagined, not even in his wildest nightmares, that he would end up living it.
"… that was when the last hero set out to seek the children. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog and a dozen companions, searching for the children of the forest in their secret cities…" Jon paused in a moment of quiet reflection. "… One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his the cold touched his sword so deeply that the blade snapped when he tried to wield it against his enemy. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds…"
The story had always frightened him as a child. Now, he recited Old Nan's tale word for word, and he felt nothing. The words faded into the air like wind. Sonagon didn't make a sound.
Jon finished the tale. The fight against the Others - of the duel between the last hero and the Other's King, with the fate of the world in the balance. How the last hero won, how the Night's Watch was founded, and how they defeated the night in the Battle for the Dawn. For some reason, Jon didn't quite believe that part of the story.
Old legends get muddled up, the stranger had said.
"The last hero ended the generations-long winter and sent the Others into retreat," Jon finished. "And then Bran the Builder raised the Wall, seven hundred feet tall, to forever protect against the cold and the Long Night." Jon cocked his head at Sonagon in the dark. "And that's the part where I think history has forgotten a bit or two. Because I think I know how Bran the Builder actually built the Wall."
Jon smiled softy, thinking about the great Wall. A wall three hundred miles long and seven hundred fight tall. It was one of the greatest mysteries of the world how any man, even a legendary one, could have ever moved enough ice to build a wall that size.
"I think that Bran the Builder must have used ice dragons to build the Wall," he said. "I think that it must have taken the breath of an ice dragon - hell, maybe several - to make a Wall of ice that big. So, I think that for thousands of years something built by ice dragons has protected the realm of man."
Sonagon stared unblinkingly with dark eyes. He has black eyes, Jon noted. In the fanciful tales Old Nan used to tell about ice dragons, the ice dragons would always have blue eyes. "… and I can't help thinking…" Jon continued, his voice barely a whisper. "… that thousands of years ago the ice dragons might have stopped the Long Night, and, now, when the cold and the dead are rising again, the final ice dragon appears too."
Jon stared at the dragon with a gentle smile. Sonagon is winter, he decided.
Sometimes the dragon was as fierce and as vicious as the worst winter storm, but then other times he was a soft and as mellow as the crisp winter days, where the cold and snow wrapped around you like a cloak and the air was so clear that it was like the world paused. Jon was reminded of his old memories of winter - of epic snowball battles with Robb and long treks through the snow…
Jon closed his eyes and tried to share those memories with Sonagon too.
"… I think you're going to save the world, Sonagon," Jon whispered.
They sat, Jon talked and Sonagon listened, for a long time before they both finally fell asleep. They both dreamt of flying.
Author Notes:
In case you're wondering, I did go through a Valyrian dictionary (and yep, there really are Valyrian dictionaries!) to find a name for the ice dragon. Jon decided to name the dragon the Valyrian word for 'winter', and ended up calling it Sonagon.
Well, bit of a tangent; but the exact word for 'winter' in High Valyrian is actually 'sōnar'. The suffix '-gon' is typically 'to do something' (e.g. sōvegon is 'to fly'). It means that, really, 'Sonagon' would mean more 'to winter'; which, I know, doesn't really make sense - but, well, Jon doesn't actually speak Valyrian. The way I view it, Jon tried to figure out Valyrian with only a few phrases (imagine knowing some vague Latin terms and trying to make sense of the language), so yes, he ended up mistranslating because Jon doesn't know the lexicon. That's how I justify him naming the dragon Sonagon.
And Sonagon just sounds much better as a name anyways.