Dragons of Ice and Fire

by Diablo Snowblind

There are things hidden in the far north, secrets buried under ice. Jon Snow faces the white walkers early, and stumbles upon a power that could change the world. It forges a new path for him and everyone around him - and a new journey south, a journey as a dragon. The world begins to change - with steel and snow, fire and blood…

23. The duties of a king, the Dragonguard

The duties of a king, the founding of the Dragonguard

---

Sam

Their captors locked and barred the tower door. The brothers of the Night's Watch were imprisoned in their own castle, divided and split between the storerooms, barracks, stables or cells of Castle Black, with no more than ten per group. The wildlings would lock the doors and stand guard outside, ensuring no sworn brother could even try to assemble or move against them.

We're captives now, Sam thought with a gulp. Captives in our own castle.

He supposed it was better than being executed, but the look in some of the wildings' eyes gave him far less certainty in that than he would have liked. Some of these wildlings clearly had more than just murder on their minds, and Sam did not doubt they would act on it if they had an opening and but half an excuse. He could only pray that their leaders kept the peace.

Sam ended up confined in the rookery, along with Maester Aemon, Clydas, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck. There were not enough bunks, so Sam had to sleep on the floor by the fireplace. The wildlings had already ransacked the tower for anything that could be used as a weapon, right down to the quills, as well as stealing anything of value. They would have stolen Aemon's chain too, except the old man refused to part with it even under threat of violence.

It was a bitter night, and a bitterer morning. Bowen Marsh paced constantly, convinced that the wildlings would have them all executed. Did I make a mistake releasing Mance Rayder from his cell? Sam wondered. Edd will tell all the others what I did, and they will curse me for it.

Come evening, a barrel-chested man built like a brewery pushed through the doorway, trailed by two smaller raiders who seemed to stalk with their steps. Elites, insofar as the wildlings had such a thing.

The whole rookery froze in fear. The wildling raider's eyes flickered around the quarters, roaming from one man to the next, dismissing each in turn until his eyes settled on Sam. "You," the wildling ordered, pointing. "Fat boy. Come."

Sam was so surprised that his voice came out as a thin squeal. "Come where?"

The raider's face could have been carved out of stone. "Now."

The wildlings had axes. Sam's hands were trembling as the man grabbed him and dragged him roughly out of the room. Nobody else said a word, and the wildlings barred the door behind him.

The wildling frogmarched Sam out into the courtyard. The snow was thick underfoot. He had never seen Castle Black so wild - thousands of wildlings were huddled around campfires, tents and supplies scattered every which way throughout the castle's inner grounds. Celebrating and feasting on the sworn brother's stores. The scene looked mad, savage, highlighted by fires in the black night.

Sam glimpsed a fourteen-foot-tall figure stomping around the grounds, roaring. A giant. The sight made his knees so weak that the wildling raider had to kick him to keep him moving.

He's taking me to the King's Tower, Sam realised. Jon?

His heart was in his mouth as he was walked through the reinforced oak and steel doors, and up the stone staircase. It wasn't Jon waiting for him behind the desk in the solar, though; instead Sam saw a gaunt, pale figure cradling his fingers. Mance Rayder looked at him and just nodded. The heavyset wildling grunted as he stepped away from Sam.

Sam could only stare at Mance's changes. It had only been twenty-four hours, but Mance looked so different. Gone were the foul rags and filth; now he had been washed and cleaned and groomed, and he wore fine wools and soft leathers fit for a lord at court. Three guards in the room stared at Sam suspiciously.

"Tarly," said Mance, his voice still raw. He looked weary but alert. "Samwell Tarly, I hear?"

Sam could only nod.

"You are of House Tarly, I take it? What is it, Horn Hill?"

"Yes," Sam said weakly. "Lord Randyll Tarly's son."

"Indeed. I trust you can read and write?" Sam nodded. "Good, I need you to write a letter for me, Tarly. Several, in fact."

Sam hesitated. "To whom?"

"Denys Mallister, for now," said Mance. "The Magnar of Thenn has already left for the Shadow Tower, and I would like to encourage the good ser to surrender. You will write how all of the sworn brothers who surrendered here have remained unharmed."

That was a lie, for Sam knew of at least three who had been executed and five who had been beaten, but he nodded in any case. Mance dictated the words and Sam wrote them. It was a very firmly worded message, short and to the point. There would be a few hundred in the Shadow Tower against several thousand. Afterwards, Sam read it aloud, before placing it before Mance. Mance couldn't even hold a parchment with his ruined hands.

Sam could feel the wildling guards staring at him with evil eyes. He couldn't stop trembling. "How are your brothers?" Mance asked finally, as his eyes roamed over the parchment.

"Scared," Sam replied truthfully.

"Understandable. Also necessary." Mance looked up at him with curiosity. "Answer me, Samwell; why did you release me from those cells?"

"I was afraid for my brother's lives, Your Gra… um, my lord…?"

"Spare the titles, they aren't due," said Mance. "But that was an awfully brave act for a scared man."

"I was awfully scared."

A pale ghost of a smile passed over Mance's face. The former King-Beyond-the-Wall looked at him critically. "Indeed. You need not return to the maester's quarters, Samwell; I want you by my side."

Sam's eyes widened. "You want me to be your steward?"

"No." He shook his head. "I want you to be my deputy. I have been granted command of Castle Black, and I'm choosing you as my lieutenant."

Sam stared with disbelief, stammering to try and form words. Mance just shrugged. "You proved yourself smart, and capable, and I want smart and capable men next to me. You clearly care for your sworn brothers, but you can work with free folk too. So yes, you'll do as my second-in-command."

"… No," Sam gulped. "You shouldn't, this… this looks like a reward." Mance's brow raised. "A reward for freeing you. I don't want a reward for freeing you, my lord, I don't want anything." The sworn brothers will hate me. Despise me. I will be joining the wildlings in their eyes."

"The 'reward' is an offer," Mance replied coolly. "If you believe that you can help those who you call brothers - to help me help them - then you will accept the position for them. Otherwise, I will give the position to a capable free folk instead, who may not care as much for the black brothers as you would."

"But… but…" Sam squirmed, meeting Mance eyes. He didn't have the appearance or the rank of a king, but he had the gaze of one.

"You are scared of what your sworn brothers would think of you working under me," Mance said sharply. Sam could only nod. "Then that is your choice. But I think you will do what is for the best of the Watch. As you did before."

There was a pause. Sam shifted on the spot, staring at the worn but rich carpet of the King's Tower. It was already filthy from wildling boots. "Where is Jon Snow?" Sam asked finally.

"Away, preparing for the march against the Shadow Tower. I suspect he will be back shortly, however."

Sam nodded, biting his lip. "There is something you must know…" he murmured. "Castle Black was attacked, the Wall breached…"

"Ah. You mean the white walker that escaped south."

Sam jerked in surprise. "You know?"

Mance nodded. "From interrogating the prisoner." That phrase caused Sam to squirm. How many fingers had been broken? "I heard the tale. Jon… ahem… King Snow was quite concerned. The Night's Watch may not have had the manpower to mount a search for the Other, but the free folk do. Once we are secure in our position, there will be free folk raiding parties hunting the creature down."

His mouth stammered. "Normal swords, t-they won't hurt it," Sam said, remembering what the three-eyed crow told him. "You need Valyrian steel or dragonglass."

"Snow said the same thing," Mance said, narrowing his eyes. "Valyrian steel is in short supply, but we have two dozen or so obsidian arrows, and a few daggers. They'll be spread around our best hunters and archers."

Sam blinked, struggling to respond. Mance cocked his head. "Was that why you chose our side when taking the castle? You were concerned about the true enemy?"

"In part," Sam admitted. "But there's more."

He hesitated. Mance's eyes narrowed. "Yes?"

I have to tell him, Sam thought.

He had to tell him everything that happened, but… "You'll think I'm crazy," Sam promised.

"I will reserve judgement on that. Now what has you so concerned to speak?"

Sam bit his lip, well-aware of how it sounded. "Have you ever heard of a person called the last greenseer?" he asked hesitantly.

Mance didn't reply. Sam told him everything that had happened that night. Unlike every sworn brother in the castle, Mance sat there quietly, and listened.

---

Jon

His grey destrier pounded through the snowdrifts, while Jon's eyes were peeled on the distance. Fourteen other riders galloped besides him, some with spears but most with willow longbows. The snowdrifted plains leading up towards the mountains stretched out in front of them, dappled with white-capped sentinel pines.

Ygon Oldfather had gifted Jon the speckled grey and black destrier when he arrived at Castle Black. Doubtless it had been taken from the Night's Watch stables, but it was a strong mount with a good temperament, and Jon had been grateful. Jon was even considering taking the horse to warg with - the ability to skinchange into a mount seemed very appealing - once the animal was more comfortable with him.

"These mountains clans of yours," Hatch called to Jon as their party stopped. "Are they going to be an enemy?"

"Perhaps." Most likely. "The mountains clans are old, dating back to the First Men themselves. They've been fighting against wildlings for time immemorable, and they won't be happy to see so many pass through their lands," Jon replied.

"And this is the place?" Ygon Oldfather called, a one-eyed, aging warrior who rode as strongly as a man half his age.

"Aye," Jon said, pointing out over the foothills leading towards the northern mountains. Grey-green sentinels, spruce, fir and soldier pines littered landscapes. "Clan Norrey keeps a holdfast nestled in the hills just over the ridge. They have long been friends to the Night's Watch; there is regular trade between them and they've came to brothers' aid more than once." He shifted his grey to have a look, trying to remember. "Further over the valley are the First Flints, the Wulls, the Burleys and Liddles. Clan Wull is the most powerful of the clans."

"And how many men do they have?" Hatch asked.

"Three thousand fighting men in total, perhaps. Some regard the mountain clans as primitive, but my father once said that the north had no men more loyal and steadfast than them."

"Three thousand," Hatch murmured. "We could take those numbers easily."

He shook his head. "No. If we fight every force against us then we'll lose men quickly. We will treat with the mountain clans, not fight with them. We will approach Norrey under a truce, and then negotiate with the rest."

"Easier said than done," Haldur Two-Notch called, the most keen-eyed of them as he scouted over the pass. "There are bowmen waiting on that ridge. At least a dozen."

Jon frowned, squinting at the rocks and outcrops where the man was pointing. A faint slurry of snow obscured the scene. "I see nothing."

"Aye, they're wearing white cloaks," Haldur explained. "But you can catch them when they move. There'll be another bunch over on that side, by those rocks, and probably another group in the trees there and there."

The horse whinnied, as it paced over the clearing. Jon tried to follow where the raider pointed. Parties overlooking the uphill approach, Jon realised. The mountain clans had no castles, but they knew how to fortify the terrain. If we bring our horses much closer into bow-range, then things will be bloody.

Haldur looked like he was having similar thoughts. "Snow, you could lose two hundred men against two dozen up those slopes," he warned.

"You've seen tactics like this before?"

"I've used tactics like this before," the lean man scoffed. "If they know what they're doing, there'll be pitfall traps and rocks rigged as well. You want to get into those mountains, you can't use horses. You need men on foot moving slowly in small groups with bowmen of our own."

Jon nodded, staring out over the distance. "And then that would guarantee a fight."

"If they want a fight then we'd be better off giving them one," Ygon called.

"Not today."

Jon had wanted to make contact with the mountains clans, to offer peace, but those bowmen would be more likely to shoot first and talk later. He seriously considered moving forward anyway under a branch of truce, but he had no idea how they would react. It's too risky, he decided. At least with this group .

"Alright, we fall back for now," Jon ordered. "We need scouts with horses on the plains here, to watch for any force of men coming against us. I'll arrange an envoy to head for the mountain clans." I need to find free folk with the right temperament to broker peace between age-old enemies. Difficult. "They know we're here, but let's not drag ourselves into a fight."

He glanced around, causing his grey to shimmy. "There's a tower fairly close to here," Jon said to Hatch, pointing. "A place called Queenscrown. It's a ruin, but it's defendable. Hatch, I want you to put together a force to hold Queenscrown, to form a perimeter across the Gift."

Haldur and three other men agreed to linger to scout the route to the mountains, and Jon promised to send reinforcements to them shortly. Hatch turned to head back to Castle Black to gather the men.

Ygon Oldfather nodded, clutching the reins of his mare. "Aye. Back to Castle Black, then?"

"Not yet," Jon said. "I sent Soren Shieldbreaker south down the kingsroad with a group of men to scout out Last Hearth. We ride southeast, and see if we can meet up with them."

There were nods, stirrups whipped and the horses neighed as they started a quick gallop down the plains. There were so many who could be rallying against them, Jon needed to reach out gingerly to each northern house. Worrisome, particularly with the looming threat of storms. The last thing he wanted was to end up snowed-in at Castle Black while the northern houses rallied against the free folk. A truce must be brokered quickly .

House Umber and the mountains clans were the largest concerns. Both were significant forces, both with plenty of reasons to despise free folk. The Boltons and the Iron Throne might rally tens of thousands against them, but they were further away while Last Hearth was very close.

They rode until late evening. Everything was hectic managing the campaign, but it was worth the trip just to scout the landscape alone. Every valley or hill, Jon imagined how he would fight a battle there.

He saw the group of wildlings camped by the edge of the kingsroad, huddled into the forest. Horns blew as watchers spotted Jon's party. Soren Shieldbreaker's warband was mostly on foot, but large enough to secure a location by the road, but with orders to hold position and fortify rather than assault.

Soren Shieldbreaker met Jon as he dismounted, with a deep nod. "Snow," the raider greeted, grey whiskers flecked with frost. "No dragon?"

"Sonagon is roosting at Castle Black," he replied. "I'm here to check on the situation."

"Situation," Soren grunted, clutching his axe in his hand. "You mean freezing our asses off sitting here? You said I wasn't to attack."

"You're not. You're to hold the road," said Jon, dropping to the ground with a wince. "Has anyone scouted out Last Hearth yet?"

"Aye, I sent four of my men forward to your keep. No return yet." He paused. "However, I did pick up a few stragglers around the forest. They were heading your way."

Jon frowned. Spies? Scouts? Soren Shieldbreaker led the way to the centre of the camp, and Jon saw seven men fastened around a tree with hemp rope that knotted and bound and across their wrists. All of them were men, the eldest looked over forty, the youngest barely seventeen. They wore old, ruined leathers and woollen jerkins. They aren't dressed like soldiers, Jon thought.

"Were they armed?"

"One was. With a bow," said Soren. "Said they were hunters."

Jon paused, looking between scared eyes and shivering bodies. These aren't enemies, these are smallfolk. His hands clenched. "Why are they in binds?"

Soren frowned. "You said not to kill anyone."

"And why do you view these men as enemies at all?" Jon demanded.

"Well, they ain't free folk, are they?"

Some of the captives were shivering and weeping. They were trapped, bound to a tree with no fire to warm them. A few had bleeding wrists from the rope.

"Release them," Jon ordered harshly. "We will not terrorise smallfolk. There is no need."

They're not free folk, Soren had said. The wildlings viewed anyone who wasn't them as an enemy; they would treat commoners the same as they would enemy soldiers. We will not last long if that attitude prevails.

If the wildlings terrorised smallfolk, then the lords and highborn would never, ever treat with them. Jon highly doubted that Soren would have unbound the men even after the free folk marched out. Even if Soren followed Jon's orders and didn't kill, they would happily leave these men bound to a tree in the wilderness.

I only discovered this because I happened to stop by, Jon thought. The wildling army was already occupying two castles and several villages around the Gift. How many other commoners are being treated this way?

The wildlings gruffly cut their prisoner's binds. The hunters looked scared out of their wits. I must be more careful, Jon cursed. This is the wildlings' nature, and I must work harder to overcome it.

"Hail," Jon called to one of the men, stepping forward. Jon's guards huddled protectively around him. "Where are you from?"

One of the eldest, a thin, gaunt man with a heavily wrinkled face like gnarly bark, gulped nervously. "We don't want no bother. Just passing through, we never… we never knew…"

They stared at him with pure fear. "These men were too zealous, I apologise," said Jon, glancing around. "But you were still trespassing and we have valid reason to beware spies. Now answer; where are you from, and where were you heading?"

"Mole's Town," the man muttered shakily. "I have two sisters there. My name's Yorrick, m-m'lord. Three of us are from House Forrester, another four stragglers picked up along the way. We were heading to Last Hearth, when…"

His voice, glancing around the armed wildlings surrounding them. "When what?" Jon demanded.

"Fighting, m'lord," another of the group said. He was a younger boy, with a stocky, podgy build, red face and wide pale eyes. "We heard fighting at Last Hearth, and we don't want no part of that. I joined the group to get away from it, safety in numbers."

"Fighting. Who was fighting who?"

"I don't know… I never got close enough to see," he said shakily. "If it weren't, well, you, then it must have been flayed men."

Jon paused. Boltons attacking Umbers? "What is your name?"

"Harlow, m'lord," the younger man replied uncertainly. He bowed his head again quickly.

"Please," Yorrick begged. "We are three hunters, one crofter, and two farmers. We don't mean no trouble."

"And these men could tell your northern lords exactly where we're camped and how many numbers we have," Soren Shieldbreaker warned.

"Let them. It is hardly a secret and I imagine a dozen other scouts will have done the same by now. The best scouts are the ones you don't see." He turned towards the captives. "Yorrick, your sisters are safe. Mole Town is under our occupation, but no one has been hurt." That I know of, he thought grimly. Might need to check. "If you wish, I can take you to her. My party will be returning to Castle Black in any case."

Yorrick didn't respond, but he still looked scared. Harlow's mouth hung open. What am I going to do with them? Jon cursed. Forcing them away could be a death sentence in war-torn lands. And there is a white walker on the loose.

He made the decision quickly. "There will likely be fighting in these parts, and I wouldn't see anyone caught up in that. If you wish, you can join me to the camp at Castle Black. If nothing else, I can offer a meal and a fire for the night."

Soren looked unhappy, but he didn't say anything. All of the wildlings just glared. The northern men did not give reply either, all they had were nervous nods, scared looks. Jon caught Harlow staring him intently through the corner of his gaze. They still think they're prisoners, Jon thought. Perhaps they are.

Still, panic among the smallfolk was the last thing Jon needed. I need to set a precedent, to make sure the wildlings can get along with the northmen rather than fight them. It was a task that would only get more urgent the further south his army expanded.

Jon ordered some men to escort the hunters up the kingsroad, and told Soren Shieldbreaker to hold his position. News of fighting at Last Hearth was unsettling, and Jon couldn't charge into an unknown battle.

Perhaps I should take Sonagon to Last Hearth, Jon thought. He could feel the dragon now, roosting atop the tower at Castle Black. Sonagon would sleep for now, he needed it, but then he would need to fly again. Too much to do and not enough time, Jon cursed.

He debated returning to Castle Black, but the thought of those men's treatment gave him pause. There were three other perimeter hosts led by Gerrick Kingsblood, Morna White Mask and Haldur Bullspear. Jon took a dozen riders to tour the other hosts, to check how they were treating any northmen they encountered. I won't let any claim ignorance as an excuse for raiding.

Before long, the whole of the Gift would be under wildling control. My control. Expanses of vast, untamed forests, crags and mountains fifty leagues south of the Wall that Jon somehow needed to manage.

He spent the rest of the day riding through the plains and flurries, between the forests all the way up to Sable Hall. Morna White Mask reported coming across two abandoned homesteads, but little sign of any northmen moving against them. There was a chill hovering over the land that threatened a cold storm.

By the time he finally headed back to Castle Black, it was dusk and the setting sun threw long shadows across the snow. Castle Black was a shadowy silhouette in the distance, flooded by the wildling camp spilling out of it.

Castle Black was already overflowing with bodies, bustling with myriad activities, but at the far end of the courtyard, hundreds of men were occupied at a specific activity overshadowing all others; excavation.

The free folk were uncovering and digging out the watch's sealed tunnel leading through the Wall. They were still only halfway done, but already Jon had heard reports of thousands of free folk waiting on the other side, ready to come through. Perhaps tens of thousands more would follow after.

Jon heard the activity in the castle from the plains, stirring his destrier into a gallop. He heard the traditional horn's blast as the watchers saw him, but the blast sounded strained, unpracticed.

Sonagon was snoozing atop his perch, a white shape draping over Hardin's Tower. Hardin's Tower was a large tower with a dangerous lean, and the dragon roosted on the broken roof by using dragonfire to form a nest of ice around the top. Jon could see the glittering white ice glinting in the sun, cracking through broken stones.

Jon knew something was wrong as soon as he approached. He heard shouting, and saw men rippling across the perimeter. Jon's hand instinctively went to his sword, but it didn't look like there was any fighting. More panic.

As soon as his grey rode into the courtyard, Jon heard mutters and saw suspicious glares. The whole camp was silent, everyone looking at him. Shivers went down his spine.

"What happened?" he demanded, to no one in particular. His guards looked confused too. "What's going on?"

He dropped off his horse. Everyone avoided his gaze. He saw Val's blond hair whipping as she glared at him. "Snow," Val growled. "What the bloody hells are you playing at?"

"What are you talking about?" Jon replied, eyes narrowing.

"Mole's Town, Snow," she snapped. "Why did you do it?"

"I did nothing."

"Your dragon did."

It didn't take long for him to mount up his horse again and ride out down the road. Others followed. He could see wafts of steam in the distance, men scattered about the road. He heard somebody wailing.

As soon as he passed a bend in the road, he saw the jagged plumes of ice and torn up ground.

Behind him, in the distance, Sonagon was still sleeping on his tower, but the dragon's snout and claws were filthy. Jon's breath froze with the sight of the icy spikes jabbing out of the earth where Mole's Town used to be.

Oh no no no…

Jon stared across the field, at what little remained of Mole's Town. He felt his hands clench, his shoulders stiff. The cold had warped and distorted the earth itself, the whole ground swollen and cracked. Wooden buildings had to exploded and then frozen into twisted, jagged ruins.

Only this morning he had passed by the small village, and now there wasn't a single building left intact. The destruction had perhaps happened hours ago, but rime was still wafting off the ice.

Jon's destrier whinnied, nervous to even get close to the destruction. Death and destruction was thick in the air, like an invisible second shadow biting at his lungs, even more so than the cold. Jon's mouth hung open, his head spinning.

There were men gathered around, but nobody seemed to approach the icy ruins. Jon heard a spearwife sobbing by one of the frozen spikes. Her hands were bleeding from trying to scrape uselessly through the wreckage.

The air felt so cold that it hurt in his chest.

"… How many?" Jon asked with a pause, dreading the answer.

"Forty-three, by my count," his man, Wulf, said with a grunt. Free folk cautiously surrounded the icy ruin, everyone staring back at Jon. "Maybe some got away, but I doubt it."

Half of Mole Town had been underground, but Sonagon had destroyed it all in a single explosion of frostfire. Next, the dragon had broken open the buildings, to consume the bodies within. Afterwards, the dragon had dug the ground and ice upwards to eat the frozen bodies below, like a fox unearthing a rabbit's den. The earth lay jagged and rent open, from where huge claws had ripped open the underground tunnels.

Mole's Town had been a small village, but now there was barely anything left of it at all.

Jon was too aware of the beating of his heart. His breaths were shallow. His grey shimmied in the icy field. His eyes flickered over what few bodies, or parts of bodies had been recovered. "Who?"

Wulf scratched his lip. "Let's see… a dozen whores or so that didn't run, some farmers, a couple of children." Children. His heart skipped a beat. "A few free folk from the east coast. I think two or so Night's Watch deserters as well. They were all in the village when your dragon attacked."

"The free folk? What were they doing? Raiding?"

"Nah, guarding. Most of Mole's Town fled before the battle, but some lingered. Mance offered them all protection, sent a few of his men to guard the place. The Night's Watch been visiting there too - Mance said that the crows could keep the whores, to help calm tensions."

Why didn't I feel it happening? I wasn't close enough to Sonagon, or was I too distracted?

Jon wanted to scream. Forty-three dead, their bodies scorched by ice and then devoured.

If any raider or sworn brother had butchered forty-three men, Jon would have had them hung. But this—

How on earth am I meant to punish a dragon? Am I fool enough to try?

He stared at the destruction of Mole's Town. Why did Sonagon do such a thing?

No, that's a fool's question too. Sonagon did it simply because he was hungry. That was his nature. The dragon had no concept of law, no idea of right or wrong. Humans might as well be cattle to Sonagon. The dragon had eaten men before, during battle. The only difference was that Sonagon recognised some humans as 'these men will feed me' and others as 'these men are food.'

From the dragon's perspective, it all must have been so simple.

Sonagon became peckish as he snoozed, flew off, ate, and then went back to sleep. He killed forty-three men and women as easily as a terrier would kill a pack of rodents.

"I met some hunters in the forest," Jon said slowly. "I had men escort them back to Mole's Town." Yorrick had two sisters.

"Oh aye, they're dead. I think that's what tipped the dragon off - it must have seen men approach and got curious."

"All of them?" Jon demanded. "They're all dead?"

"I think three of them went ahead into the camp. Only the ones who lingered in Mole's Town died."

Only the men visiting their sisters.

Sonagon knew through Jon that Castle Black was his. But Jon had thought nothing about any humans in Mole's Town, outside of the castle. As far as Sonagon was concerned, the village had just been a convenient little pantry of forty-three tasty snacks.

How many others had the dragon eaten? How many hunters in the woods, or farmers in the fields? None that Jon was aware, but it was only a matter of time.

I had only been away for such a short trip too. The dragon had seemed so content roosting over Castle Black when he had left.

He heard screaming. A woman was shouting at him. She looked over forty, with a leathery face and tears running down her cheeks. "You bastard!" The woman screamed. Jon recognised her. Zei, a whore from the brothel. "You did this! You bastard! You bastard!"

The woman was beyond grief-stricken, she had gone mad. She charged at Jon. A few of the free folk guarding him drew their blades. "No!" Jon snapped. He glanced at the woman, but breathing deeply and unable to speak.

She picked up a stone, ready to throw at him. Wulf scowled, jumping off his horse to restrain her. "You bastard!" Zei bellowed. "YOU BASTARD!"

Jon closed his eyes, focusing on the emotions twisting around his heart, the bitterness, the shock and rage and grief. He shunted it all to the side. When he opened his eyes again, he knew.

There was no nothing here he could do. No choices to be made that would help these people, no reassurance he could give that they would take. Jon turned and rode back to the castle.

She is right to demand vengeance, he thought hollowly. But what can I do? Chain the dragon? Lash the dragon? Execute the dragon? Sonagon would kill Jon himself if he tried. There were no chains strong enough to hold a beast of Sonagon's size, not here, maybe not anywhere.

No, the fault is mine, he thought coldly. Sonagon is just an animal - a smart animal, but a beast nonetheless. He's my responsibility, I'm the one who should be lashed.

Anyone who hated him, and there were many who did, just received forty-three additional reasons to do so.

I can't leave Sonagon again, Jon thought. Ever.

That meant he had to stay by the dragon's side constantly, to protect his people from his own dragon. The situation had been manageable north of the Wall, while Sonagon had still been recovering from his injuries and slowed in his movements, but now Sonagon was becoming restless.

What do I do when the food runs out? Sonagon could eat as much as a small army all by himself. There were many free folk mouths to feed than he had food to give, and the Night's Watch's stores had already been depleted. At this rate, come winter, many men might starve, but with Sonagon they might not reach winter at all.

First, they were already sacrificing livestock to feed the dragon. Soon, they would have to start killing horses too.

All eyes were on him as the riders rode into the castle. Jon kept his face hard. I can't show emotion, can't show weakness.

He glimpsed Sam staring at him from the steps of the rookery with an expression of horror on his face. He saw Bowen Marsh, Donnel Hill, Hairy Hal and Pypar lingering by the Flint Barracks with angry, resentful glares. They looked too scared to even raise their voices with so many wildlings around. All eyes seemed fixed on him. We have only just convinced the first of the sworn brothers to resume their duties rather than stay in chains, but what man of the Night's Watch would work with wildlings now?

The men of the Night's Watch were outnumbered fifteen to one. Two hundred men of the black were still in Castle Black. Another seven men had joined Ser Alliser on the chopping block in the first two days, but after a few futile revolts or protests most had settled in simmering resentment.

The Shadow Tower was the last holdout for the men of the Night's Watch, but not for long. Both Tormund and Sigorn were leading forces to take the Shadow Tower. Ser Denys Mallister refused to surrender, but he couldn't last. There was little doubt that the Shadow Tower would break.

Tormund sent word that there could be up to four hundred men holding the Shadow Tower, men who had fled west all the way from Eastwatch as the Wall fell. Combined with the two hundred men held in Castle Black, Jon guessed that there were fewer than six hundred sworn brothers left.

Only six hundred. There had been a thousand, when Jon joined. Doubtless that by the time they took the Shadow Tower, the Night's Watch might well have been cut in half.

If only they had yielded, Jon thought. If only they had yielded and seen the true enemy. None of them needed to die at all.

It was a bitter thought.

He saw Mance Rayder waiting for him outside of the keep. The man was clean-shaven again, still with a gaunt face, yet with gloves, a thick hauberk and leathers and wool cloak, he looked nearly the man he had once been. He wasn't quite walking by himself, and moved still with a severe limp. He wore thick gloves, to hide his broken fingers. Maester Aemon had tried to treat Mance's poorly-healed fingers, but Jon doubted his hands would ever be the same again.

"Snow," Mance said, his voice hard and arms folded. "A word."

Jon was fumed quietly as they stepped aside. Mance winced as he tried to stagger forward. Jon saw the eyes watching him. "It won't happen again," said Jon.

"Is that so?" Mance grunted. He kept his voice low because of those watching. "How many?"

"Forty-three."

Mance thought about it. "Five leagues further south, your dragon would have reached the first areas of farmland and homesteads. It could have quite easily been five times that many. A bit further still, and that's Last Hearth. That would be a banquet for the dragon, I suspect."

"I said, it won't happen again," he growled.

"And you'll swear that, can you?" said Mance. "Promise it on your honour?"

Jon didn't reply. "Course not," Mance grunted. "That's because it's a dragon and not even you can control it all times."

"I won't let it happen again," Jon growled, eyes blazing.

"Words are wind, Snow. We need actions." Mance met his gaze with hard-worn eyes. "If your dragon needs to eat, needs to hunt, then I'm sure we can find hordes of enemies, but not whores and children."

"I'll fly Sonagon to Eastwatch," Jon promised. "I'll double feeding times. The host there and the fishing boats could supply for him."

"For a while," Mance agreed. "But no matter what, sooner or later there are going to be a lot of folk starving - but that dragon needs to eat."

Jon couldn't argue with that. "How bad is this for us?"

Mance snorted. "Well, it won't be a picnic," he said dryly. He hesitated. "But we can handle it this time. They'll be a few angry folk, and a lot more getting worried, but we can handle the deaths of some whores and farmers. If it happens again, though…"

"It won't." Jon hesitated, with a gulp. I must make sure of it. "How many chains are in Castle Black?" He demanded.

"What?"

"Chains," Jon insisted. "What are the thickest chains do you think we could have forged? Enough to hold a dragon?"

"Oh no." Mance shook his head, eyes wide. "You cannot be serious. You mean to chain your dragon? Here?"

"Forty-three people are dead, Mance," Jon growled.

"And how many more will die if that dragon is chained when we need it?"

"That doesn't make it right!" Jon snapped. "There must be justice. Lives need to mean something. How can you just brush off murder because it's… it's inconvenient?"

"I don't bloody know what's right," Mance hissed. "And lower your bloody voice. But I do know that if you try to chain that dragon up, then that ain't going to end very well."

His jaw clenched. Mance looked down on him, with a curt nod as he walked away. "I can handle the men, Snow, but you need to take care of the dragon. Sort it out."

My father would surely execute any beast that killed forty-three people, Jon thought.

Jon wanted to hit something. It would be easier if he could. If this was a fight he could handle it.

Jon glimpsed two of the hunters he met - Harlow, he recalled, and one other - gaping upwards at the dragon with open mouths. Jon might have approached them, but what would he say? I'm sorry my dragon has just eaten your companions?

Instead he walked on, needing time alone. Hardin's Tower had never looked so foreboding.

Jon spent a long time pacing in his bare quarters as night fell, staring upwards, through the stone and ice towards where Sonagon slept. He wondered if the dragon even knew what he had done, was capable of appreciating it in any sense. Probably. Sonagon was at least as intelligent as Ghost. Jon just knew that the dragon would not care.

Jon wasn't in control of Sonagon, not really. The dragon tolerated Jon, even followed him when in a good mood, but the ice dragon would still have his own way more often than not.

Aegon and his sisters brought dragons to the realm three hundred years ago, he thought suddenly. The Valyrians rode dragons for centuries. Someone must have had this same problem before. How did the Targaryens of old keep their dragons under control?

The last Targaryen dragon died a hundred and fifty years ago…

But not the last Targaryen.

Jon paused as the idea came to him. He changed out of his sweaty riding leathers into wool and furs, and then broke his fast on dried meat rations from his bags. He had no inclination to wait for his guards, so he moved by himself.

He walked quickly out into the courtyard, heading towards the rookery at the far end of the castle. He knocked twice, and the door opened quickly. Jon took deep breath, forcing his body to stay steady.

"Just a minu - oh," Sam gasped quietly. Jon saw Sam's face widen in shock at the sight of him. His mouth stammered, flapping up and down.

"Hello Sam," Jon said softly. "I would like to speak to Maester Aemon."

The rookery was the one part of Castle Black the free folk stayed clear of. After settling in, they had left Maester Aemon, Sam and Clydas mostly alone. There were no guards posted on them, they slept in their own quarters. The ravens were important, even the free folk knew that, but they had no expertise in sending such letters, or any letters at all. And so these few Night's Watchmen were left alone.

Still, as they made their way through the rookery, Jon had to wonder if Sam would ever stop staring at him like that, like he barely knew him. It was…

"Who is it, Samwell?" Maester Aemon croaked from the room.

"Umm… ermm… King Jon, maester," Sam squeaked, stepping aside. Sam seemed nervous even just being in his presence. Do I really frighten him that much, now? "Your Grace."

"In private, Jon is fine, Sam," said Jon, stepping inside and nodding. Gods it feels so long since I was last here. How things have changed - it feels surreal. Jon looked to the ancient man, and though Aemon Targaryen could not see, Jon still smiled. "Maester."

"Your Grace," Aemon said with a blind nod, shuffling to his feet. His old bones seemed to creak. "Although I must admit, I am uncertain of the honorific to use. They call you King, yet I do not believe that anyone bow before you, or that you wear a crown."

"I ask for neither," Jon said. "I am king because I rule, and that's enough. So long as they obey, then I don't see the crown as important."

Aemon nodded. "Very well. But if I may say so, men must see respect being acknowledged for it to be solidified. The crown and the courtesies exist for a reason. I would advise you to either take a crown or do not, but don't try to live in limbo."

"And do you have a problem with that?"

"Me? No." The maester's wrinkled hand clutched his chain. "I am but a maester. It is my place to obey and to teach; never to rule and never to judge. For better, or for worse, you are in charge here, King Snow, and I will acknowledge that." He lowered his head respectfully.

"Sam," Jon turned to his friend. "I hear that you have been working with Mance."

Sam nodded meekly. He hardly looked like the picture of a wildling leader's lieutenant, but Mance seemed to be satisfied. He paused. "I also heard of the tale you told Mance," said Jon, his voice low.

He blustered. "You did?"

"Aye. Mance told me last night." You met the greenseer too.

"Mance didn't believe me," Sam squeaked.

"He did," Jon promised. "I told him to." Sam's eyes flickered. Maester Aemon didn't seem to react. "… We will talk later, Sam. I promise that."

Jon suspected that the three-eyed crow had saved Sam because he had known Sam was Jon's friend. He must have wanted Sam to pass on the information to me, Jon decided. The three-eyed crow was clever and powerful enough to control events like this.

It made Jon wonder how many other strings the greenseer was pulling. There were too many coincidences that Jon was starting to suspect the greenseer's hand in. Mother Mole's prophecy, the support he had gathered at Hardhome, the wildlings flocking to him… the three-eyed crow could have easily been manipulating events. Now, did the greenseer also manipulate Stannis and that Red Woman into attacking us? Jon mused.

It was a question for another day. He had to focus.

"I am looking for books on dragons," Jon said, glancing around. "There are old tomes here, are there not?"

"Ah, of course. Come in," Maester Aemon said, shuffling with his cane. "I have been expecting that you might stop by."

"You have?"

"Hoping, is a better word, perhaps." Maester Aemon walked slowly, towards the staircase heading downwards into the lower stacks in the wormwalks, leading down to the vaults. Sam hesitated in the quarters, unsure as if to follow. Eventually, Sam lingered behind.

"How much on dragons?" Jon asked. How to control them?

"Too little," Aemon sighed. "And too much unsorted and undocumented. Yet I do have a selection of books prepared that may be of interest. Samwell has been assisting me. The Citadel would be a better source for dragonlore, yet the Night's Watch has its archives too."

The air was cold, but still and dry. Jon saw gloomy stacks of bound shelves looming below him, stretching outwards into the vaults of Castle Black. Each shelf was sealed; some with markings on them but most blank. He heard rats skittering in the darkness.

The maester stopped to motion at a lantern hanging on the wall. Jon paused to pick the rusty thing off its hook, lighting it before moving down into the narrow, dusty corridor. Aemon seemed to count the steps in the dark.

"The gods continue to be cruel, it seems," Aemon mused softly. His voice even sounded like dry paper. "All my life, I have longed to see a dragon. And now, there is one right outside my very door, but alas, I am unable to see it."

Jon wasn't sure how to reply. "I… I am sorry." He paused. "You are Aemon Targaryen. You have studied dragons?"

"Obsessed over them, rather. In my youth. I was first drawn to the path of a maester as a means to discover more about them. Before I took the black, I would even say that I read every tome on dragonlore in the Citadel, bar one."

"Bar one? Which one?"

"'Blood and Fire,'" Aemon said wistfully. "'The Death of Dragons,' a tome which only the Grand Maesters themselves are allowed to lay eyes on."

He kept working towards a dusty oak at the far corner between the stacks, with a dozen half-burned tallow candles and four neat stacks of leatherbound books. Some of the older books were wrapped in old vinegar-soaked wraps to preserve them against the cold, and the dust was so thick that even Jon was wheezing. Aemon sighed.

"How I miss my sight…" he muttered, his hands fumbling softly in the gloom. Jon blinked, reaching for another candle. "May I present the single most precious book in this collection," he explained, pointing to an old, black bound tome four inches thick. "'Dragons, Wyrms and Wyverns: Their Unnatural History,' by Septon Barth, Hand of the King for Jaehaerys Targaryen, the first. Please be gentle. This book may well be one of the last two complete copies in the world."

Jon blinked. "Really?"

"Indeed. Too many tomes like such were burned under King Baelor's zealous reign. This tome I stole from the Citadel's archives before coming north, so many years ago. In my arrogance, I believed that my own safekeeping was better than any in Oldtown." His voice was slow, laborious. "Yet I could never part with this book. Brynden did love it so."

Jon froze. Brynden. Brynden Rivers? Jon didn't say anything, but there was a certain edge to Aemon's tone, a knowing.

He hesitated, glancing over the leather-bound cover. The tome was so large and thick it could have been used as a shield in battle. "What does this book say? What are wyverns? Or wyrms?"

"The wyverns of Sothoryos are great winged lizards. Not as large or as long-lived as dragons, and they do not breathe fire, but they are still fearsome beasts. The firewyrms of Old Valyria are thought extinct after the Doom, but they were great serpentine creatures that would live in volcanoes, burrow through the earth and could produce intense heat, even breathe fire." His wheezing voice was quiet, but the whole library was still. Jon had to focus to listen.

"It has long been theorised that the very first dragonlords of Old Valyria bred wyverns and wyrms together to produce the dragons we know today. Some scholars suspect the use of blood magic, yet such theories are unpopular to the modern historian, biased to see magic as the explanation of last resort."

He hadn't heard that before. "I… I see." Dragons had been bred? "So wyverns were fireless dragons? And wyverns are still alive today?"

"Presumably, though the swamps of Sothoryos are hardly the most accessible. Countless adventurers have been lost to that fetid land and its 'brindled men,' so there is little information to work with. Dragons were known to fly halfway around the world, while the Sothoryi wyverns have smaller wings, far more territorial behaviors. I know of no claim of ever being able to tame a wyvern."

Jon parsed those words for thirty or so seconds. Wyverns. Brindled men. Sothoryos. An entire continent, all but uncharted. Who could say what mysteries it held?

"And what of… what was the name? Firewyrms?"

"The wyrms are largely thought extinct, alas," Aemon said shuffling around the stacks. "Either they are extinct or gone deep underground. They were volcanic burrowers of draconic aspect, potentially even larger than dragons. Barth believes that in truly ancient days before the freehold's rise, they were worshipped as gods by the freehold's ancestors. Of course, the Lords Freeholder worshipped no gods, seeing themselves as having conquered the gods of their past. Interesting, when you consider Barth's theorized links between wyrm and dragon."

"What happened to the firewyrms, maester? I was taught history by Winterfell's maester, but—"

"Few of the Citadel barring the archmaesters still study dragonlore in this era," Aemon shook his head. "For generations, it has been seen as a dead end of history. As for the great firewyrms, save for a single, unreliable account by Barth, they have not been seen since before the freehold's cataclysm, as the Fourteen Flames of the Valyria Freehold were the only place in the known world where the wyrms would ever come to the surface. Thus it is commonly thought they were made extinct by Valyria's Doom."

Jon considered those words, fascinated by the ancient history. "You mention a conflicting report. What is it?"

Aemon's expression grew a bit bleak, and Jon had to ask.

"Maester?"

The old maester sighed softly. He got up and retrieved another book from his shelves, sliding it before Jon on the table. It looked far more mundane. "All the great Houses have their secret records, their secret histories. Some time ago, I was contacted by a Gyldayn, a recent archmaester of the Citadel, who would later rise to minor renown for his twin histories of House Targaryen, unoriginally also titled Fire and Blood, as you can see. This is the first of those two tomes. Turn, if you will, to page two hundred and forty-four."

There was a certain grim aspect to Aemon's tone, so Jon did so and began to read, even as Aemon spoke softly amidst the dark.

"Archmaester Gyldayn was an amusing, if chronically tardy man. He lived until quite recently, actually, well into the reign of the late Robert Baratheon. We exchanged correspondence by raven at times, though we never met. I did not care much for his history of my ancestors, as I suspect him of a certain bias. His rendering of the tale of the Dragonpit's fall, for example, is quite suspect. However, he did have his own investigator's competence, he knew to make inquiries of me after he came into possession of certain sealed records of House Targaryen, written in Barth's own hand but never given to the Citadel of the time."

Jon frowned. Where was Aemon going with this? But he stayed silent, listening as the old maester continued.

"…After House Targaryen's fall, those records were made available, and in them were recounted certain accounts that not even I was aware of, information that was perhaps too sensitive for the public of the time. And this tale concerns the truly grim fate of an Aerea Targaryen, a daughter of Aegon the Uncrowned. A girl who disappeared atop Balerion himself, and returned a year after only to perish in amongst the most terrible circumstances I have heard tale of."

Jon read on, and he soon he began to see why Aemon had brought up this material.

"Worms with faces, snakes with hands…" Jon muttered lowly, eyes flickering as he read and re-read the pages. A grim tale indeed. "Balerion the Black Dread, wounded in battle. What could do such a thing? This the potential sighting of firewyrms you mentioned?"

Aemon nodded, albeit reluctantly. "There is too much distance between information and conclusion here, too many unknowns and true unknowns. The creatures… infesting Aerea Targaryen. Were they truly wyrms, of Valyria, or some manner of parasite contracted somewhere else in the world? I cannot say. I know of no surviving dragonlore that might have record of the cycle of birth and death of firewyrms. Perhaps only Blood and Fire itself. One would presume they would lay eggs, but, well." He shook his head, expression distant. "If history is a map of the past, too much of it remains uncharted. So much was lost in the Doom."

Jon shook his head, feeling a little lost. "I have never heard such things."

"'Tis not common knowledge," Maester Aemon admitted. "Even for enchained maesters."

But you are no common maester, are you? As both a Targaryen and one of the oldest men alive, Aemon must have had access to histories like no other.

"Gyldayn's history is not even secondhand, but thirdhand, so I would urge you not to put too much stock into it. The firewyrms are, most likely, truly extinct."

Jon frowned, disturbed by what he had learned, but entranced all the same. Mysteries of deep time. Wyverns, and fire wyrms. "So the Valyrians actually… created, bred dragons from these two different creatures?" Jon asked.

"Once, thousands of years ago, perhaps. There is no way to be certain. There is other evidence - the blood pits of Gogossos have long been reputed to have produced unnatural creatures and twisted hybrids under Valyrian rule. The basilisks of that area are another creature that are theorised to have been created by Valyrian crossbreeding and blood magic. My view is that very few of the monsters of the old empire continue to roam, but some may yet linger."

"And what of ice dragons?" Jon asked. "Is there any mention of them?"

"Not in Septon Barth's accounts." Jon wondered how many times the maester must have read that book before his sight failed. "Prior to coming north to the Wall, the only veritable reference of ice dragons I had ever encountered in the Citadel's archives came from a theory from Maester Margate, concerning his own theories involving a constellation of dragon subspecies, points of disconnected lore that he drew lines between and could discern shape in."

Maester Aemon took a quiet breath, then continued. "Consider Cannibal's Bay, for instance, north of the Shivering Sea. It has long since been held as an example of strange activity. Ibbenese whalers have been known to ply the southern waters of that sea, and sometimes they return with… stories. More apocrypha or rumour than confirmed account. Margate recounts Ibbenese tales of mermaids, krakens, deep ones, krakens, and, yes, ice dragons in those northern waters. Unfortunately, the men of Ib are reticent with those not of their own kind, and deeply superstitious. A truly unfortunate combination to a historian. They may ply the southern stretches of that northern sea, but few dare to venture farther, fewer return, and far fewer still have been willing to speak of what they see."

The maester scratched his beard, shuffling forward between the stacks of books with small steps. "Margate has often been dismissed as an… imaginative maester," Aemon explained slowly. "He claimed that the term 'dragon' should be considered a genus, not a species. The Valyrian firebreathers were but one form. He referenced the old lore of ice dragons to the north, sea dragons of the west, and even the rumours of the shadow dragons of Asshai. To say nothing of wyrms and wyverns, hydras and drakes, which Margate also believes have some relation."

Jon frowned. "Sonagon is an ice dragon, yes, but I do not think he came from the far north."

"Indeed. I do not believe so, either. You should be aware that, regardless, Sonagon is the very first verified dragon of ice, in fact. I shall have to write to the Citadel confirming such." Aemon paused, wheezing softly. "And yet yours is not of the type that Margate described. In his work, Margate was very clear; that the Ibbenese claimed the ice dragons north of the Shivering Sea were literally made of ice, larger than those of Valyria. Your dragon, from what has been described to me, is akin to those previously known in Westeros, meaning that, though it may be an ice dragon, it is not of the same stock as those of Margate's secondhand tales."

Jon sat in silence for a time, separating Aemon's words into their parts and considering each in turn. "Maester, you said that was the only record on ice dragons in the Citadel's archives. Does that mean that you, personally, know more?"

Aemon smiled slightly. "Know, that is a strong word. Suspect, rather. There were several curious tales I found over the decades, scattered throughout this castle's working archives. Records that Gyldayn and other archmaesters of Oldtown would have never seen." Aemon pointed towards a dark grey volume that was not on the bookshelves, but rather, just down the table from them. Had it seen recent use? "This tome may be of interest to you."

Jon glanced over the cover, and read, An Account of Lord Commander Ryder - the Expedition to the Lands of Far Winter. He looked at the date beneath, seeing that the book was near eight centuries old. Even older than the Doom. "What is this, maester?"

"Margate was of a rare breed amongst those of my order," Aemon said quietly. "He knew to see certain patterns, symmetries in the world that others took for granted, and to question them. South, and north. Summer, and winter. Ice and fire. The Valyrian peninsula's underground was honeycombed with the firewyrm's tunnels. Similarly, Westeros has numerous cave systems, too large to be mapped. When I was younger, I walked some of those caverns, and though I saw them, I could not understand their purpose in nature, nor how they came to be, not at all. Over the millenia, many have walked those shadowed grottos beneath our lands. For instance, three thousand years ago, the twin Kings-Beyond-the-Wall, Gendel and Gorne, rediscovered such a cave system, and used it to bypass the Wall and the Night's Watch to invade the North."

Jon stiffened, remembering a tale Ygritte had once told him, in what felt like a lifetime past. However, Aemon kept lecturing in his soft, old man's rasp.

"Barth and others would, far later, credit these workings to the children of the forest, while more modern maesters believed them to be the result of some unknown geological process, some manner of freeze-thaw shifting as you might see in tundra plains. Margate proved himself a maverick in this regard, for he came to believe that the children only… altered what had already been there, referencing certain archaeological finds. He did not credit the tunnelings to geology."

Jon frowned, remembering his own time in the far north. Walking through tunnels that, in retrospect, seemed far larger than anything the children might have built. If Margate had theorised such, Jon would believe it.

"You're saying Westeros might have once had firewyrms, too?"

"Not quite," Aemon chuckled softly. "Of course, Margate's findings were not well received in the modern Citadel, where his detractors believed that his findings could instead be credited to communities of dwarves and lepers amongst the First Men, rather than actual children of the forest. Such is as it goes, with men of vision and society's burdens of proof. Margate's theories died with him, and most forgot them, but I did not. Which leads us to this tome." Aemon rested his fingers atop the book Jon now held.

"Bennard Ryder was an especially adventurous, though briefly-lived Lord Commander from some eight centuries ago, who went on a great ranging to learn more of the shape of the lands beyond the Wall, their natures and cultures. He eventually went too far north, beyond the Frostfangs, and disappeared into the white with all his men, somewhere in the Lands of Always Winter. However, before then, he had sent back to Castle Black certain accounts that I would mention alongside Margate's histories. These included a collation of oral tales, wildling mythic ballads and such, passed down by their shamans and woods-witches. Some of these tales have proven insightful in recent days, giving me cause to regret ignoring this book for the past several decades. Samwell has found page fifty-nine to be especially… interesting."

Sam was studying this? Jon supposed he should not be surprised. He turned to the page in question, noting the way that the pages themselves nearly crackled, and smelt of preserving vinegars. This was a truly ancient tome, far older than Archmaester Margate had been.

"In certain creation/destruction mythologies of the Frostfang's Thenn tribes," Aemon lectured softly, "Harrimun, Lord Commander Ryder's maester of the ranging, recounts certain Thenn myths, shamans speaking of 'old gods given flesh,' and when Harrimin inquired of the details, these wildlings described their gods with a word that Harrimun could only interpret as 'dragon,' though the tales spoke of creatures more serpentine than draconic, wingless burrowers of glaciers, incapable of flight. Being that these are wildling oral mythologies, they are not widely known. In the past, might have suspected that this strain of 'ice dragon' was either local wildling myth, or something more related to the sea dragons of the west rather than anything of Valyrian or other stock. Nagga's Bones, on the ironborn's isle of Old Wyk, for instance. However, recent events have led me to reconsider that idea. The worship your dragon attracts from certain tribes, the hatred it attracts from others. Surely you see the pattern?"

Jon didn't respond at first. A minute or so later, he let out a small, soft breath. "I wish I didn't."

Aemon's lips curved a little upwards. "There is still more. Consider Hardhome, where I am told that, until recently, you were encamped. Today, it is little but a blasted peninsula, settled by a few indigent tribes. However, up until roughly six centuries ago, it was close to becoming the only true permanent settlement north of the Wall. Were you aware?"

"I saw certain ruins, heard certain stories, but nothing definite," Jon answered, remembering. "I didn't think to question them. Ruins are not uncommon in the free folk's lands."

Aemon nodded. "Six centuries ago, a particularly adventurous maester passed by the Wall, aboard a Pentoshi trading vessel. He was alone, and without guard. He wasn't even a sworn brother. Wyllis of Oldtown, who went to the lands beyond seeking his own adventures. The brothers of the time at Eastwatch attempted to dissuade him, but, as travel beyond is not truly forbidden, he eventually was permitted to land near Hardhome, which at the time was coming off a series of particularly warm summers, and was well on its way towards becoming a true town, a permanent settlement north of the Wall itself." Aemon paused." Can you even imagine such a thing, Jon?"

A town of the free folk? Jon knew that Val would have laughed at the idea. Ygritte would have laughed harder. Clans might build small villages, but a true town was something larger, something of hierarchies.

Aemon got up from his seat, and soon gave Jon a fourth tome, though this one had been at the very edge of the maester's collection. Jon's eyes passed over the title. Hardhome: An Account of Three Years Spent Beyond-the-Wall among Savages, Raiders, and Woods-witches. By Maestedr Wyllis.

"After Wyllis' benefactor was murdered," Aemon said quietly, "one of four who controlled the settlement, a 'Gorm the Wolf,' Wyllis felt he had no choice but to flee Hardhome, or die. And this his adventure ended. A pity, for after he fled back to Oldtown, he wrote perhaps the greatest piece of scholarship of the cultures beyond the Wall. Wyllis told a tale in which he used his talents as Citadel-trained a healer to cultivate his importance in the settlement, and he soon became Gorm's counselor. I can only imagine how deep his histories might have become, if he had not been forced from the settlement early." Aemon's lips twisted. "Though perhaps it is for the best, because, within a decade, the settlement at Hardhome's peninsula was destroyed, obliterated by some overnight cataclysm of fire, if the tales are to be trusted. Regardless, in his capacity as counsellor, Wyllis wrote of the local customs, putting to pen countless oral myths and superstitions, a few of which not only seconded the Thenn's tales of old gods beneath the glaciers, but hinted at tales told by the plains giants, those striders of the Lands of Always Winter, and certain deeper glaciers they avoided, for fear of creatures capable of eating entire mammoths."

Jon listened silently, his attention fixated on the maester.

"My last tale can be traced to a curious tale some three centuries past. Certain men crewing a Braavosi slaver-vessel, captured at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, said that the peoples of the Frozen Shore were particularly… disturbed, at the time. The tribes of those shores, particularly those that name themselves for seals, walruses, sharks and so on, were 'beplagued by a flightless, winged demon of fire.'

Jon paused, thinking about it as he flickered through the four books Aemon had presented, though most of his focus remained on the most useful of them by far, Dragons, Wyrms, and Wyverns.

"Why are you telling me all this?" Jon asked.

"To show you what it means to study dragonlore," Aemon said softly. "There is no area of study more patchwork, more fragmentary. Valyria's libraries were obliterated, Lys' burned, Baelor's, burned. The pattern repeats. The more you try to learn of dragonlore, the more you find yourself relying not on settled history, but on low rumor and fragmentary apocrypha. Knowledge has been lost, burned, destroyed. As a dragonrider, it is your responsibility to learn, and in time, to pass on your knowledge. But that brings us back to what I was first explaining. Dragons, wyrms, and wyverns, and the relation thereof."

"I am almost certain that Sonagon was a Valyrian dragon," Jon said. "I have had - dreams. But what is your view, of these creatures?"

"Me?" Aemon mused. "I consider wolves."

"Excuse me?"

"A hunting hound and a wolf appear very different animals. Yet most maesters agree that they share the same lineage and can even crossbreed. A direwolf and a dog seem drastically different, yet perhaps not as much as the appearances may suggest," Aemon explained. "I think of the shape of the ancient dragons - the firewyrms and the sea dragons - which were all recorded to have long, serpentine bodies and stubby limbs, and I think that perhaps the Valyrians created an offshoot when they bred the first flying dragons from wyverns. They all, however, remain very similar creatures."

"I see," he muttered, lighting a candle carefully as he looked between the stacked books. "May I?"

"Your Grace, I consider you the strongest authority on dragons in the world today," Maester Aemon said with a soft smile. "Any knowledge this place has to offer is yours. Modern knowledge on dragons is patchy at best, but perhaps we can see some blanks filled in."

How long has it been since I read a book? Jon could barely remember. He could only think to the libraries of Winterfell, sitting next to Maester Luwin. Jon sighed a little at that memory, then he, very carefully, opened the crimson leather cover of Septon Barth's Unnatural History.

On the front page, a dark three-headed dragon was stamped, curled around itself. The Targaryen seal. The pages were made of actual parchment, thick and soft, but the words were in ink faded to the point of annoyance, and written in a hand so cursive that he could barely read it.

"It has been decades since anyone other than myself has read that book," Maester Aemon muttered, so quietly Jon barely heard him even in the gloom. "The last person to do so was a prince…"

Jon turned the page, squinting as he skimmed over the words. An excruciatingly detailed sketch of huge dragon - wings outstretched and its features annotated - dominated the double pages. The caption marked it as 'Balerion the Black Dread'.

Septon Barth's details and observations were absolutely precise and pristine. The first pages of writing were a mixture of his observed studies of the Targaryen dragons, their behaviours, diets and mating habits, as well as a good chunk of the history of dragonlore, which as far as Jon could tell, involved a deliberate interweaving of history and superstition to create sift out the dross, and distill fragmentary post-Doom knowledge into actionable information.

Dragons require a very high iron content in their diet due to their metal rich bones, Jon read. They produce incredibly little excrement as there is little their stomachs cannot burn. When alone, dragons become incredibly territorial. But in groups, dragons establish very strict social hierarchies, and even their circadian cycle shows signs of alteration. The dragonhandlers of Dragonstone report that their charges are responsive to the movements of the moon, becoming aggressive and broody under the moon's waxing phase, and sleepy and reticent under the waning phase.

Barth suggested that this was a mating cycle, as it was observed that dragons living in isolation rarely showed the same characteristics.

A dragon's natural lifetime was unknown. Balerion lived to two hundred years old before appearing to die of old age, but there was fairly significant evidence of other dragons living much longer.

Maester Aemon lingered by Jon's side. Anything that Jon didn't understand, the maester would explain, often providing his own insights.

Jon slowly began to realise that the Maester Aemon was perhaps of a peer to Barth himself in knowledge, and Barth had known dragons. Even as a maester of the Night's Watch, the last Targaryen of Westeros had never stopped collecting dragonlore.

Three tallow candles burned one after another as Jon sat and read in thick, comfortable silence. He felt the stiffness between his shoulders slacken.

Jon was working through a description of dragon's vulnerabilities. Contrary to popular notion, dragons could not be slain by attacking down their gullet - Barth wrote that 'death comes out of a dragon's mouth, but death does not go in that way.' However, Septon Barth considered the eyes and snout of a dragon their largest vulnerabilities, citing the death of Meraxes during the First Dornish War.

"What page have you reached?" Aemon asked quietly, after a long pause.

"Twenty-seven."

"Pages thirty and thirty-one could be of interest to you."

He turned the stiff parchment. At first, all he saw was a long list of names. Jon frowned. At the very top of the list, were three names: Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya Targaryen, marked with Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar. "This is a list of dragonriders."

"That is correct," Aemon nodded blindly. "That is a list of all known dragonriders of Barth's time. And what do you notice?"

Jon paused, scanning the page for patterns. He frowned. "Most of these names are either Targaryen or Velaryon."

"Yes. Those that remain? Waters, nearly all. Riders of the crownlands, bastard-born. Do you understand the implication?"

Jon's frown deepened, but he nodded, then remembered that doing so was pointless. "Yes," Jon said.

Maester Aemon's milky eyes seemed to stare through him. "Many have attempted to tame dragons, yet a mature dragon will generally bond only with a few men over its lifetime, and usually only those of a certain bloodline. It is one of the reasons that the dragonseeds became so valuable during the Dance of the Dragons. Old Valyria created their dragons through blood magic, and it was through blood that they kept control of them, wedding power to purpose in the blood itself." Aemon paused, his face hard. Jon guessed what he was implying. "Have you considered that you might be of Valyrian blood, Jon Snow?"

"Aye," Jon admitted, with a quiet grimace.

"Indeed. Now isn't that curious?"

"My father was Eddard Stark," Jon sighed. "I know of the dragonseeds; there are many Targaryen bastards still lingering. More likely than not my mother was some fishwife or washerwoman somewhere with a drop of Targaryen in her." Maybe my mother had silver hair. Perhaps that was why Lord Stark had been so ashamed to tell him of her.

"That is possible," Maester Aemon said, but there was something in the old man's tone that Jon could not quite place. The old man sat quiet for a while.

Jon glanced at the old man. "Have you tried to approach Sonagon, maester?" he asked curiously.

"I have indeed. Your dragon reacted quite poorly to my presence. I heard it snarling, and poor Samwell had to push me away quite quickly for fear it would attack. I have not left the building since."

So Sonagon objected to Aemon. Surely if it was Targaryen blood that was required, then Aemon has more than anyone? "I could escort you to Sonagon," Jon offered. "You should have the chance to touch the dragon."

"Yes," he said with a deep sigh. "That would be most welcome. I am an old man, but I would so dearly love to touch a dragon's scales before I pass."

Jon grimaced quietly, glancing back at the book. Septon Barth wrote that dragons were creatures of magic and chaos, he recalled. So why do men idolise them so?

"May I ask," the maester wheezed after the long silence, "what has you so troubled, King Snow?"

He hesitated. "I killed forty-three people today."

The old man paused. "Ah. So I hear."

There was quiet again. Was that his only response? Aemon didn't seem to feel the need to say anything more. Jon glanced at him, feeling a need to explain. To give a voice to his guilt, perhaps. "They died because of me. I made a mistake - a mistake that seemed inconsequential at the time, and forty-three people died. I don't know even know their names." His voice quivered. "And it was solely my responsibility."

"Yes," Aemon agreed. "It was."

Jon sighed. He wondered if there should be more outrage, guilt, or rage at the statement. It felt like there should be. Instead, there was nothing but quiet in the cold stacks of the library.

"It's going to happen again," Jon continued. "I know it is. Maybe not with Sonagon, but maybe a wildling party will raid and rape a village because I wasn't there to keep them in line. I try, but I can't be everywhere and hundreds of people are going to die because of it."

"Yes. Most likely." Aemon just nodded.

"I don't even know what I'm supposed to feel about that," Jon muttered. "How can I, when everything I do or don't do is going to cost lives? What sort of choice is that?"

"One which you must face every day," Aemon said softly.

A humourless smile passed over Jon's lips. "Then I don't see how I could win."

"You cannot. You will most definitely lose," the maester muttered. Jon blinked. "It may be a disastrous loss or it may be a small defeat, but eventually you will lose. Every king or queen there has ever been must roll that dice, and, although many would pretend otherwise, the outcome is all too often beyond their control. You are not in control of everything, and sooner or later, you will lose."

"That is…" Jon hesitated. "I don't know what to say to that."

"It was what you accepted when you took this duty," Aemon said. "It is a truth that every king must one day accept. Good rulers are the ones who accept the lesson early. The best of them learn to navigate the potentialities of defeat, and learn to mitigate the most extreme risks before they might come to pass."

Jon didn't reply. His hand stroked the stump of his missing finger. "Be prepared, King Snow," the old man continued. "Prepare for the defeats more than the victories, anticipate the shape of those defeats, and that will place you in good stead. Accept the losses of the past, but work to reduce the losses of the future. In that, only in that, is it possible for a ruler to step forward in good conscience."

"That is easier said than done, maester."

"Yes," he agreed. "Most things are."

Aemon hobbled to restack and wrap the books, treating Unnatural History with delicate care. "And what would you have me do?" Jon asked.

"That is for you to decide," the maester replied softly. "But whatever it is, you cannot do it alone. You are not simply a man, now. You are a great name. An aegis, warding those beneath you, warning those before you. If you continue to attempt to take sole responsibility for all your responsibilities, you will simply fail all the faster."

Jon opened his mouth, but then held his tongue. "I would suggest a crown, King Snow," Aemon said. "You must delegate, separate, compartmentalize. Allow yourself to be supported, that you may better support them in turn. Take your crown and force others to bow, no matter how uncomfortable it may make you. Give them order, and expect them to serve."

"My army is of the free folk. They will not bow to me."

Milky grey eyes stared through him. "Then you are doing something wrong." Then a small smile passed over those ancient lips. "You have a dragon."

Jon did not reply. The old man winced as his knees cracked, hobbling weakly. "I must retire for the night," Aemon apologised. "It was very good to talk to you, Your Grace."

Jon paused, watching him go. He snuffed out of candle and walked out in the dark. The maester is over a hundred years old, he thought quietly. But he is still wise beyond his years. Even here, he never stopped learning, did he?

It was dark outside. The hour of the bat, or later. He hadn't realised how long he had spent in the library, but he was still barely a tenth of the way through Septon Barth's book. I forgot how much I enjoy reading, Jon thought, rolling his shoulders. It has been so long since I just sat over a book.

He saw Sam waiting nervously for him by the door to the rookery. "Jon, I…" he stammered.

"I know," Jon said, his voice low. "I'm sorry for putting you in this position, Sam. You are just trying to do your duty. And so am I, Sam, believe me."

Sam's mouth paused, hesitating. "Ty and Jeren spat at me today. I passed them at the mess hall and they spat at me," Sam mumbled. "I have been spending my time hiding with Maester Aemon because the sworn brothers spit on me at every chance they get. They call me traitor for siding with the wildlings, and… and they're right. I feel like a traitor. Sworn brothers died because I tried to do what was right and they curse me for it."

"I know, Sam. Believe me, I know."

"But it's not alright, is it?" he muttered. "The Night's Watch are going to be captives and I'm walking around free and working for the man in charge. I know those men, Jon - they are my friends - and now they despise me."

Jon grimaced slightly. They were his friends too. "And yet it doesn't matter what they think. We have to do what is right, Sam."

"And is this right, Jon?" His voice was a whisper. "People are dead. How many deaths can you justify because it's all for the greater good?"

His mouth opened, and then closed. "I don't know," Jon admitted. "But I know we can't give up now. We do what we can, and then we try to do it a bit better."

Sam shuffled. "I can handle the northern lords, Sam," Jon said, wishing he could believe it. "I can work on keeping Sonagon controlled. I trust Mance to keep Castle Black running and the Wall manned, and I need you to help find a solution. I need to know more about the Others. I need to know how to defeat them."

"Dragonglass," Sam muttered. "Or Valyrian steel."

"Aye. So we need more of both. Much more. If there's a spell that can stop the Others, we need to find that too. I need to trust you to help me with that."

"And all the rest that must be done?"

"We don't do it alone. We find others that we trust, and bring them in."

Sam just nodded weakly. Jon offered a smile, before stepping out into the bonfire-filled courtyard. "I will talk to Mance about those spitting on you," he promised.

"Alright, Jo…" Sam stifled, and straightened. "Thank you, Your Grace."

---

Val

She had grown up under tents and open skies. She still was not used to the thick stone walls and hard wooden rafters overhead. Just being in this southern castle made Val feel uncomfortable as much as anything she had ever known. The giant man-eating monster snoozing somewhere overhead didn't help either. Hardin's Tower was at the edge of Castle Black, but there was absolutely nowhere you could go where the dragon was not in sight.

The hour was late, but few were asleep. The halls of the castle were a sussurus of men and women, free folk and raiders in their circles and gatherings. Too many were talking only in mutters, whispering of what had happened to Mole's Town. Four dozen men and women dead.

"This place is bloody loony," Val heard one spearwife saying to another. "That beast is a monster. We need to get out of here."

"Fuck, you want to run?" Her partner muttered. "You know that King Snow don't take kindly to free folk that split off."

The spearwife looked ready to object, then a woman wearing a white stone walked by with a pot. Everyone held their tongue when talking about the dragon while around those with white stones.

There were mutters and apprehensive stares wherever she went. The far more concerning ones to Val, however, were the wildlings that simply accepted the deaths, no question asked. She had overheard another spearwife saying, "the dragon killed them, so they must have deserved it." Those who viewed Sonagon as a god would not accept that the god could ever make mistakes.

People are dead and those kneelers just swallow and accept it, Val cursed. She did not know what she would prefer, but the thought of so many free folk not only kneeling, but taking such a slavish view sent shivers down her spine. There was nothing that such people wouldn't find a way to justify.

Perhaps I should take a place on one of the hunting parties, she considered, if only to get away from the bloody beast. The main reason she didn't was because Mance was still weak and needed her aid. Still, she considered it.

Val was in the armoury taking stock of swords and arrows for Mance, when she heard footsteps totter down the steps.

"Oi," a man with a big bushy beard and an axe on his waist called. "The King wants you."

She grunted. "Aye? And what does Snow want of me?"

"No, all of us," the free folk called, motioning to the others in the room as well. "He's summoning every leader who isn't on duty. At the Shieldhall, at noon."

Val bristled. Summoning? "And what does he want us all for?"

"Not a clue. Just be there."

In the morning, when the time came, she dropped the tally and headed on outside. True, she could see the castle stirring with news.

King Snow invited every free folk leader, as well as every officer amongst the crows to an assembly in the old Shield Hall. Folk kept gathering, and soon it seemed like half the men and women in Castle Black were cramming into that colorful great hall. They had to stack the tables and dais out of the way so they could all fit, and even then many were spilling out the double doors. Val had to push her way through.

The crows were sat at the very front of the hall, under guard. Many of them were given a wide berth, none of them had weapons, and they were all either wide-eyed or glowering.

The Shieldhall was a great feasting hall of dark stone, cold and damp, and from the old dust it looked like it had been rarely used. A few free folk had been sleeping in the hall after the occupation, but they had to be shifted as the boots marched through. There were worm-eaten rafters overhead, and she glimpsed rats going mad with the sound of the ruckus.

Val only glimpsed Snow briefly, but then the crowd parted to let him to the front. He wore dark wool and ringmail, his longsword on his hip and a rich shadowskin cloak over his shoulders. The crowd murmured as he passed.

Val saw crows glaring at him with hate, while other free folk nodded, and ones with white stones lowered their heads. Whomever it was that Snow passed, none said a word. Val could see the devotion, the admiration and anger following Snow as he moved through the hall.

Mance waited in a seat at a table at the top of the hall, watching quietly. Snow kept his face hard, pausing to talk to men briefly, moving towards the raised stage. When he climbed the short stairs and turned to speak, the muttering in the hall silenced. He did not even need to say anything. He just—looked at them all.

He's acting like a king, she realised. This was the first time he had ever assembled everyone like this. Like the tales she had heard, of southern kings holding southern courts.

"Friends," King Snow said in a clear, stiff voice, stretching out over the hall. "Be at ease in my hall. We are here together - united against a common foe. There will be more battles ahead, but we will fight them for a better future."

There was something that sounded like a snort coming from one of the crows. The man might have lost his head to a free folk's axe for that, if Snow hadn't raised his hand. "But this is not the time for celebration," he continued, his voice hard. "Now is the time for unity, to come together to overcome the challenges we must face. For the future of the free folk. For the future of the living."

He kept it short, and his voice hard. To Val, it seemed the type of speech he may have spent all night rehearsing. "And for the future of the free folk, I must put certain affairs to rights. Reward the brave," he said, pausing as he looked around the hall. "Furs of Old Mother's Crock, Hatch the Halfgiant and Haldur Two-Notch, please step forward."

She saw the group stir. The three men looked confused as the bodies seemed to part around them. All eyes were staring. "Furs of Old Mother's Crock," King Snow continued, pacing. He beckoned towards a free folk boy in the corner to bring forward a bundle of items. "For your sound counsel and leal support, I offer you, Furs, this spear carved of a mammoth's tusk as a symbol of my gratitude." The spear was longer than a man, the boy struggled to lift it. It was wickedly curved and carved with patterns and runes of the first men.

Furs hoisted up the weapon, looking rather confused. Jon just moved between the men, pacing from one to the next.

"Hatch the Halfgiant, for your steadfast loyalty and valour in the battle of Hardhome," he continued. "I offer you this steel warhammer worthy of your might." The weapon took both hands even for Hatch to lift it. It was a large spiked warhammer, not particularly large but dense and heavy, with an auroch's horn handle banded in bronze. "Haldur Two-Notch, for your swift answer to the call to arms, and exceptional leadership of the reserves, I give you this weirwood bow. May it serve you well." It was a small bow, like a hunting bow; smooth and unadorned but fine. "For your service and more, I hereby appoint you three as the first of my Dragonguard."

Val blinked. Dragonguard? What the hells was that? By the looks on their faces, no one else knew either.

"From this moment henceforth," King Snow continued. "None but the Dragonguard may approach Sonagon without permission. The Dragonguard will be an elite rank in battle, and will take the duties of care towards the dragon. To protect the dragon." He paused slightly. "And to even ride and lead the dragon in my absence."

Hatch the Halfgiant had an expression of total dumbfounded shock on his face. Val heard the ripples spreading. The king had to raise his voice to speak over them. "There will be more appointments to the Dragonguard in the coming days. I urge all those that consider themselves worthy to step forward and prove it," he announced. "It will be a rank given to only the most loyal and brave of my allies."

He's treating us like southrons, Val realised. Handing out fancy titles and accepting us to jump for them. She expected - wanted - others in the room to laugh at him for it, but instead she saw nothing but a sea of solemn expressions.

"There must be just rewards given in return for good service," the king said, almost shouting over the din of mutterings. "Now, I intend to allocate some of the rewards. Mance Rayder," he called, turning to face the man, "I hereby formally appoint you as Lord of Castle Black, Keeper of the Wall. Let it also be known that I appoint Sigorn, Magnar of Thenn, as Lord of the Shadow Tower, and the Lord of Bones as Lord of Eastwatch."

Mance didn't react, but his eyes narrowed. Snow turned, pausing as he picked out faces. "Old Man Harwick," he called, "I hereby appoint you Lord of Deep Lake, to hold and fortify the castle with your men. Ygon Oldfather, I grant you Sable Hall to the East. Haldur Bullspear shall take Hoarfrost Hill. Each will receive a suitable command, and the duty to man and fortify the castles."

King Snow kept on talking and there were more names, but Val was distracted by stirring that sounded like a brawl taking place between sworn brothers and free folk towards the back. King Snow kept his voice hard and spoke over it. "Soren Shieldbreaker, I appoint you Lord of Oakenshield, and Lady Val of Whitetree, I appoint you Lady of Queensgate."

She froze. Queensgate? Lady Val of Whitetree? What is the fool thinking?

Val would have confronted him there and then, but as he stopped talking the crowd seemed to surge towards him. Jon Snow's voice bellowed as he demanded order. It seemed like every free folk pushed past each other to talk their king. She heard voice demanding their own appointment, crying out of their own worth. Kneeler fools calling for the attention of their liege.

She slipped out of the hall and paced in the snow. From the talk, she heard that Snow had been giving or promising gifts to those that supported him. Val could have growled. "We're free folk," she cussed out loud. We should not be jumping for a king's attention like these southron fools.

The whole castle was stirring and talking. It was only hours later that he finally left the hall, but there were still so many men shuffling around him that Val couldn't even get close. Finally, Snow retired to Hardin's Tower, and Val followed.

She saw the white tail swaying from atop the tower. Normally she tried to avoid even going near that dragon, but this time she had no choice. There were guards at the tower doors that she had to argue her way through, and walked into a bare and dusty tower of rotting furnishings and crumbling stone.

Snow's quarters were on the third floor. The rooms had collapsed, so he took what used to be the landing of the spiral staircase as his chambers. Val saw a mattress that had been brought up from one of the living quarters, and a fireplace over the broken stone and rubble in the corner, but his quarters were still bare. Like Snow had hardly had time to sleep in them.

There were voices. He wasn't alone; Val saw an aging woman, and a very scared heavyset boy standing before Snow and two guards.

The woman was weeping. Red eyes glaring at the floor. "… ry sorry," she heard the king saying. "Rei, the deaths of those at Mole's Town were not at my command, and I am truly sorry."

The whore, Rei, stifled but didn't speak. Val stayed quiet, but she saw Snow slowly pull out a leather pouch from his pocket. "I will pay the gold price for any who lost kin and friends at Mole's Town," Jon continued. "These are gold rings that should see you in good stead. Wherever you want to go from Castle Black, I will see you there in safety."

Rei paused, staring at the pouch. Very woodenly, she reached out to take it, but she didn't meet his eyes or even say a word as she turned and left. The pouch jangled.

The king's eyes looked sad, but he turned to the other one. He was a gormless, pudgy southron man wearing leather and wool, who had wide eyes and a fearful expression. One of the hunters who he had brought in yesterday, she recalled.

"Harlow," she heard the king say to the boy. "I take responsibility for your friends' deaths, it was… regrettable." Snow's voice twinged. "Do you know of Yorrick's and the others next of kin?"

The hunter, Harlow, stammered. "I do not, my lo- Your Grace. We were just travellers for a short time. I did not know him well enough to deserve such."

"Indeed," Snow said almost… disappointed. Sad that he could not make amends? "Very well."

The man gulped. "What is to happen to me now, Your Grace?"

"Whatever you wish. You are not a prisoner here and you have committed no crime." He turned to walk away. "I am deeply sorry for your companions' deaths."

Harlow seemed to hesitate, bowing. "I heard that you were looking to reach out to the mountain clans?"

"That is correct." The king paused in his steps, his eyes narrowing as he glanced back at the hunter.

"There is a goattrack I know of, in the hills, it won't be defended. If you want to reach Clan Flint, it will take you straight to their holdfast safely," Harlow said. "I'm a hunter, I've used it before."

"Really? And are you willing to share it with our parties?" Snow said. The man nodded eagerly, and for a second a bright grin split his features. "In return for…?"

"Safety, Your Grace? Shelter?"

"Of course," Snow said with a firm nod. "You will have it."

The man grinned brightly, and then bowed low before skittering off down the stairs. He made a fool of himself bowing so deeply he nearly stumbled. Val watched him go, before stepping up towards Jon.

"Will you expect all of us to bow to you like that, 'Your Grace'?" Val stepped, folding her arms.

Jon appeared to hesitate. "It would be appropriate, my lady." He nodded at the guards. "Please give us a moment."

The men nodded and stomped away. The room felt quieter. Something about him seemed to relax as she approached. He had been standing so stiffly.

"Well, look at you, all kingly," Val scoffed. "I told you I don't want no fool's title, Snow."

His eyes narrowed. The bruises around his cheeks were nearly faded. "And yet you deserve it anyways. You have given me good service."

"What? You expect me to call myself… what? 'Lady Val of Whitetree'?" Val muttered. "Those names mean nothing, Snow. You could proclaim yourself the king of whatever hill you like - it's meaningless unless you can sit on it."

He paused, stepping towards her. "And if the ranks are nothing, then why do they bother you so much?"

She stepped towards him, until they were less than two yards apart. He was an inch shorter than her. "Because you're treating us like we're southrons, Snow."

"You are south of the Wall," he noted.

Her lips curled. "And 'Dragonguards'," she said tauntingly. "You need a group of men with fancy names around you to protect you? Wipe your ass too, will they?"

"The Dragonguard will be to protect Sonagon, not myself. The dragon rarely interacts with anyone but me; I want that to change. I want Sonagon to be familiar with more people, and a group to watch the dragon when I cannot."

"You want to prevent another accident. Stop your dragon from killing another village."

"Aye," Jon agreed. "I am trying."

Her eyes narrowed but she didn't reply. King Snow lowered his head. "Lady Val," he said, stressing the title, "I will ensure you are given a capable command. A command with proper ranks and authority. Good fighters and spearwives, that will follow you alone."

"And then what? You expect me to go to Queensgate?"

"I thought it would suit you. Queensgate is not far from here, yet it is a strong castle. Bring your sister and her babe, you could shelter them there. I do need good officers to hold the Wall."

"Is that me?" she asked with a slight grunt. "Another of your officers?"

She caught the flicker in his gaze. "… What would you rather be?"

Val stopped, meeting his grey eyes. He looked uncomfortable. He's younger than I am, she thought. It was hard to tell his age from his hair and the way he held himself, but sometimes he let himself slip. He was around eighteen, and she about seven years older. She gave him a sweet smile, and stepped backwards.

"I'll let you know," she said. "I ain't going to Queensgate. I'll stay here and I'll help Mance, but I won't go off to a ruin like Queensgate."

He hesitated, seemed to bite his lip, and then nodded. "Very well, my lady. I'm sure Mance could use your support."

"I'm sure," she replied, already turning to walk away.