The Last Dragon

Summary:

Years after Daenerys Targaryen's fall, Bran Stark rules a divided Westeros, manipulating events from King's Landing. In the North, Sansa Stark struggles to maintain unity as famine, political rivalries, and mistrust among the lords threaten her reign. Haunted by anger and insecurities, she plots to weaken her rivals while resenting Jon Snow for his past actions.

Beyond the Wall, Jon lives in exile, pursued by assassins sent by Bran. When danger grows, he resolves to return south to set things right, accompanied by Tormund and Ghost. Howland Reed shields Jon from Bran's sight with ancient magic, sending Meera Reed to guide him. Meanwhile, Tyrion Lannister drowns in regret over supporting Bran's ascension and exiling Jon. Bran's fleeting visions of Jon as Aegon Targaryen, a king crowned in fire and blood, spark unease as a storm of conflict looms over the realm.

((Notes:

This is my first attempt at writing fanfiction, and it's been both an exciting and humbling journey. I've always been inspired by the idea of the true hero's path—a journey of sacrifice, growth, and redemption—and the timeless storytelling of J.R.R. Tolkien. His world-building, moral depth, and ability to weave profound themes into his narratives have greatly influenced how I approach this story.

I'll admit, I was incredibly disappointed with how Game of Thrones ended. While I'm not saying I could do better, I've always felt the characters, particularly Jon Snow, deserved a conclusion that honored the struggles and sacrifices they endured. This story is my attempt to give Jon Snow, and other characters, the justice I believe they deserve.

I welcome constructive criticism and feedback—I want to grow as a writer and learn from your insights. If you have ideas, theories, or thoughts about the direction of the story, I'd love to hear them. Writing is a collaborative journey, and your engagement and support mean the world to me.

Thank you for giving this story a chance. I hope you enjoy exploring these new chapters of Westeros alongside me!))

Chapter Text

Just beyond the Wall

The wind beyond the Wall was cruel, a relentless predator that tore across the frozen expanse with the wail of a thousand spirits. It sang a dirge for a land that knew no warmth, no respite, where life clung tenuously to the edges of existence. Snow fell in endless sheets, driven into howling drifts that buried all trace of man and beast alike. Here, in the endless white wilderness, Jon Snow lived as a shadow—a ghost wandering the realm of winter.

It had been ten years since Jon crossed the Wall, exiled once more to the edge of the world. Time had blurred into a monotonous march of cold and silence, each day indistinguishable from the last. Among the Free Folk, he had sought something intangible: perhaps peace, or maybe the solace of forgetting. But peace was a fragile thing, and forgetting was a lie the heart told itself when the pain became unbearable.

Jon had not forgotten.

He crouched beside the embers of a dying fire, his heavy cloak drawn tight against the biting wind. The night was dark, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds, and the flames offered little warmth. Ghost lay beside him, the great direwolf's pale fur glowing faintly in the gloom, his red eyes watchful. His ears twitched at every sound from the encroaching dark, where danger was ever present.

The Free Folk spoke in whispers of men who came in the night. They were southerners with soft hands and cold steel, slipping through the snow like shadows. Assassins. The first had come during the dead of winter, their blades glinting like frost as they sought Jon's life. They had failed, their blood staining the snow crimson beneath the moonlight.

More had come; each wave more cunning than the last. But the Free Folk were cunning, too, and fierce. The assassins were dispatched and buried in shallow graves, left to the mercy of the unforgiving land. Yet Jon knew the hand that had sent them. After Tormund had made one squeal like a pig. A young man in a chair, the meeting had taken place in the hidden passages of The Red Keep. How many young men were bound to a chair that lived in the Red Keep?

Bran.

The thought of his brother—his kin—twisting the threads of fate against him gnawed at Jon's heart. He had once trusted Bran, believed in his wisdom and the strange power of the Three-Eyed Raven. But Bran was no longer the boy Jon had known. He was something colder, more calculating. A creature of logic and visions, distant from humanity. To Bran, Jon was a piece on the board, and one that could not be allowed to remain.

The betrayal festered in Jon's heart like an old wound. He had loved Bran as a brother. Now, he was little more than a threat to be eliminated.

Jon stirred the fire absently, his dark eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "What did I do to you, Bran?" he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible above the wind.

Ghost lifted his head, his crimson gaze meeting Jon's, as if sensing the turmoil in his master's soul. The wolf nudged Jon's shoulder, his silent presence a balm for the ache that words could not soothe.

"You've been brooding again, Snow."

The familiar gruff voice broke the silence. Tormund Giantsbane, broad and weathered, loomed just beyond the firelight. His wild red beard bristled as he stepped closer, his piercing blue eyes studying Jon with a knowing look.

Jon glanced up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I thought brooding was my natural state."

Tormund barked a laugh and lowered himself to the ground, his massive frame seeming almost too large for the small space near the fire. "Aye, it's true enough. But I've got an idea that'll stop you from moping."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

Tormund grabbed a stick and began to scratch a crude map into the snow. "Thenn Valley," he said, jabbing at a jagged line he'd drawn. "Far north, deep in the Frostfangs. The Thenns guarded it jealously, with good reason. Hot springs, plenty of game, ore deposits for smithing—it's a place where folk can live, not just survive. But the frozen fucks forced them out during the Long Night. It's abandoned now."

Jon leaned forward, his interest piqued. The thought of a safe haven for the Free Folk—a place they could rebuild without fear—kindled a small spark of hope. "It sounds promising. But it's a hard journey."

Dorumund, Tormund's eldest son, joined them. He was tall like his father, with the same fierce fire in his eyes but tempered by thoughtfulness. "It'll be worth it," Dorumund said firmly. "A place of our own, away from kneelers and their games."

Tormund grinned. "Aye. No lords, no crowns, no bloody southrons meddling in our affairs. Just us."

Before they could set out, death came for Jon in the night. The assassins were swift and brutal, their attack precise. Jon had been sitting alone at the edge of the camp, lost in thought, when they struck. Blades flashed in the darkness, and Jon barely had time to draw Longclaw before they were upon him.

It was Ghost's growl that saved him. The direwolf lunged from the shadows, tearing into one attacker as Tormund and Dorumund rushed to Jon's aid. Tormund tackled a towering brute wielding a black double-bladed axe, twisting the man's neck with savage strength.

The melee was over in minutes, the snow stained red with blood. Tormund hefted the black axe with a feral grin. "Aye, this is mine now," he said, his tone light despite the weight of the battle.

Jon stared at the bodies of his would-be killers; his heart heavy. The attacks were relentless, and the cost was too high. The Free Folk had bled for him, and he couldn't allow it to continue.

Valley of the Thenn

The journey to the Thenn Valley was long and arduous. The Free Folk moved as a single, ragged column, their resilience tested by the cold and treacherous terrain. Jon and Ghost led the way, scouting paths and keeping watch for danger. Game was scarce, but the Free Folk endured, their spirit unbroken.

When they reached the valley, it was like stepping into another world. The land was blanketed in snow, but steam rose from the hot springs, and green shoots peeked through the frost. Life had defied the grip of winter here.

Jon, Tormund, Ghost, and Dorumund stood on a ridge overlooking the valley. "The winter chill failed," Jon said quietly, his voice filled with awe. "This is no longer the Valley of the Thenn. It's the Valley of the Free Folk."

The work of rebuilding began immediately. The Free Folk labored side by side, erecting shelters and carving out a home in the frozen wilderness. The valley slowly came to life, a testament to their perseverance.

Jon's thoughts often turned south during the quiet moments. Sansa's reign in the North was tenuous, plagued by division and whispers of unrest. Traders spoke of a land where honor had been replaced by ambition and unity by mistrust.

When assassins came again—better prepared and bolder than before—their attack cost the lives of fifteen Free Folk. As Jon stood by the pyres, watching the flames consume the dead, he made his decision.

That night, a dream came to him. In the darkness, he saw a massive raven with three eyes glaring at him. It cawed, a sound that shook the void. "Bran," Jon whispered, his voice trembling. "Why? If your fight is with me, then face me."

As he faced the mass of blackness, a beacon of light bathed him from behind. Ghost appeared at his side, his ember eyes fixed on the raven. The direwolf let out a howl that echoed through the dreamscape, a challenge to the ancient force. The raven recoiled, as if struck, and slowly the darkness retreated.

Jon woke with a start, with Ghost standing on his haunches expectantly, gray eyes meeting ember. "I know what we must do," Jon said softly. Ghost let out a low rumble and shook his head as if nodding, a sound and a motion of approval.

Ghost never ceased to amaze him with his intelligence, his stalwart shadow.

Jon stood, his resolve firm. He did not know what he was. He didn't know if he was a Snow, a Stark, or a Targaryen. Wolf or Dragon. it didn't matter. After ten long years he would see the world set to right, no one else would die to protect him. He vowed on his life. It was time to step free of the shadows and the snows of time, the south called, and after ten years, he would answer.

He would set things right—or die trying.

(( I am currently posting the same story on another site as well))