Dragonstone
Jon's POV
Little else was said at the Painted Table once it was agreed—Jon Snow would return north to hold the wall. The decision settled over him like a lead weight as he and Ser Davos descended the weathered stone steps toward the black-sand beach, where the mining of dragonglass continued under the watchful eyes of the Unsullied. The crash of the tide against Dragonstone's jagged cliffs filled the silence, but Jon barely heard it. His mind replayed the meeting, each word like the clang of a hammer striking iron.
He had to admit it—Ubbe had made more sense than anyone else in the room. The plan to go beyond the Wall to capture a wight had been a reckless gamble at best, one that risked everything for a fool's hope. Cersei Lannister would never be swayed by proof, not when she barely flinched at the living. Better to prepare, to take the fight against the dead on their terms while they still had time.
For the first time, he had that power. Not as the outcast son of Winterfell. Not as the Lord Commander of a desperate, dwindling order. But as a king.
And Daenerys Targaryen had given her word—she would come to his aid. But only after securing the Iron Throne.
That she would take the Seven Kingdoms, he did not doubt. That she would keep her word was another matter entirely.
Davos, as always, broke the silence with the ease of a man filling an empty cup.
"What do you think of her?" he asked, voice casual, like idle talk on a long ride.
"Who?" Jon answered instinctively.
Davos scoffed. "I believe you know of whom I speak."
Jon exhaled, feeling the trap before it was sprung. "She has a good heart," he said, sidestepping the true question.
"A good heart?" Davos mused. "Aye, and I notice you staring at her good heart."
Heat rose to Jon's cheeks. "There's no time for that," he muttered. "I saw the Night King, Davos. I looked into his eyes." His pace quickened, boots thudding against stone.
He stopped to look at Davos for a moment before asking. "And how many men do we have in the North to fight him? Ten thousand? Less?"
"Fewer," Davos corrected.
Jon barely registered it—his thoughts were too tangled—until Davos nodded ahead. "Speaking of good hearts... Missandei of Naath."
The translator stood at a lookout along the stairway, the sea wind teasing curls free from her tied-up hair. At their approach, she bowed her head slightly. "Ser Davos. Lord Snow."
"King Snow, isn't it?" Davos corrected, his tone playful. "No? That doesn't sound right. King Jon?" He turned to Jon, expecting some kind of reaction.
"It doesn't matter," Jon said, meaning it.
Missandei tilted her head slightly. "May I ask you a question?"
Jon straightened. "Of course."
"Your name is Jon Snow, but your father's name was Eddard Stark."
The old wound reopened, as it always did. But he remembered Tyrion's words—Wear it like armor.
"Am' a bastard," he said plainly.
Missandei frowned, unsatisfied.
"My mother and father weren't married," he clarified.
Davos, always quick to lighten heavy things, raised an eyebrow. "Is the custom different in Naath?"
"We do not have marriage in Naath," Missandei answered. "So the concept of a bastard does not exist."
"That sounds... liberating," Davos mused, side-eyeing Jon.
Jon ignored him, shifting the focus elsewhere. "Why did you leave your land?"
Missandei's expression darkened, though her voice remained steady. "I was stolen away by slavers."
Jon's jaw tightened. "I'm sorry."
"If I may," Davos interjected, ever curious. "How does a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?"
Missandei's face softened into a smile. "She bought me from my master and set me free."
"That was good of her," Davos admitted, though his voice carried an edge. "Of course, you are serving her now, aren't you?"
Before Missandei could answer, the rhythmic crunch of boots on stone signaled another arrival. Gunhild, the Viking shield maiden, descended toward them, her blonde braid catching the wind. She stopped beside Missandei, nodding in greeting, already mimicking Westerosi customs. Jon returned the nod, studying her. The North had taught him to be wary of outsiders, but the Free Folk had taught him something else—that kinship was forged, not inherited. He wondered if the Vikings might prove the same.
Missandei squared her shoulders. "I serve my Queen because I choose to serve my Queen," she said firmly. "Because I believe in her."
Jon seized the moment. "And if you wished to sail home tomorrow?"
Missandei did not hesitate. "Then she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune."
Jon smirked, unconvinced. "You believe that?"
Missandei's gaze held no doubt. "I know it."
Gunhild, silent until now, took Missandei's hand, her grip firm, grounding.
Davos turned his attention to the shield maiden. "And you? You came from lands that don't even appear on our maps. Did you choose Ubbe as your king? Or Daenerys?"
Gunhild stepped forward, standing a head taller than the rest. "I could speak of it for a thousand years, and you would not understand."
Davos, unshaken, smirked. "Would you not even try? A minute should do."
Gunhild studied him, amused. "There are hundreds of kings and queens in these lands, in ours, and in many more beyond."
"Aye," Jon agreed. "Some good, some evil. What is your point?"
Gunhild's gaze sharpened. "Have you ever dreamed of a king from a land you have never seen?"
Jon hesitated. "No."
"All of us have," she said. "A queen. A Mother of Dragons. And it was Ubbe who understood first, who knew where to find her. So we followed."
Jon exhaled sharply. "You crossed seas unknown to you because of dreams?"
"Dreams are important to my people," Gunhild replied, just as a dragon's cry split the sky. Rhaegal swept overhead, his green scales glinting in the sun, his wings rippling the wind as he soared toward the castle.
Gunhild lifted her chin, eyes following the beast. "In our land, we see gods only in visions. Ubbe led us to where we can see them in the flesh."
Jon absorbed her words, the weight of them pressing against his skepticism.
Then, the sharp blare of a horn cut through the salty air. From the harbor below, a lonely ship's banners unfurled in the wind. Golden kraken on a field of dark grey.
"Is that a Greyjoy ship?". He said, in disbelief.
...
The surf roared as the skiff cut through the waves, carrying a handful of men toward the black-sand shore. The tide churned, restless, as if aware of the tension that thickened the air. Jon stood at the water's edge, flanked by Davos, Missandei, Gunhild, and a group of Dothraki warriors who had come to meet the newcomers. He spotted the lead figure immediately—the shadow of a man who had once been Theon Greyjoy.
He had changed.
Theon stopped just where the waves lapped at the shore, the salt spray dampening his already haggard frame. He looked thinner, his skin drawn tight, eyes sunken with exhaustion. A ghost of himself, an old man in a young man's body.
Jon's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his blood running hot at the sight of him. The man who had taken Winterfell. The man who had betrayed the Starks.
Theon met his gaze briefly, then dropped his eyes to the sand. Shame weighed him down like an anchor.
Jon had once wanted nothing more than to kill him. He had imagined it countless times—the rage, the justice. But Bran was alive. Theon had not killed his brothers after all. That knowledge tempered the fury that still threatened to burn through him.
He steadied himself and stepped forward.
Theon's lips parted slightly, as if searching for the right words. "Jon..." His voice was raw, frayed. "Didn't know you were here."
The words rang hollow. Jon could see it—the way Theon carried himself, the way his shoulders hunched, the way he couldn't hold his gaze. The sailor moved closer, head bowed like a man awaiting judgment.
"Sansa..." Theon swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Is she alright?"
Jon's jaw tightened. He grabbed Theon by the collar, yanking him forward with barely restrained fury.
"What you did for her," Jon growled, his voice cold as the North, "is the only reason I am not killing you."
Theon didn't resist. He barely even breathed.
Davos stepped forward, his voice breaking the charged silence. "We heard your uncle attacked your fleet. We thought you were dead."
Theon turned slightly toward Davos, though Jon's grip still held him firm. His expression was hollow, devoid of fight. "We should be," he murmured.
Jon's hold slackened, and Theon exhaled, rubbing at his throat.
"Your sister?" Davos pressed.
Theon's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Euron has her," he admitted, voice cracking with something between grief and guilt. "We came to ask the Queen for her help... to get her back."
A new voice cut through the conversation.
"There will be time for that, Kraken."
Ubbe Ragnarsson.
The Viking leader strode toward them, his presence as natural as the tide, moving with the easy confidence of a man who had seen battle and had no fear of it. No one had noticed his approach, but now, he was there, between Jon and Theon, his hand coming down heavy upon Theon's bony shoulder.
"You lived and returned to us by the All-Father's providence," Ubbe said, his voice measured yet firm. "So you can help me sink your uncle's ships."
Before Theon could react, Ubbe pulled him forward, half-embracing, half-steering him away from the conversation as if they were old comrades. Theon stiffened in confusion, eyes darting to Jon, then to the Viking. But Ubbe gave him no choice in the matter.
"Tell me everything about Euron," Ubbe continued, his tone shifting to something quieter, more deliberate. "We have big plans to make."
Jon watched as they walked toward the Viking encampment, his mind turning over the odd sight of Theon—once the would-be prince of the Iron Islands—now swept into Ubbe's grasp like a pawn on the board. The Viking's ways were strange, but there was no denying his effectiveness.
Then, as if remembering something, Ubbe turned back to Jon, calling out with a grin.
"White Wolf! We are choosing the warriors who will go to the Wall with you. Come—let them meet the man they are to follow."
Jon exhaled slowly, glancing at Theon one last time before moving to join them. There was no time for old grudges. The war waited for no one.
...
Dragonstone
Tyrion's POV
Tyrion sat comfortably in Daenerys' private chambers, savoring the warmth of the fire as it crackled in the hearth. He absently swirled a goblet of Dornish red, watching the flickering light dance across the deep crimson surface. Across the room, the Queen stood by the chimney, her hands clasped tightly before her. He had seen that stance before—her mind still turning over the discussions at the Painted Table.
He avoided looking at her directly for too long. Sometimes, her beauty was disarming, and while he was a man who appreciated the finer things in life, leering at one's queen was hardly a wise indulgence.
Instead, he focused on the matter at hand. The council meeting had left him in a precarious position, and he needed to address it.
"I want you to know..." He hesitated. The words were suddenly difficult to form. Daenerys turned, her violet eyes locking onto him with unwavering attention, making it even more difficult.
"The thought of capturing a wight... Cersei, Jaime, all of it." He exhaled. "At the time, it seemed like a sound plan."
Daenerys remained unreadable. "Yes?"
Tyrion sighed. "Now, I find myself wondering what I was thinking." He took a sip of wine before muttering, "I wish I had never voiced it. The whole idea feels foreign to me now. Embarrassingly so."
Daenerys tilted her head slightly. "You are a man of peace, Tyrion." She stepped toward him. "I'm not angry at you for trying to find a way to avoid bloodshed. Seeking peace is an admirable thing."
Tyrion blinked. He had expected frustration, disappointment—anything but this tempered response.
"I like that about you," she continued. "That you are a man of peace. Not a hero."
Tyrion scoffed, feigning offense. "Well, I have been heroic on occasion. I once charged through the Mud Gate at King's Landing, and—"
"I did not choose you as my Hand for being a hero," Daenerys interjected, pacing toward the fire. She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. "You once stopped me from burning two cities to the ground. Do you remember?"
He did.
The memory returned, as vivid as the flames before them. Meereen had been under siege, the combined forces of Yunkai and Astapor launching their assault. She had just returned, triumphant from her conquest of the Dothraki, and she had been hungry for retribution. Her first instinct had been to rain fire upon her enemies, to leave their cities as nothing more than smoldering ruin.
It had been his voice that had stayed her hand. He had convinced her otherwise—had turned their enemies into an armada instead of a graveyard.
"Ah yes," he murmured. "Back when I still gave you sound advice." He swirled his wine, staring into the fire. "Those were the days."
She turned back to him, eyes keen. "I need you to be that counselor again, Tyrion."
There was something weighty in her voice. Something she was working toward.
"I don't need a hero," she said. "Heroes do foolish things. And they die. Drogo, Jorah, Daario... even this Jon Snow." She let out a small breath. "They all try to outdo one another. Who can do the bravest, stupidest thing?"
Tyrion arched a brow. Ah. So that's where this was going.
He smirked. "Interesting pattern, these 'heroes' you name: Drogo, Jorah, Daario... even this Jon Snow." He sipped his wine, enjoying the taste of the next words before he spoke them. "They all fell in love with you."
Daenerys shot him a look. "Jon Snow is not in love with me."
Tyrion widened his eyes in mock surprise. "Oh! My mistake. I suppose he stares at you longingly because he's hopeful for a successful military alliance." He set his goblet down, regarding her with amusement. "And what of the mighty Viking? Do you see him as one of these so-called heroes? Does he strive to be the bravest, stupidest of them all to win your favor?"
She hesitated. That alone was telling.
"I still don't know what to think of Ubbe," she admitted.
Tyrion leaned back, watching her closely. "You seem rather fond of him. And no one can deny the devotion he seems to have for you."
Daenerys exhaled sharply. "He conflicts me, Tyrion. He seems to know too much, but shares too little." She folded her arms. "What do you think of him? Of all of them?"
Tyrion took a moment before answering. His instincts told him to be careful. She regarded the Viking highly, even if she had her reservations.
"I agree," he said at last. "He's too reserved for me to form a complete opinion. His behavior is... erratic. But he seems to know what he's doing."
"Erratic?"
"Did we attend the same council meeting?" Tyrion raised a brow. "He looked to be physically ill for a moment, confused—then suddenly launched into his passionate tirade, leaving the rest of us looking like complete fools."
Daenerys didn't argue. "True." She let out a slow breath. "But Tyrion, this is a time of war. No war has ever been won without violence. And this man—" she hesitated, as if reluctant to say it aloud, "masters violence. The fiercest warriors I've known have been ones who let violence master them."
Tyrion swirled his wine again, her earlier words still sitting with him. "And here I am. A man of peace."
She turned back to him, her gaze softer now. "I will need a man of peace, Tyrion. Once we have won."
Tyrion studied her, reading between the lines. "So." He tapped his fingers against the goblet. "You will follow the Viking's advice to win the war." It was not a question.
Daenerys met his gaze, her expression unwavering. "Do I have much of a choice?" She gestured slightly. "I am expected to unite the Seven Kingdoms against an army of dead men."
Tyrion exhaled through his nose, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Grumkins and Snarks..." he mused.
Daenerys frowned. "Pardon?"
He chuckled softly. "A term for wet nurse's tales. Stories to frighten children." He took another sip of wine, shaking his head. "I remember when that's all any of this was—tales and myths. And yet here we are. Dragons, ice wights, fanatical warriors from distant lands..." He smirked. "I do wonder what will come next."
...
The Viking Camp
Jon's POV
Jon could not understand a word of what was being said, but he didn't need to. The tension in the air was palpable—the way voices rose and fell like clashing steel, the sharp gestures, the simmering defiance. The hostility was directed mostly at Ubbe, but Jon could feel some of it was aimed at him as well.
Beside him, Davos stood stiffly, his usual ease absent. From the corner of his eye, Jon caught sight of Missandei. Unlike them, she seemed more fascinated by the language itself than alarmed by the emotions behind it. Meanwhile, Theon had all but melted into a chair, his presence barely acknowledged by anyone.
Jon shifted his gaze to Ubbe. The Viking leader sat, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees, as he listened to his men's grievances. He looked... bored. That, more than the anger itself, unsettled Jon.
He spotted Gunhild standing on the other side of the gathering and made his way toward her.
"What's going on?" he muttered, trying to sound casual.
The shieldmaiden lifted a hand, shushing him as she focused on the discussion. Only after a moment did she begin explaining, her voice low.
"They don't want to go with you," she said simply.
Jon frowned. "Why? Isn't their commander ordering them to?"
Gunhild chuckled softly. "We are here by our own will, not because we are ordered to be. We follow because we believe." She tilted her head. "No one wants to leave the Dragon Queen's side."
Jon smirked. "That, I can understand."
Gunhild gave him a quick glance before motioning for silence again. By then, Missandei had moved closer, listening intently to her translation, her mind working to decode the unfamiliar tongue.
Gunhild resumed, her tone quieter. "Thorgrim resents that they are being sent to fight Fossegrimmen."
Jon's brow furrowed. "What?"
"A name for the dead," she clarified. "He doubts the gods will protect them from such creatures in these lands. He fears the Valkyries will not come to carry them to Valhalla."
Jon shifted his gaze back to Ubbe. He had remained silent, listening, but Jon could see the fury gathering behind his ice-blue eyes. It was a slow-building storm, held at bay—for now.
Then, without warning, Ubbe raised his hand.
The arguing ceased instantly. The Vikings fell into a tense, expectant hush.
Ubbe stood, pacing slowly around the fire. Jon glanced at Gunhild, waiting for her to translate. She did so in a steady voice, matching Ubbe's cadence.
"You are afraid."
Jon watched as the warriors, so fierce in their defiance moments ago, shifted uncomfortably.
"You were also afraid when we sailed for months—through storms, through the scorching sun... when the food ran out, when the water ran out. When you thought we would die pitifully, forsaken by the gods and denied entry to Valhalla."
Ubbe's gaze locked onto one of the warriors—Thorgrim.
"You wanted to turn back, didn't you?"
Jon saw the man stiffen. His red beard twitched, but he said nothing.
"Perhaps," Ubbe continued, "you even thought of killing me and taking command of the ships yourself." His tone was calm, almost conversational. "All because you were afraid."
Thorgrim looked away, his hands curling into fists.
"You thought you'd never see dragons," Ubbe went on, his voice growing firmer. "You thought I was a madman, a trickster who had led you to death."
Ubbe stopped walking, standing tall before the warriors.
"But here we are, Thorgrim. All I have said was true."
The fight in Thorgrim's stance dimmed. He looked up, the anger gone, replaced by something closer to wariness.
His voice was quieter when he finally spoke. "Why come all this way, to fight for her, only to send us away? To fight for a stranger?" He hesitated before adding, "If you were going, we would follow. But you will stay with her."
Ubbe exhaled, lowering himself onto a log, fingers idly toying with his beard. Jon studied him closely. There was no arrogance in his manner—only consideration. He cared about these men. That much was clear. The realization filled Jon with a strange sense of hope.
Then Ubbe spoke again.
"Thorgrim."
Jon snapped his gaze to Gunhild, waiting for her to translate.
"The White Wolf is our ally, and the Mother of Dragons' ally," she translated, her voice steady. "We have agreed to help him. You insult me by refusing to follow his lead."
She smirked slightly before adding, "Our custom is that if I defeat you in the sacred circle, you and all those who oppose must obey. It is the will of the gods."
Jon noticed the color drain from Thorgrim's face. Around them, the Vikings went eerily silent.
He turned to Gunhild, uncertain. "What does that mean?"
She leaned in, close enough for him to catch the scent of smoked acorn and clove.
"A combat in the sacred circle is a fight to the death," she whispered.
Jon's stomach twisted.
His gaze flickered between Ubbe and Thorgrim. Both were formidable, but Thorgrim was even broader, grizzled, a wall of muscle and hardened experience. The gamble was a dangerous one.
Ubbe rose to his feet.
"Do I need to present a challenge?" he asked, his voice low, measured.
The silence stretched. The camp seemed to hold its breath.
Thorgrim touched a silver ring on his wrist, then let out a slow exhale. "No, Ragnarsson," he said finally, his voice resigned. "I swore upon my arm-ring to follow the son of Ragnar. I would surely die if I challenged you today."
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, a loud cheer erupted through the camp. The Vikings threw off the disagreement as swiftly as it had come.
Jon's eyes, however, never left Ubbe. The Viking leader had been impossibly calm throughout it all.
Ubbe lifted a hand, signaling for silence once more.
"Helgi Forbeard will choose three hundred men to go north," he declared. "He speaks the Westerosi tongue. Whoever he chooses—goes. This is my command."
The Vikings nodded, some clapping Helgi on the back in acknowledgment. Just like that, the matter was settled.
Jon exhaled, taken aback by the simplicity of it all—their absolute adherence to custom, their unwavering acceptance of Ubbe's authority.
Ubbe strode toward him, placing a firm hand on Jon's shoulder.
"There," he said with a satisfied grin. "You have your Vikings, White Wolf."
Jon met his gaze and gave a nod. "Thank you." The gratitude was genuine.
He wasn't sure what three hundred Vikings could do against the Night King's army. But looking at them now—their unwavering discipline, their steel resolve—he found himself glad to have them at his side.