A rising sun revealed another warm, sunny day, with heat reflecting from his brilliant white scales, and wind howling beneath his leathery wings. The air was thick with the scent of salt and sulphur, fire and stone. He was no longer Jon Snow; he was a dragon, flying high in the air. Jon soared above the ruins of Old Valyria. The sparse remaining stones from the buildings of a once-glorious empire stretched out below like the carcass of a fallen dragon. Today would be his last day amongst the lifeless old ruins.
High in the skies, Jon saw the dead city was not lifeless.
Time and fire ravaged Valyria. However, something crept in to reclaim what the ruins left behind. Swooping down, he saw vines coiling through shattered archways, thick as a man's arm. Moss blanketed obsidian streets, softening the edges of black stone shaped long ago by dragon fire. Enormous trees rose from the cracks in shattered courtyards, their roots splitting stone that once knew the footfalls of dragonlords. Strange flowers bloomed in the hollows of dragon-forged palaces, their petals blood-red, with scent rich and heavy in the thick, humid air. Creepers draped themselves over broken stairways, and thick carpets of grass grew where once there had only been paved avenues leading to grand halls standing empty and silent.
His eyes pierced the haze that clung to the ruins, marking every movement below—lizards, fat with warmth, slithered over fallen columns. An unfamiliar fawn-coloured creature, its coat sleek and dark, picked its way through the overgrowth, unbothered by the ghosts that lingered. Strange birds flitted through broken spires, their calls sharp and unfamiliar. The scent of life was rich, mingling with the lingering aftertaste of burnt stone. And now and again, those very stone walls appeared to move. They were those who were afflicted by greyscale. Mad, dangerous, and dying.
Amongst the greenery, he spotted what he was searching for. A hill, smoke billowing out from the top. Below, deep inside its crater the fire still burned.
It was a wide, seething wound in the earth. There, the last of the Fourteen Flames he sought still roared. Jon turned his wings, flew towards the old mountain, and dove into the crater, where the heat swallowed him whole.
The world turned red and gold and dark as he plunged into the depths of the crater, where rivers of molten rock split the land like glowing scars. Fire leapt to greet him, clinging to his scales, and licking at his wings, but it did not burn. No, it filled him. The strength poured into his body, into the deep places inside him. His bones felt heavier, his glossy white scales were harder than any Valyrian steel, and his muscles coiled with new power.
Magic, old as the world, branded itself upon him.
When he rose, leaving the molten rock behind, his wings beat gusts of heat through the smoking jungle below. But the sea below called to him.
Jon wheeled and dived again, this time toward the smouldering water at the feet of the broken mountains. The Smoking Sea stretched wide, steaming where the hot earth still bled into its depths.
The water embraced him. His wings folded tight against his sides as, for a final time, he plunged deep into darkness. Here, even the sea was thick with magic. The water burned against his hide, rich with salt and sulphur and the lingering traces of something older than men, older than dragons. It was pure magic.
He resurfaced, rising high into the air, blinking the water from his eyes, enjoying the heat of the sun drying his scales.
Jon flew over the clear blue Sea of Sighs, his stomach rumbling. Ever since he arrived in old Valyria, he'd fed upon the strange sea life of Slaver's Bay and the Smoking Sea.
He saw something stirred in the depths.
Jon's nostrils flared, scenting something unfamiliar, something vast. Then it came—a shadow in the blackness, gliding through the water with slow, ponderous grace. It was no fish. No shark. It was something else.
Its body was long and sinuous, thick as a river's course, lined with scales the colour of drowned bronze. A ridge of jagged spines ran the length of its back, breaking the surface of the steaming water in places, like the dorsal fins of some vast serpent. Eyes pale and luminous stared at him from the abyss, unblinking, ancient.
The beast moved, slow as the turning tides, its mouth yawning wide—too wide, a gaping chasm filled with needle teeth and the reek of rot.
Then he struck.
His jaws clamped down on the thick and rubbery flesh tasting of brine. The beast thrashed, coiling around him like a serpent, trying to drag him deeper, into the black places where no fire could burn.
But Blizzard was no normal dragon for his age. He was already stronger than those who had hatched since the doom.
Strength surged through him, hot as the flames he had swallowed. He twisted, clawing, tearing, his fangs sinking deeper until the blood—black and thick, hotter than it should have been, coated his tongue. The creature spasmed, its body writhing as it tried to break free, but he held fast. His wings flared open and swam upward, dragging his prey towards the surface.
The sea broke around him in a rush of steam as he erupted from the depths, the beast still clutched in his jaws.
He threw his head back, tossed the creature into the sky and breathed red flames, charring the body. It fell into his maw and was gone in seconds. His hunger sated, for now, he roared his victory to the smoking heavens, his cry carrying over the broken land. The ruins of Valyria trembled beneath him, as if they, too, remembered. Dragons had come once more. And he, the largest living dragon, was stronger than before. The time had come; he was ready to leave.
There was one last thing he needed to do before he returned home. He searched for and found the cave where he kept his hidden treasure. Jon swooped down to retrieve the precious gifts he had collected in his ancestral homeland.
It had been a delicate operation, but he had found a chest to house the pieces he knew would be needed for his family. Once he was happy everything was inside and safe, Blizzard closed the chest and picked it up in his claws, before taking off and turning to fly west, back home to those he loved.
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Jon woke with a start, his heart hammering in his chest. His breath came fast, shallow. He blinked against the dim light, his eyes darting across the familiar stone walls and heavy tapestries of the chamber he shared with Sansa. Winterfell. He was home. Safe.
He turned onto his side and saw her lying beside him; her back to him, long strands of auburn hair spilling across the pillow. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, pressing his face into the warmth of her shoulder.
It was not the first time he had dreamed of Blizzard, soaring through the skies above old Valyria, but this dream had been the most vivid of all.
Sansa stirred, murmuring in her still drowsy state, as she turned to face him, her lashes fluttering open. Her eyes were the deep blue of the sea in summer. "Are you all right?" she asked, her voice thick with sleep. "Go back to sleep, Jon."
"It was just a dream."
She nestled her head against his chest. "You were dreaming of Blizzard again, weren't you?"
Jon hesitated. "How do you know?"
Sansa gave a sleepy little smile. "Because whenever you dream of him, your body is hotter than usual."
"Am I?" Jon frowned. "You've never mentioned that before."
"Well, you never thought to ask." She kissed him, and Jon felt the warmth of it linger. He wanted to deepen the kiss, to pull her closer, but now was not the time.
"What did you see?" she asked.
Jon exhaled, trying to recall the dream. "I think Blizzard is leaving Valyria. He wants to come home." His brow furrowed. "He's found all the Fourteen Flames… and he's bringing something back with him."
Sansa lifted her head. "Gifts?"
"I think so," Jon said, the memory already slipping away, like mist in the morning sun. He shook his head. "I don't know what they were. I couldn't see them."
Sansa touched his cheek, brushing her lips against his. "Never mind. If they're important, we'll know in time. Blizzard wouldn't return without reason."
Jon nodded. "He's grown. By the time he reaches Westeros, he'll be bigger than Drogon."
Sansa's eyes widened. "Then we'd best get to work on those saddles." She grinned, pressing another kiss to his lips.
Beyond the window, the sky had paled, the first hints of dawn creeping over the battlements of Winterfell. Morning would come soon.
"Shall we rise, then?"
Sansa trailed a hand down his chest, her smile turning wicked. "I can think of better things to do than getting up just now, can't you?"
Jon kissed her again while running his hand up her soft, pale, thigh. She pressed her hips against his hardness, and he rolled on top of her.
"Gods, I love you," he whispered in her ear before making his way down her body so he could satiate his morning hunger.
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Over the last fortnight, since Robb's departure, the fields beyond Winter Town had grown thick with tents. The banners of the Northmen snapped in the wind, their armies gathering before marching south. Soon, it would be difficult to find a seat in the Smoking Log, and the whores overflowing coin. At least the lords had been mindful enough to bring their provisions, so as not to strain Winterfell's stores.
As their chosen king, it fell to Jon to inspect the men once they had made camp. Each day, he walked the grounds, speaking to the new soldiers who came to fight—to help him take the Iron Throne. And those who lived would march north in the war that truly mattered.
The day before, the Umbers had arrived, the last of the first wave. These were trained men, seasoned warriors. The others still to come were the men who worked the fields, and Jon had no intention of pulling them from the harvest unless he had to. They would be needed when the time came to stand against the dead. For now, ten thousand would have to be enough.
"Twenty thousand strong," Lord Umber bragged, as they walked the camp, though Jon had his doubts. He saw half that number. Greatjon Umber was a hard man to gainsay, though—big and loud, quick to laughter and quicker to anger. Jon held his tongue and nodded, stepping out of the cold and back within Winterfell's walls.
They could not wait forever. With the arrival of the Umber men, they would soon march South. It was time to make the preparations. A small council meeting would be required after he broke his fast, and a Great Council that afternoon.
The Great Hall was warm and lively when Jon arrived for breakfast. He might have taken his place at the high table, but he preferred to sit among the other lords, to hear their talk when they did not think him listening. Jon had barely lifted his spoon when a serving boy tapped his shoulder.
Jon turned around. "Yes?" The poor boy looked terrified, and Jon offered him a reassuring smile.
"Lord Stark wishes to see you in his solar, Your Grace. He says it is urgent."
Jon set down his spoon. "Thank you." He stood and climbed over the bench. "It seems I'm needed elsewhere." His gaze swept the table, and he addressed the lords. "I'll speak with you all later. There will be a meeting after lunch."
He left the hall and made for the solar. Inside, he found Lord Stark, Sansa, Arya, Maester Luwin, and Lady Stark waiting. Their faces wore grave expressions.
Jon frowned. Whatever news had come, he would be the last to hear it. "What news?" Lord Stark handed him a raven scroll.
Jon broke the seal and read. The message was from Robb—he had reached Moat Cailin and was already making excellent progress on the repairs. It was time to march South. Jon looked around at his family. "It is time to gather the men. We should leave soon. We need to call a Small Council meeting. After that, I will address the Northern Lords." Lord Stark gave an acknowledging nod.
Sansa touched his arm. "Have you told anyone about your dream?"
Jon exhaled. He hadn't planned on telling everyone, but his family ought to know. "Blizzard will be returning to us soon. He should reach Moat Cailin within three weeks, no more."
"And how is he?" Lady Stark wanted to know.
Jon met her gaze. "He's grown. A lot. And he has something for us… but I don't know what."
Excitement rippled through the room as they began guessing at what gifts Blizzard was bringing them: dragon eggs, Valyrian swords, and special dragonglass. There were many secrets held in Valyria. A place humans feared to tread.
Jon lifted a hand to silence them. "Maester Luwin, call the small council. I wish to speak to the lords after lunch, so make haste."
"I will, Your Grace," Maester Luwin nodded and slipped from the room.
Jon caught the shadow in Lady Stark's eyes. He could see she was afraid.
"We will be safe. Blizzard will see to that."
She gave him a wan smile. "I hope you're right, your grace. I just want my children to return to me when this is all over."
Jon took her hand in his. "I promise to do everything within my power to make it so. As will Blizzard, for he sees them as his siblings. He would die to protect them."
"Let us hope it doesn't come to that. War is a bloody business, and we must try to avoid as much bloodshed as possible. His presence alone might be enough to spare us the horrors of war." Lord Stark sounded hopeful, but from Jon's experience, the Lannisters would try to fight Blizzard with a scorpion. However, Jon suspected the weapon might not be enough. But he wouldn't raise anyone's hopes just yet. To base a promise on a dream was foolhardy. He might be a Targaryen, but Jon wasn't an idiot.
"We should make our way to the Small Council chambers," Arya had a touch of excitement in her voice. "The sooner we destroy the Lannisters, the sooner we can assemble men to fight the army of the dead."
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When Jon and Sansa arrived at the small council chamber, what remained of the small council was already assembled. Lord Stark and Lady Stark were seated, as was Maester Luwin. Alongside them sat Wyman Manderly, the master of coin; master of war; the Blackfish, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy; Varys, the master of whisperers; and Roose Bolton, the master of builders. As Jon entered, they all dipped their heads in deference.
"Your graces," the men said in unison. The gesture still unsettled him, but he knew this was the path they had chosen. If discomfort was the price of saving lives, Jon would pay it gladly.
"My lords, my lady," he acknowledged Lady Stark with a nod. "Please be seated."
The scraping of chairs echoed through the chamber as the council took their seats.
"Let us begin. What news?" he asked, despite already knowing most of it.
"We have received word from Lord Robb," Lord Stark said. "He has reached Moat Cailin, and repairs are already underway. However, he will soon run short of lumber." Ned turned to address Lord Bolton. "Can more be arranged?"
Roose Bolton inclined his head. "Of course. I'll ensure the lumberjacks ready extra for the repairs."
"Good." Jon glanced toward Lord Manderly. "Lord Manderly, have we had any word from Ser Davos and Theon?"
"Nothing yet. But I expect them to return soon with news of the eastern fleet. Although my son has sent word that our ships are near ready. We can carry five thousand men to the Vale."
Jon and Lord Stark exchanged a glance. Five thousand would not be enough. They would need to make multiple crossings. The thought of moving such numbers across the sea unsettled Jon. At last count, nearly fifty thousand men would be marching south. He had hoped to send fifteen thousand by ship. That way the Lannisters could be caught by surprise at the extra forces.
"It seems we will need to make multiple crossings," Jon said.
"I will let them know," Lord Manderly responded.
"How long before we march?" the Blackfish wanted to know.
"A week, if possible. Longer if we must." Jon tapped a finger against the table. "We can send five thousand ahead, but readying the rest will take time." The men muttered various words of verbal agreement, coupled with nodded heads. "There is other news. Blizzard will be returning to us shortly." There was a hush in the room. "I expect he will reach Moat Cailin within three weeks, and another day to reach Winterfell."
"And how do you know of this?" Roose Bolton asked.
"I am borne of the first men and dragonlords, my Lord. This allows me to sense Blizzard over long distances. That is all you need to know."
Roose Bolton looked uncomfortable with the information, in contrast, the rest of the small council was eager by the news of Blizzard's return.
"A dragon gives us a greater advantage," the Blackfish sat back in his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face.
Maester Luwin frowned. "Your Grace, would you have me notify the saddler? I have the old designs you found on Dragonstone."
"Yes," Jon said. "We'll need to estimate the measurements." Jon hesitated for a moment. "Give him the measurements used for Vhagar. That will give Blizzard more time to grow."
"Surely he has not grown so large." Lord Manderly asked. There was unease in his eyes.
"By the time he reaches Winterfell, he may be as large as the dragons of old," Jon admitted. "And he will have youth on his side."
The Blackfish shook his head. "At least we will have the strength to break any Lannister force."
"Your Grace," Varys slid his hands into his large sleeves. "Would it not be prudent to consider what weapons might be used against him?"
"I believe we should await his return," Jon said. "He has been drinking in the old magics of Valyria. Current weapons may be of little use to him." Jon chose not to mention the gifts. "I will announce our departure this afternoon. The lords must ready their men." Jon turned to Lord Manderly and Roose Bolton. "See that your forces are prepared to march south."
"Yes, Your Grace," they responded in unison.
"Have you given further thought to the Kingsguard?" Ser Barristan asked.
Jon considered many names. He did not wish to admit to Ser Barristan that Jaime Lannister was at the top of his list, not before he knew where Jaime's loyalties lay.
"For now, I am still considering, Ser Barristan."
"If I may make suggestions? We could start with examining those who march south," the old knight offered.
"I trust your judgment, Ser Barristan," Jon said. "Bring me names when you have them."
Ser Barristan nodded. "As you wish, Your Grace."
"That will be all," Jon said. "We must make haste. The sooner we ride south, the better. Then we prepare for the true war to come."
"Hear, hear," Lord Manderly said, pounding his fist on the table.
"The meeting is concluded," Jon announced.
One by one, the lords and council members rose and took their leave. As Varys turned to go, Jon raised a hand.
"Lord Varys, a word."
The eunuch inclined his head. He waited as the others left, only Sansa remained. Jon shut the door and bolted it. "What news?"
"Little, I fear," Varys said. "There has been no contact between Lord Bolton and the Lannisters or the Freys."
"Curious," Sansa said. "Considering Lady Walda is a Frey herself. We cannot trust Roose Bolton to be anywhere near the Twins."
"I agree," Varys said, rubbing his wrists as he often did when uneasy. "My little birds watch him at all times, but he is careful."
"If he moves against us, we must know before he strikes," Jon said. "If your birds fail, we will need another way."
"Speak with Lady Arya," Sansa said. "She can confirm what your birds whisper."
"And what of Lord Bran?" Varys asked. "I thought he would join us at the council meetings."
"Not yet, Bran is still a child," Sansa said. "His studies cannot be interrupted whilst he remains in Winterfell. But if he learns anything of importance, we will let you know."
"Of course, Your Grace," Varys said, bowing his head. "Is there anything else?"
"That will be all for now, my Lord," Jon said, and Varys departed in silence. Jon exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. "I hate this. The sooner this is over, the better."
Sansa placed a hand on his arm. "I'm afraid this is for life, Jon."
"Aye, I know, but still, a man can dream," he said with a sigh.
"Perhaps we could rebuild Summerhal and take a holiday when this is done. Just peace and solitude, you and me, and those closest to us."
Jon wrapped an arm around her. "Something to look forward to."
She kissed him on the lips. "But for now, we have lords to meet. Rallying men to our cause is what you are best at, Jon. There is no one better in all of Westeros."
Together, they left the solar and made their way to the Great Hall to prepare the rallying cries.
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The Lords had gathered in the Great Hall, waiting for their King to address them. Jon rose to his feet and addressed the men and women, all eyes upon him.
"My Lords of the North. You are men of honour. Men of duty. Men who have bled for your lands and your kin." The Lords murmured in agreement. "You do not take up arms for conquest or glory. You fight because we have no choice. The Lannisters have put a bastard of incest on the Iron Throne, and he is no heir of King Robert. Joffrey, and now Tommen are the gets of Jaime Lannister. We have let the Seven Kingdoms know this, to which, they seek to break us as they have broken the very laws of gods and men.
You fight with me, and for me, because honour demands it. Justice demands it. Because our people deserve better. Westeros deserves better. But hear me now. This war is only the beginning. The lion still sits upon the Iron Throne, and so long as it does, the realm bleeds. We all know what Cersei Lannister is. We know what she has done. She murdered King Robert and hid her incestuous affair with her twin brother—amongst others. Lord Tywin may be the Hand of the King, but she ruled through Joffrey and will rule through Tommen. The Lannisters rule through deceit and fear and will not stop until they hold all of Westeros in their claws.
We can end their reign. We can tear out the corruption that has poisoned the realm. But we must be strong. We must be united. Some will say this is a war for a crown. This is about power. But I tell you now—it is not. This is a war for life itself.
The Lannisters are not our only enemy. They are not our greatest foe. No, our true enemy lies north of the Wall, where an army gathers unlike any the world has seen. The dead will soon march upon us, and I have seen them with my own eyes. I have fought them. They do not reason. They do not bargain. They do not tire. They do not fear. And if we do not stand together—if we do not take the Iron Throne, and command all of Westeros—then we will face them divided. And divided, we shall fall.
Some of you may doubt my words. You have not seen what I have seen. But ask the Free Folk, who now stand among us, who once called us enemies and now call us brothers. They did not flee their homes to make war on us. They fled because they had no choice. They fled because they saw what was coming, and they knew—no walls, no castles, no swords could stop it.
Not alone and divided.
The Starks have ruled the North for thousands of years. We have held this land against Andal, against Ironborn, against Wildling and King alike. But we've never faced a foe like this.
That is why I will not sit idly by while the South squabbles over a throne of swords. We will take it. We must take it, for it is our only hope of survival. Because only as one people—bound by duty, bound by honour—can we stand against the coming storm.
So I ask you now—not as the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, not as the blood of Aegon the Conqueror, but as a Stark of Winterfell, a son of the North—stand with me. Stand with me, not to take a throne, but to save a kingdom.
Stand with me, and together, we will fight for the living."
At first, the room fell silent, and Jon sat. then one by one, the Lords stood, swords raised in the air, and they began their chant. "Long live the King, Long Live the King, Long Live the King…"