23 Jaehaerys Targaryen

"Come out of there, Stark." Alliser Thorne sounded like he was enjoying this. Sword ready, the bulk of Grenn and Davos blocking the door while Ghost growled, Robb wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "Come out and we'll make sure to hand you over to King Viserys and Lord Bolton in one piece."

In the back of the large cellar, Rhaegal hooted angrily, though his cries were weak and without fire. Since the Battle of Hardhome and especially since Jon's death, the green dragon hadn't been the same despite his healing injuries. "Looks like we're fucked," Olenna quipped, brushing off a stray piece of lint from her dress. "They outnumber us, Snow is dead, and the dragon isn't even have fire anymore." She was cut off from a menacing growl from Ghost.

"Shut it!" Robb yelled, ears perking up. "From the scuffling outside, looks like Margaery, Pyp, and Ollie came through." After the chaos following Jon's death, Robb quickly locked all he could trust in the cellar where Rhaegal rested with Jon's body. The three were sent for reinforcements, and from Thorne's profanity and the constant banging it looks like they had arrived. "Alright, on me. One, two, THREE!"

Chaos had gripped the grounds of Castle Black, but there was no fighting. Not in the least. The massive forms of giants Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun and Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg and the sheer bulk of the wildling host that Tormund arrived with quelled attempts by Thorne to drive them back. One was dumb enough to charge Tormund, but the warrior killed him easily. Drawing his sword at Locke's throat, Robb's enraged scowl was tempered by the soft hand of Margaery Tyrell, unharmed and escorted here by the redheaded Free Folk leader. "Put down all your weapons. There is no need for any more bloodshed than has already been spilt."

"Fuck you, cunt," Locke spat.

Ice drew blood, enough to hurt but not enough to cause much harm. "Give me a reason, traitor," Robb hissed. "Give me a reason." Unfortunately for his baser instincts, Locke shut up.

The thwick of a drawstring was followed by a dull wet slap. Grunting, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun pulled an arrow out of his thick arm. While the crossbow was designed to punch through armor, against a giant it was nothing but a mere insect sting if not hitting a vital area. The Night's Watchman - a member of Thorne's faction - suddenly lost his bravado. He wanted to flee, but his legs wouldn't work as the giant stared at him. Without breaking a sweat, Wun grabbed the screaming watchman and smashed him against the wall, blood coating the stone he threw the limp sack of meat into the center. Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg let out a deep bellow, quelling any further funny business.

"You traitors!" Thorne snarled at his men.

"The only traitors here," Margaery said icily, "Are the ones that drove knives in the back of their Lord Commander's heart."

Tormund in his face, axe clutched in his hand, Thorne refused to give an inch of ground - admirable in a way. "The Night's Watch spent millennia defending Castle Black against the Wildlings!"

"Aye," deadpanned Tormund. "Until today." A loud cry shrieked in the air. Ollie, knife in hand, charged at Thorne to avenge Jon Snow. The big bulk of Samwell Tarly held the struggling boy back.

"Let me kill him!" Ollie yelled, but aside from that the violence had ended. Two large giants, a menacing white direwolf, and a weak yet still terrifying dragon joined with hundreds of Free Folk in quelling any dissent.

Soon, a group of stretcher bearers, watched the whole way by Robb, Davos, and the Wildlings - Wun and Mag proving to be the best of guards - moved Jon's body to the Lord Commander's quarters. Rhaegal whined in agony at the sight, while Ghost fell alongside the stretcher and nudged Jon's hand in a desperate attempt to wake him up. Behind, dark blue fabric brushed the snow, Melisandre following with her hands clasped together.

The terror and fight or flight exhilaration of the moment finally passed, those that loved and cared for Jon were free to expel their emotions. Close to collapsing, Robb fell onto Margaery's shoulder and sobbed. Despite the questioning look from Olenna, the Tyrell beauty wrapped her arms around the Young Wolf and comforted him. Gilly did the same for Sam, his thickset arms holding his de facto wife and child close to him. Maester Aemon was beyond tears but looked close to death, hand clutching his heart from his chair. Face morose, Davos stepped beside Melisandre, who was staring down at the body. "Do you think you have something… up your sleeve for this?"

The Red Woman didn't look at him. "Saving a life is far more difficult than taking one." She ran her hand along Jon's wounds. "I will need something powerful. Something he can draw great strength from."

Her head turned at the scraping of wood on stone. "I believe I have something for that," Aemon rasped, heading for a large chest in a corner of the room.

Light, blinding light. It was all that Jon could see, narrowed eyes scanning his surroundings. It appeared as if he were standing on a cloud, looking out at an empty, sunny landscape.

"Hello, my son."

Startled by the sudden voice, Jon swiveled around to find someone he hadn't seen in quite a while. "Father?" Smiling warmly - allowing his affection for the boy he raised as his own to spring forth unencumbered - Ned Stark opened his arms wide in an easily understood gesture. Emotion overwhelming him, Jon returned the embrace. They grasped tightly, manly yet comfortingly at the same time. It felt as if he were a small child again, comforted by his father in the moments where Lady Stark was out of sight. He fought back tears.

"There there, son. It is alright." Ned suppressed his tears as well. "You are safe."

"Am I dead?" Jon pulled back and looked his father in the eye. Gone were the stress lines of leadership, the wrinkles of age - he looked like a man in his prime, which told Jon everything he needed. "This is the afterlife, isn't it?"

Ned couldn't lie to Jon. Not anymore. Never again. "Aye, this is it. And you have died, son." The former Lord of Winterfell watched as sadness crossed Jon's face, as if he had failed someone and hated himself for it. It tore Ned apart. "But it is not your time."

Blinking away tears, Jon looked up at his father. "What do you mean?"

Smiling, Ned drew Jon to him with an arm around his shoulder. "Walk with me, son." The two began a stroll off into the distance, quite an ordinary paternal moment. Wispy vapors were kicked up by their boots, solid under them. "You know now, don't you?" There was no doubt about what he meant.

"Aye." Jon nodded, twisting his head to look at his father. "Why didn't you tell me, father? Why didn't you tell me about my mother. That you are really my… uncle?" Emotion caking his voice, Jon knew that Ned had told him everything in his letter. But he wanted to hear it from him now that he had the chance.

Sighing, Ned looked genuinely remorseful. "I'm sorry, Jon. I should've told you before you went off to the wall. Seven hells, I should've told you as soon as we left Pentos, but you have to understand the depth of Robert's madness." Pain crossed his features. The pain of buying into a lie that took so much from him - that brought nothing but ruin. "He was so in love with your mother, but she hated him. Hated his whoring, his boorishness, his vices. But he was all oblivious to it - and so was I." Ahead of them, the expanse of whiteness began to end, replaced by a horizon of vibrant green. "I should have known that she'd never allow herself to be kidnapped." He chuckled. "Arya takes after her in that way."

Jon couldn't help but smile, thinking about his beloved sister. "Robert couldn't accept it, could he?"

"Not in the slightest. He convinced my brother of the rape, he and Tywin Lannister spreading the story far and wide. The rest…" he trailed off. Jon knew what happened next. Ned turned and grasped Jon on the shoulder. "He would have killed you, Jon, just like your half-siblings. I had to keep that from happening. For you. For her…" He no longer stopped himself from softly sobbing. "I beg your forgiveness, for everything. For forcing you to grow up a bastard, but I had to keep you safe, Jon."

Hearing his father, the great Eddard Stark, break down in front of him led Jon to do the same. Pent up emotion and pain was let out in full, the two of them embracing tightly - father to son. 'I don't care,' Jon thought through his tears. 'He is still my father.' "I forgive you, father." Seeing him in such a way, raw and visceral, freed his soul from the anguish over his crisis of identity. Ned would always be his father, and Jon understood.

After some time had passed, their burden leaching out, Ned pulled back with a small smile. "Come, there are two people that I want you to meet." They had reached the edge of the clouds, Jon stepping onto the grass as one steps onto a sandy shoreline. A soft breeze whipped the blades around as it cooled Jon wonderfully. This truly was paradise. "This is the afterlife, but it is not yet your time. You are destined for far more Jon, but there is still one issue left to resolve." Ned's lips pursed. "It is about Daenerys, son."

Jon sighed. "She is my aunt, father."

"Aye, she is, but it doesn't matter." Walking side by side, they both looked every inch northern warriors. Ned was so proud of his son. Rounding the base of a gently sloping hill, he stopped, smiling. Jon looked at him with a puzzled glance until he spotted them too.

It was a man and a woman, hands clasped together in a show of affection. However, when they saw Jon, they broke apart in surprise and awe. The man was tall, hair cropped to about Robb's length and broad shouldered - strength exuding from him. Clad in a warrior's tunic, he nevertheless had the air of a gentle, soft-spoken man of great culture. The woman… she had the classic northern beauty. Wild and fierce, passionate and loving, the physical manifestation of the North. Wearing a dark blue dress, she reminded Jon of what Arya would be like in a decade or two.

In an instant, Jon knew who she was. "M…" He knew what he wanted to say, but could barely form the word. It was just so surreal. "Mother?"

Lids welling with tears of love, Lyanna Stark Targaryen nodded. Her mouth curled into a beaming smile. "My sweetling." Unable to resist, Jon ran into her arms. All walls fell as he was a little boy again, seeking the comfort of his mother at long last. Feeling him bury his face in the crook of her neck, Lyanna sobbed joyously. "My baby boy."

Her embrace felt warm, supreme comfort leaching into Jon's system. Only when he was together with Dany did he feel this much at home - truly at home. It was all he ever wanted, the love of his mother. Jon didn't even try to hide his emotion.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Jon turned his head to see the smiling man, tears in his eyes as well. "My son." Lyanna reluctantly let him go, happily pushing him towards his real father. Rhaegar Targaryen, proud and strong, couldn't hold himself back now that he finally met his beloved child. "You are a man."

Jon knew who he was, by instinct. "Father?" Looking at Ned, the man who he always called father nodded, giving him permission. "Father." Jon fell into the man's embrace.

Rhaegar was crying openly now, holding his son tight. "I'm sorry, my son." The Targaryen looked Jon in the eye. Dark violet met grey. "But you turned out so well."

"We're so proud of you, Jaehaerys… or Jon, whichever you prefer," Lyanna beamed. "You've become the man I always dreamed you'd be."

The name sounded so foreign to Jon's ears - it was hard to imagine that it was what he was supposed to be, the Crown Prince of the great Targaryen Dynasty. Quite a change for a once humble bastard. He just smiled and hugged his parents once more. "This is all I ever wanted."

"I know it is, son," Rhaegar stated. "Much as I would want this never to end, it will soon." A serious frown crossed his face. "Jon, great evil is threatening to wipe out all that is held dear. You have to be ready for it."

Looking at his father, and then at the man he always called father. "What can I do? I'm just…" He stopped himself. It wasn't true. "Everyone thinks I'm but a bastard. I couldn't even command the Night's Watch without my men betraying me."

"Look at me, Jon." Rhaegar could see much of himself in Jon, much as his physical appearance was mostly Lyanna and Ned. He was determined, fearless. A natural warrior and leader. "You are no ordinary person. You are the Prince that was Promised, the one destined to vanquish this evil. To succeed where I and all others failed. You and Daenerys."

Fresh tears formed at the thought of his beloved. "But she is my aunt, father. How can I…"

A gentle hand stroked his cheek. "Do not worry about that, sweetling." His mother smiled softly. "You love your dragon just as I love mine. There is no need to feel ashamed."

Ned interjected himself, reluctant as he was to interrupt his sister and brother in law. "I knew she and you were connected the moment we arrived in Pentos. There is no doubt that she is the one for you, Jon."

"I do love her."

"Don't let her slip out of your fingers. You'll need her, Jon, for what comes. Fight it together."

Rhaegar nodded. "Yours is the song of ice and fire."

Suddenly everything started fading. "Our time is coming to an end," Lyanna said sadly. "Just remember, Jon, that we love you and are with you."

He hugged her one more time. "Please don't leave me, mother." Jon finally had the love he always wanted.

"Never. We will always be with you." With his mother's words ringing in his ears, the love of his parents in his heart, Jon felt the world beckoning him back. The light grew faint as it shrunk into the darkness.

Ramsay had always said that it was amusing to make the peasants scurry about in fear, like common slaves - watching him carry the dried logs to the nearly complete pyre, Viserys Targaryen agreed with his Hand. It was rather amusing. "Hurry it up!" he yelled. His hand throbbed underneath the gold glove, cracked and blackened skin itching and burning in pain. The pain was often unbearable, and it only spurred his anger and drive to show the world that he was the true king. "Hurry this up or you'll be on the pyre as well!"

"Calm down, your Grace," cautioned Ramsay, leaning in to whisper into Viserys' ear. "This will begin soon, and then the traitor that sought to betray your swift ascension to the Iron Throne will get what is coming to him." Inwardly, he simmered. Losing Sansa and his own servant had driven him to a rage not seen since he found out his father's wife pregnant. Two servant girls has mysteriously 'vanished' as he and Myranda worked out their frustration. Not that he cared about Sansa or Reek in the slightest, but it was a loss of face - one he could not afford.

Today would reclaim that strength, and placate his 'King' at the same time. And everything was ready. Stepping forward, atop the dias while all other dignitaries, guards, and watchers were milling on the ground, Ramsay read off the charges. "Lord Curwin, you have been found guilty of treason against your leader, Viserys Targaryen, second of his name. Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. This sentence is death."

A haughty snarl on his face, Lord Curwin spat in the direction of his King. An older man, greying at the temples, he was a capable leader and only managed to escape the Red Wedding due to commanding forces in the field. He knew the charges were trash and Ramsay knew that as well - the real reason he was about to be immolated was that he sent an emissary to the last meeting of the northern lords held by Ramsay rather than come himself, which enraged Viserys. "I will not dignify that mad cunt with any statement of mercy."

Teeth clenching in anger, Viserys lost it. "Enough! BURN HIM!" The torch bearer hesitated, only stepping forward at a discrete nod from Ramsay. Lowering the torch, the tar covered kindling went up in a split second. Soon a roaring inferno took hold. Silent and defiant until the last, the flames eventually coaxed a scream out of Lord Curwin. Most shied away their eyes, some hardened and numb despite the terrifying scene. Ramsay projected a facade of indifference - he enjoyed this, but not openly.

Only Viserys did, a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

"Exactly like the Mad King," recounted Ramsay's special guest a while later, Lord Curwin's body now a charred skeleton. "I was old enough to remember him. His son has the same mad bloodlust about him. And he can't control it."

The last statement was obviously a compliment for Ramsay, and he allowed himself to accept it. "True, but he is my King and I will serve him. You understand this loyalty quite well, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger smirked. "Why yes, I do." The massive distance from the north to King's Landing had worked to his advantage. It wasn't until Tywin Lannister's forces - supplemented by every bannerman loyal to the Golden King - had already entered Dorne that the news of the Targaryen presence in the north reached Joffrey's ears. It had been quite easy for Littlefinger to slip out of the Eyre on a 'scouting mission' before the angry orders that he take the entire Vale north to smash Viserys Targaryen arrived. "But with all the advice a King gets, he is often at a loss over what strategy to implement."

"Can you guarantee us the Vale? Even with the Riverlands and the North behind us, not to mention the war in Dorne, the opposing force is elite."

"Are you sure the Wildling host north of here isn't a threat?" Littlefinger raised an eyebrow.

Ramsay grinned like a hyena. "We've taken care of that. Jon Snow is dead, and the Wildlings leaderless."

Knowing that Sansa would likely head there, Littlefinger made a mental note to verify it for himself. "If you hold up your end of the bargain, then what could possibly prevent me from holding up mine?"

Eyes trained on her destination, she didn't see the burly man until the front wheel of her pushcart nearly tripped him over. "Ooof," only footwork of a far sprier man saved him from falling flat on his face. "Watch it! Cunt!" he snarled at the young girl.

"I'm sorry sir." Arya allowed herself to flinch. "Would you like an Oyster? Only one silver per." The former highborn daughter gave her best innocent look.

"I know what I'd like to buy," the man's companion said, dressed in the same loose clothes of a Braavosi laborer. He leered and grabbed Arya's ass through the cheap dress she wore.

If Arya wanted to kill him, he'd be dead already with a knife through the throat - luckily for her cover, the first laborer intervened. "We'll get some young cunt later, come on. You're not making me fuckin' late again." Cursing under his breath, the groper nevertheless followed. Waiting until they were out of sight, Arya went back on her route.

"OYSTERS, CLAMS, AND COCKLES!" she called out to whomever passed her by on the dirty streets and algae lined canals of the bustling Essosi free city. Usually a delicacy of the rich that lived in the marble collonaded city center, the poor and middle class near the docks flocked to purchase the sea creatures, leaving her with a nice profit.

Perfect cover for an initiate of the Faceless Men.

"Will the girl tell me her name?" Low light from the few fires within the temple did not banish the dank blackness that encompassed the various faces mounted on the walls. Turning, the girl with no name saw the burlap-spun shift and long hair of the lead priest of the Many Faced God - bearing the name Jaqen H'ghar within the walls. The girl knew that the request was not one whatsoever.

Standing from her meditation, her eyesight had fully returned after months without. "The girl has no name."

A pained cry left her throat as a staff smacked the open flesh of her upper calf, felling her. "The girl will answer correctly," said the waif, sender legs stepping over the girl that had once been Arya Stark. From past experience and the sadistic grace in which she hefted the staff, the girl knew the Waif would hit her again.

"The girl has no name, lest whatever name the Many Faced God desires her to have."

Nodding, satisfied, H'ghar steps toward her. He motioned her to stand before him. "And who was the girl before?" They had played this game before, and the girl knew exactly what to say. It had essentially become the truth after all.

"The girl was once Arya Stark, born to Lord Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully Stark."

"And what happened to her?"

Taking a deep breath, she answered unhesitatingly. "She is dead."

Lips curling into that weak, reserved smile of his, H'ghar nodded once more. "Good, for you have provided the Many Faced God with enough offerings." Her gaze drifted to a quartet of the faces decorating the wall. "It is good that Arya Stark is dead, for you will be journeying into her life one more time for a great offering to the temple..."

The names of her new targets still echoing in her ears, Arya darted her head behind her in one quick motion - eyes picking up everything important. No one was obviously following her. The Order wouldn't be nearly as conspicuous in that manner, though as an initiate she had an eye for such things. It was reasonably safe in any case. Safe enough for Arya to take a left away from the main canal leading to the docks instead of a right towards it.

"OYSTERS, CLAMS, AND COCKLES!" Laborers and smiths in the forge district flocked to her for the cool, fresh seafood, many reaching out with soot-crusted hands without regard for hygiene. Rambunctious and iconoclast that she was, Arya still grimaced, the highborn lessons from her mother on general cleanliness one of the few she took to heart. Pushing the cart along, she put it to a stop right in front of a particular forge. By a certain junior blacksmith.

"Glad to see you're not dead." The young man, muscles bulging as he moved logs and bags of charcoal, didn't make eye contact. He knew the drill.

Arya allowed herself a small snort. "Not smart to bet against me, after all we've been through."

Gendry couldn't help but chuckle for an instant. "True." Eyes flickering to Arya and then back to his work, he couldn't help but appreciate how much she had grown since the two of them - broken and destitute after a group of bandits attacked them and probably killed Sandor Clegane - had arrived in Braavos. He couldn't help but miss her, but from what Gendry heard about the Faceless Men, it was best that they stay out of contact. Hence his job. But if she returned. "Something happened, didn't it?"

'He always was smarter than his origins predicted.' Fat Robert wasn't the sharpest tooth in the wolf's mouth. "They want me to kill someone. Two people rather."

"Who?"

"My brothers, Jon and Robb. The Boltons paid them."

He didn't have any outward expression, but lowered his voice all the same. "At least this means Robb is alive. Most think him killed at the Red Wedding."

"This is serious, Gendry," Arya hissed. She still didn't look at him, selling a handful of cockles to a passing merchant. "I thought I had lost myself, lost my identity to the Order. This is why they gave me this assignment, to test me."

Gendry snorted. "You're not going to do it. I know you too well, Arya. You love your brothers and even your sister too much to truly hurt them - not that you'd likely admit it." He laughed quietly.

Arya wanted to smack him - half-playfully of course. "I will not, but if not me then they'd send someone. That's why I have to go."

"And why I'm coming with you." Gendry wouldn't have said otherwise. He knew his destiny, and it was tied to the feisty tomboy of the north.

Sparing one glance, for the fleetest moment, Arya gave Gendry a genuine smile of affection. Through thick and thin from that horrible day where she witnessed her father executed while Sansa screamed for mercy beside a grinning Joffrey, he had been there for her. Hardened with years of suffering and experience, the bastard son of the late king Robert had been the one shining light through the darkness - ironically, the only other that came close was the Hound of all people, though his reluctant protection earned him a spot off her list.

He was the closest thing to the shining knight that Sansa had always swooned about. The feelings that occasionally bubbled up did terrify Arya.

However, she was a Faceless Man, so could easily suppress it when need be. Her gaze dropped to the filthy cobblestones. "There is a bulk carrier departing for King's Landing noon three days hence from pier seven. I will expect you to be on it." Heading back to her route, Arya didn't need to look back at Gendry to know he would be there.

"Make sure they're tied nice and tight, Grenn." Scowl planted on his face, Robb looked each of the men in the eye.

One was visibly shaking. "This isn't right." He simpered in fear. "Black magic is an abomination."

"Aye, but so is killing your own commander. Breaking his trust." Anger and pain from his own experience with such betrayal bubbled up. The Young Wolf moved on.

"Please, tell my father that I died fighting the wildlings."

Shaking his head, Robb glanced at Locke, who only smirked. "Mind if I have a little time with the Tyrell bitch before?"

Robb nearly attacked him, but Margaery stepped forward, calm and poised. Locke grinned a wry smile before it turned into a grunt of pain - the knife wedging between the bones of his left foot.

Thorne just waited proudly, silent on his pole. "Anything to say?"

He looked down in disgust. "Nothing to the son of the Usurper's dog." Almost laughing, Robb instead walked away. Passing the still form of his cousin… brother, Jon was still his brother in every way - Robb heard the Valyrian chants of the Red Witch. "I'm not comfortable with this." Despite growing up in the North, Robb shivered from the cold. Not just the cold. "Jon was raised among the old Gods, as was I." The whole cult of Azor Ahai was just a perversion to him.

Margaery put a comforting hand on his shoulder - both ignored the slight electric shock passing between them. "And I was raised in the light of the Seven. We have to trust her, though. You want your brother to live, Robb." Caring for him, she willed with all her strength that this would work. Jon was the right one to lead them against the dead, she knew it.

"Does anyone know if this would bloody work?" Leave it to the Queen of Thorns, swaddled in a bundle of furs, to put the question on everyone's lips so bluntly.

Tormund spat on the ground. "I hope it does."

"Oh, it will work." Davos pointed at the Red Witch, who was clipping bits of hair from Jon's locks to put in a small brazier. "I have seen that woman do things out of nightmares. Raising the dead is one of the… least complicated things the Lady Melisandre is capable of."

"After what I saw north of the wall." Margaery shuddered, "Nothing would surprise me." Ollie nodded, torch in hand. His eyes were lined with tears for his father figure still lost to the cold realm of death.

"Bring forth the offerings." Finished with her rituals, Melisandre watched as Finn, Grenn, and Pyp trudged forth through the snow - each held a single large object in their hands. Dragon eggs, three of them, as pure as when they had been a wedding present long before. Each protected by the patriarch of a nearly dead house when Benjen Stark gave them to him years before. Inspecting the eggs placed just to the side and lower edge of Jon's corpse, Melisandre took a small knife out of her cloak. She slit two small cuts in Jon's hands and the same for his feet, resting the palms and soles flat against the scales. It had to be perfect.

Stepping back, out of the way, she looked at each of the gathered. Robb, Margaery, Davos, Olenna, Sam, Aemon, Grenn, Pyp, Finn, and Tormund. "We are gathered in this frozen land, friends and family of the great Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and the Prince who was Promised." At long last, after a lifetime of centuries searching, Melisandre knew she had found him. "The night is dark and full of terrors."

"The night is dark and full of terrors." No one ascribed to the cult of the Lord of Light, but all wanted Jon Snow to return.

Grabbing the torch from Ollie, Melisandre began chanting again in high Valyrian. Walking towards the prepared pyre, all watched her closely, red hair whipping behind her in the chilling wind. "Lord of Light, we ask you to bring your new form back to the land of the living. To return and deliver the earth to peace and safety once more." She stopped at the point where the tar had been laid, a line directly to the pyre. "With this fire I proclaim you reborn!"

As soon as the torch hit the tar, the flame raced towards the waiting fuel source. Waves of heat slammed into the waiting persons, Melisandre obscured by the tall and crackling flames as wild and fierce as the red locks around her face. "I hope this works," Robb whispered to Margaery.

"It'll work." Davos hadn't lost any confidence. The time in the cave when the demon rose from the Red Witch never left his mind. All felt a chill in their bones - even the hardened Maester Aemon - when the haunting song left Melisandre's throat. Melodic, uninterrupted. A steady stream of a chant so beautiful. A song so eerie.

The flames engulfed the body, heat warming the cold skin to scorching temperatures. Screams left the three traitors, licking flames beginning to catch on their cloaks and trousers. Primal instinct led them to seek flight, to escape, but the tight ropes prevented them from doing much but squirm and wail. Only Thorne remained silent, his will strong. Nothing but the hellish voice of the Red Witch filled his ears. Through the roaring fire it was an icicle stabbing through his ears, the sound of a demon. Head dropping to glance at Jon, his eyes widened.

In the last moments of his life, Alliser Thorne watched as all he once knew evaporated before him. Watched as the perfidy of his decisions became nothing but real.

Still for nearly three days, gaping wounds still open through his chest - each one fatal on their own - none of the flames left a single mark on Jon Snow's body. The roar of the fire was punctuated by cracks, scales on the eggs sheared apart.

Three piercing shrieks - joined by a booming roar of fury from Rhaegal, still nursing his wounds at Castle Black - were heard by all as Jon Snow's eyes flew open.

Such was an unlikely, unfathomable sight for most. One that a person would not expect when asked to conjure up the image of a dragon. Fierce, terrifying, vicious, destructive, those yes. But a great dragon purring contently as a small, delicate woman of sheer beauty gently stroked his snout was not on that list. In all fairness to those people, though, Daenerys Targaryen was probably one of the only people who engage in such behavior. Her hand softly glided along Balerion's scales. Her child missed her, after a long time exploring the wilds of Old Valyria with his brother - Dany knew she should spend more time with them, and bring the twins along. They shared her lack of fear, being carefree with the massive beasts.

To her right, Edderon dozed peacefully. He was always the gentlest of the brothers, Balerion the fiercest with his adolescent mood swings and Rhaegal somewhere in the middle.

Rhaegal.

'Jon.'

The pain hadn't gone away, and while she had largely forced herself to snap out of her haze it wouldn't budge. Dany had lost her love just after learning about the depths of their connection. Petting Balerion was soothing, but still inconvenient.

"They are magnificent creatures." Startled from the noise, Dany turned and was faced with a low-lying mop of tousled hair.

"It is not wise to sneak up on a dragon, Lord Tyrion." Her voice was only half serious. "But yes, they are magnificent."

Chuckling, the imp headed towards her. "I'm afraid it isn't 'Lord,' your Grace. My father is Lord Lannister, I am just a lowly servant of his. You'll run into him soon, him being the leader of the Royal Armies. He's probably laying waste to Dorne at the moment." Close to Balerion - closer than he ever would have gotten had the great Mother of Dragons not been present - he made one further step only to draw back at an irritated grunt from the black-red beast.

"Settle down, Balerion, settle down." With a soft motion of her hands, the dragon calmed down. "He is vicious, but not to my friends and allies."

"I hope I can be counted among that list," Tyrion stated. Dany only smiled. "I always wanted a dragon as a baby." The memories came quickly for the dwarf. Melancholy, but few memories from his childhood were even happy enough to be called that. "I begged my father for one. 'It doesn't even have to be a big dragon,' I told him, but alas, they were all gone."

The story was both amusing and sad for Dany. "The last dragons were very small. Cat-sized if my brother is to be believed, due to them being chained up by my ancestors." She stroked Balerion's snout once more. "Dragons deserve to fly free. I made sure to train them so that they can be trusted with that."

Looking at her, Tyrion chuckled. "I'd hope so." He glanced back at the Pyramid. "I actually met Jon Snow, back at Winterfell. He… impressed me. Imps and bastards, we share a kinship in that fact." Tensing, Dany almost countered that her beloved wasn't a bastard, but held her tongue. "Peel away that, and he is almost the perfect match for you. Hardy Stark blood, cures the Targaryen madness." The two talked for a while before Tyrion left, leaving Dany alone with her dragons.

In an instant the scaled skin tensed up. Reptilian eyes narrowing in fury, Balerion threw his head back sharply. The red-black dragon's jaw opened wide and his roar boomed across the entire city. To his right Edderon added his higher-pitch shreik to the din, white scales contrasting with the blackness of the starry sky above. Flame erupting from their mouths and aimed for the sky, Daenerys backed away several paces. Tripping over the train of her dress, she trembled at her children's sudden fury, scared of them for the first time in her life - she had never seen them like this, so agitated. So defiant.

So exultant.

And suddenly it came to her, The connection, one so deep in her bloodline dating back to the dragonriders of Old Valyria. One between a rider and his or her dragons - but something her brother had once told her about the great Aegon the Conqueror. A family legend. 'Aegon and his sister-wives shared that connection, with each other. How they coordinated the Great Conquest from far and wide…' Dragons were greatly spiritual, as near magical as could be. So too was said were great dragonriders.

Dany felt it in her bones. In her soul. The connection was so strong, their connection, that the vice gripping her heart evaporated in a split second. Jon was alive. Her love had come back to her. There was no doubt he had left this world, but by the gods' blessing he had returned.

But he was in danger. Dany could feel his pain as if it was her own. He needed help. He needed her.

And she would go to him. Without a moment's hesitation, Daenerys made her choice.