16 The Dragon of the North

Biting cold, freezing cold. Cold so vicious that it felt as if a fire devoid of warmth sliced through the very flesh of one's being. Yet, Bran felt nothing but a gentle numbness. His legs, repaired and uninjured, glided like sleigh rails along the thickly matted snow. It was so serene. Soft snowflakes meandered through the air in their slow descent to the ground.

For the first time since his injury, Bran felt carefree. Unburdened by the intense pain and anguish done to him by Jamie Lannister.

Then, the already hellish cold plunged into an icy inferno, Bran facing blackness - only a pair of glowing blue eyes pierced the void.

Suddenly, his body thrown back in an intense rush, in a blur the snow disappeared in front of him to be replaced by the exact opposite. Rocks, sand, a red waste of a land as far as the eye could see - with a high tower of smooth stone directly ahead of him, surrounded by scraggly trees. "Brandon." His head swiveled around, an ancient voice calling out for him. "You must find it. Go to the Dragon, for you must find it."

Bran collapsed, everything spinning.

From the bed of furs, Bran's eyes opened. Not a hair was out of place, sweat nonexistent. To any observer, the crippled Stark should have held a tranquil night of sleep when the opposite was true. Now awake, he drew the notice of Meera Reed, his companion and… friend. The others were sleeping, blissfully unaware what was about to transpire. "Bran. What's wrong?" Though he was usually sullen and taciturn, Meera had been with them long enough to understand exactly what this mood meant.

"We have to go south." His voice was low and monotone. Bran met her eyes. "We have to go to the Dragon Queen."

Jon had always thought he'd make it. With a significant head start and the blizzard covering his tracks, all that was needed would be to survive the elements and he'd be back in Castle Black. However, he'd underestimated Free Folk skill and tenacity. They hadn't lived off this desolate land and not grown strong from it. So in hindsight, it shouldn't have surprised him to come face to face with a stony Ygritte, an arrow pointed at his head and a barely suppressed look of rage all over her face.

Sharp pain consumed him as a mammoth-leather boot slammed into his back before he could reach Longclaw - not that he would have, inviting an arrow through the eye. "This is what ya get for dragging me from my fire, crow!" Tolerating him he did, but Jon knew Tormund would have turned on him the second they were on opposite sides. They weren't friends.

"Burn him alive!" yelled one Wildling hunter. Jon counted five, along with Tormund and Ygritte.

"Feed him to the dogs!"

"Tie him to a mammoth and make the beast run!"

Hefting him up, Tormund smirked. "You're glad Styr didn't find ya. I'm only plannin' to beat ya to death."

Suddenly an arrow zipped past their heads, Ygritte shouting. A body fell to the ground. Clad in rags, a cursory look identified the obvious dead flesh. "What the…"

Hands burst from under the snow, two grabbing onto the legs of wildling warriors and dragging them down. Soon torsos were exposed, corroded weapons slicing through the unarmored flesh of the hunters.

"The dead are here!" Ygritte screamed, notching an arrow and plugging another in the skull.

Snarling with rage, Tormund drew both his short battle axes akimbo and brained one before it could fully emerge from the snow. Another skeletal shape charged at him but a sharp kick to the leg made it fall, the axe removing the head entirely. The others had a far worse time of it, one wight hacking through the torso before Ygritte fell it. Only headshots working, she made each arrow count.

Rolling onto his back, two hands burst from the snow where Jon rested - then a rotting head, blue eyes finding him and mouth opening in a shriek. Drawing Longclaw, the shriek gurgled into silence as the Valyrian steel sliced through the face. Pain gone in the heat of battle, Jon leapt to his feet and joined the fray. No more emerged from the snow underneath, but reinforcements for the dead charged from nearby, swarming them. Jon flexibly dodged one which didn't break its charge towards Tormund. Steel clashed with flesh and bone as he sent another undead corpse back to pure death. A skeleton dug its fingers into his skin, drawing blood. Its bones shattered from an enraged stab. One fresh wight seemed to possess some of its past fighting skills, the battered sword it carried clanging against Longclaw's shining steel. That didn't last long, and arrow smacking into its chest as Jon cut the torso in half. His eyes met Ygritte's for a moment before both went back into the fighting.

Swinging one-handed, Longclaw decapitated a head. More kept coming. A mix of fresh corpses, decayed remains, and walking skeletons advanced with a singular determination to end them. With only four humans left, it was just like a cavalry charge was upon them. They'd be swarmed unless Jon got them together. "Hold together!" he screamed. "Form a square, back to back!"

One wildling tried to run toward them but was swarmed by five wights hacking away with their rusty weapons and clawed hands. Tormund and Ygritte made it, and formed a triangle back to back with Jon. Arrow after arrow left her bow, Tormund's axes and Longclaw ripped into dead flesh. Another gnarled hand sliced his skin, this time at his shoulder. Stabbing straight forward, Jon impaled it through the chest and jerked upward, slicing the upper torso right up the middle. Another wight was batted aside right into the blade of Tormund's axe, the wildling seconds later returning the favor for Longclaw. Hack. Stab. Slice. Parry. Hack again. Ice blue eyes dimmed out, bodies piling up.

Soon, Tormund was atop the last one. "Fucking! Die! You! Fucking! Cunt!" The axe pulverized its skull into a mashed splatter.

"Tormund!" Jon yelled, pulling him back. "Enough! They're gone!"

"Don't speak too soon." Oddly muted, Ygritte pointed to the snowbanks and ridgefaces all around them. The dead were coming, in greater numbers.

Fingers tightening around the hilt, Jon held Longclaw firm and true. Ahead of him, a solid line of skeletal monsters charged. Every passing moment they closed the distance, putrid flesh surrounding all three humans in a ragged circle. "Looks like this is the end."

Spitting a fleck of blood onto the ice white snow, Tormund nodded. "Aye. If I'm gonna die though, let's fuck the cunts up." His two axes were at the ready.

"Lets." Ygritte notched another arrow onto her reflex bow, ready.

Closing his eyes for a moment, silver hair flashed through Jon's mind. 'Forgive me, Dany.' His ears were filled with the strangled moans of the undead. 'I tried to live for you.'

Past the swirling clouds, dark and angry even as the sun shone brightly in its unobstructed glory, he beat his leathery wings. For months he had pushed himself to the limit. Mother abandoned, brothers abandoned, the only home he had ever known abandoned, all that drove him forward was an urge. A sheer force of will that he knew was his calling - his destiny. Something was out there, someone that needed him and that he needed.

The rider. His rider. One with the blood of Old Valyria, same as him. It had been millennia since the first Freeholders had tamed his kind, and the instincts that predated the great Doom still burned bright. There was nothing that brought him to this desolate land but that urge, that inner homing beacon. It was faint, stronger here, but faint. An agonizing screech left his throat. What if he never found the one?

Suddenly the beacon bloomed intensely. A sense that only the bonded could hold marked the ground, filling him with that sense of purpose that had been so lacking. But there was pain as well - pain and fear. Terror. The one was in danger, shadowy shapes filling his eyes as if he saw them himself. Roaring the war cry of his kind, wings beat hard as he plunged into a steep dive. He could almost hear the order coming from his mother, from the one. The freezing air around his jaw superheated as the red-orange plume formed.

'Dracarys.'

Teeth clenched in fury, Jon raised Longclaw, ready to slice downward at the shrieking ghoul racing toward him. A rusted sword was clutched in its hand, rotting jaw open and a deep blue in its eyes. One moment it was right upon him… and the other it disappeared in a gout of red-orange flame billowing out of the clouds like the wrath of the gods themselves. The fireball bloomed like a scorching flower, engulfight a sizable portion of the beasts. And then he saw it.

"What the fuck…?" Tormund captured exactly what Jon wanted to… but just wasn't able to say out loud. Emerging from the clouds was a green beast. A dragon, there was no escaping it. A real fucking dragon! Roaring, another tongue of flame burst from its mouth as it banked around in a circle. The attackers were immediately immolated. Their ancient bones and decayed flesh were no match for the fire, going up like pitch and tar.

Dragon or not, crazed shrieks reminded them that their enemy had no breaking point. They just continued forward, a half dozen charging through the gaps in the dragonfire. One collapsed immediately from an arrow through an empty eye socket, while Tormund bellowed and smashed his axes across the head of one after the other.. Sharp steel flashed orange off the dragonfire as Jon sliced one through the torso. "Fuck you!" Channeling his inner Tormund, profanities flew from his mouth, Longclaw dicing another two.

And then the moans stopped, no sounds left but crackling fire. There were no wights left. They had won.

A loud roar brought the present situation crashing upon Jon. Beating its large wings, the dragon kicked up a cloud of snow as its clawed feet slammed into the ground. "Get back!" Tormund yelled, pushing Ygritte behind him. Jon could tell they wanted to run, but were too terrified to make a move. He wanted to run, but something was telling him not to. A voice in his head, one of instinct, banished all the fear from him - at least in part of his mind. There was nothing to fear, it said. The dragon wouldn't hurt him.

Glancing to his right, Tormund was… shaking. Literally shaking. It would be hilarious to Jon if it wasn't caused by a large dragon looking straight at him. "Of all… the ways I could die… being lunch for a fucking... dragon wasn't one of em." Raising his hand with one ax he gripped tightly, the green monster hissed and snapped his jaws.

"Stop," Jon said, not addressing the beast but more like a hopeful begging - as if Arya and Bran were roughhousing with him and he wanted it to stop. However, Jon's jaw nearly dropped when the dragon drew back slightly, a loud but… almost tranquil purring leaving its mouth. 'Did it just… obey me.' In a split second, Jon's mind switched back to its insane bravery mode. "Tormund, Ygritte. I need you not to panic." Slowly, he sheathed Longclaw.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Tormund yelled in a whisper as Jon inched forward to the beast. "Are you daft, crow?"

Jon wasn't listening, all five senses directed to the dragon. It was large, twenty-five feet long at least with dark green scales and razor sharp teeth. A low hum left its lips, the smell of smoke wafting from it. For some reason, Jon felt as if he needed to speak to it. "Easy, I'm not here to hurt you…" Staring at the slit-like yellow eyes, something told him that it had a name. That he had a name… a specific name… "Rha… Rhaegal?" It was a one in a million guess, but the dragon hooted, lowering his head in what had to be a submissive gesture.

"Well I'll be fucked."

Not knowing where the name had come from, Jon just knew. As if it were instinct. "Easy Rhaegal." Setting his palm on the beast's snout, he watched Rhaegal close its eyes and purr - just like Ghost when Jon was petting him. He swore he could see into the dragon's soul...

A muffled thump caused the spell to be broken. The curious look on Jon's face turned to horror. "Ygritte!" Prone on the snow, when Jon reached her there was no color left in her face, eyes glassy and half closed. Dying. "Where are you hurt?" A cursory look found the middle of her furs soaked in blood, which was already starting to freeze.

"Doesn't, hurt," the wildling ground out. A hand reached out to slowly cup his cheek. "I love you, Jon Snow, but I know you love… another. Go to her." She smiled weakly.

"You'll be just fine," he replied, not believing it himself.

What was almost a laugh left her lips. "You. Know nothing. Jon Snow…." Voice fading, her eyes closed for the last time.

Gently laying her in the snow, Jon shed a single tear for Ygritte. He did love her - Dany was his one true love, but a little place in his heart would remember the fierce Wildling girl that had been his constant companion for much of his recent life. She deserved better. She should have seen the other side of the wall - the Free Folk deserved to be safe, away from the monsters. He believed all of them now, and they deserved to not be cannon fodder in whatever being led the dead.

"We're gonna need to burn her," Tormund warned. Remembering the wight in the Lord Commander's room - 'It seems so long ago, where it began' - Jon knew Tormund was right. 'How will we get a fire for her…'

As if reading his mind - perhaps it was exactly that - Rhaegal let a puff of flame consume Ygritte, a fitting send off for the wild redhead. Staring at the dragon, Jon felt the meld of minds between them. The last time he felt this was on a dark, cold night with Ghost. He had stared at the growing dire wolf, feeling the connection between them grow as he connected with his mind. And now it was the same thing, the same feeling. Jon couldn't explain it. It was unexplainable.

The last of the flickering fires were starting to die, leaving piles of ash and some charred bones remaining. Jon didn't know anything about dragons - he'd now have to read everything about them in the Castle Black Library that he could find, which meant he'd have to tell Sam, who he felt could keep the secret - but dragonfire had to be the most powerful flame known to man. However big and powerful Rhaegal was, if more wights showed up he'd be overwhelmed. "We need to get out of here quickly, before those things come back."

"Knowing what I've been told, they usually prowl in groups. Much as I'd rather not be your prisoner, don't really have a choice in the matter now do I?" Since he'd be dead if it wasn't for Jon, Tormund must have deployed all his gratitude - not much, but it was something. "But how are we gonna get to the wall without freezing to death?"

Looking at Jon, Rhaegal hooted, as if telling him something. Jon eyed him over. 'You want to… fly us out of here?' The green dragon twisted its neck, thin crests fluttering. His snout nudged Jon's shoulder, again acting just like Ghost. 'I'll take that as a yes.' Much as the thought should terrify him, Jon knew there was no other choice.

"Well, got any ideas, crow?"

Jon merely cocked his head, staring at Tormund. Waiting for the wildling to catch on.

Tormund blinked. "You want me to…" He pointed to Rhaegal, Jon's face serious. "Oh no, no way in hell you crazy cunt. I would rather have my dick sucked by a giant than get on that fucking thing's back." Rhaegal growled, teeth baring at Tormund.

'Easy boy.' Jon was sure that the dragon would never be this easy to handle, especially for someone he just met, but the confusing bond they seemed to innately share and the situation they were all in must have been sensed. Dany did tell him that dragons were known to be very intelligent, at least in Targaryen lore. "Well Tormund," Jon mused, squinting and looking off into the distance. "We're days away from Hardhome and the blizzard isn't going away soon. It's either come with me on the dragon's back, or go alone in the middle of wight country. Your choice." Despite everything that happened, Jon couldn't help but smirk when Tormund grumbled profanities but nodded.

Shoulder only coming up to Jon's eyes, the Night's Watchman exerted little effort to climb atop Rhaegal. His wounds stung and joints ached, snow burning into his skin. 'At least you're warm,' Jon thought, amused and grateful. Rhaegal responded with a grunt - as if thanking him. 'Um, you're welcome.'

"I'm gonna die from fallin' off this blasted dragon, and the crow is talking to himself." Huffing in annoyance, at least Tormund's uncharacteristic fear was amusing.

He wasn't sure how flying was, but Jon could guess. "Hold on tight." Hand gripping the spiny ridge tightly, Jon whispered to Rhaegal. "Fly us south."

Normally only responsive to Valyrian, the bond of his rider was so strong that Rhaegal heard the order loud and clear. A beat of the wings brought him to the air, the screams of his passengers lost in the currents.

Watching from a distance, a lone crow's eyes morphed from a glassy white back to their normal hue. Everything that needed to be discovered was discovered. Plans would have to be changed, and delays made. Fate, for most at Hardhome, had irrevocably changed.

This was it. This was his moment - the weak, cowardly boy that earned his father's disgust and loathing couldn't come back. "Beast stay back!" He had to be strong, hold the sword with a firm resolve. Gilly and the baby depended on him, and only him, for survival. "You will not take them!"

Without a care in the world, its company of two dozen walking skeletons waiting in the background, the blue-grey beast clamped its hand over Sam's sword. Squeezing, the steel shattered. A backhanded smack sent Sam flying into a tree.

"You can't have him!" Gilly's screams cleared his mind like a bolt of lightning. Despite the aches stabbing through him, he drew the one weapon left on his person - the dragonglass dagger.

Above, flying low over the trees, a sharp gaze caught a still. The unmistakable image of a white walker. Jon had never seen one, but it could be no other. 'Bank around.' The dragon obeyed.

Blue eyes shining in triumph, the white walker reached out to take the bundle in the girl's arms when a snarling Sam charged. Even shocking him, the dagger sunk into the muted ice blue skin like it was butter. Screaming in pain and hate, the beast writhed for several moments before shattering into millions of tiny pieces.

Their commander dead, all at once the line of wights dropped their jaws in piercing screams, charging straight for Sam, Gilly, and the baby. Holding the dragonglass daggers, despite the utter hopelessness of the situation the Tarly outcast found his inner steel. "Stay behind me, Gilly." They drew closer, blue eyes flashing. "Stay behind me!"

'Rhaegal, light 'em up!' Jon held for dear life as the green dragon dove.

Dragonglas at the ready, in an instant the line of wights was vaporized. The red-orange fireball caused Sam to topple, knocking down Gilly in the process. Undisturbed and sleeping through the entire ordeal, the baby started to wail. Gilly scrambling to calm him down, as his lids fluttered open - aches all over his corpulent form - Sam stared in stupefied silence as a dragon emerged from the blackness to land before them. The shock amplified when he saw who was on the dragon's back, or more accurately one of the persons on the dragon's back.

Jon's ragged boots hit the snow with a small puff. "Damn cunts," cursed Tormund, gazing at the charred bodies. "They're everywhere, and are gonna overrun Hardhome one of these days."

"I've thought of that possibility, Tormund," Jon shot back at him. A shriek left the dragon's throat. "Rhaegal, heel." Compliant with his rider, at least for now, he gurgled to warm his system. Gently running his palm along the scaly neck - a stirring of affection instinctively brought forth that he usually reserved for Ghost - Jon finally met eyes with Sam.

"What, but…" Sam gaped like a fish. "How… Jon… dragon…" Walking over to him, Jon knelt and set a hand on his shoulder. "How'd you get a dragon?"

"Deep breaths, Sam." He sighed. "If it helps, I'm just as confused by the situation as you are."