Chapter 523: A New Dragonrider

[TL: MASSSS RELEASEEE!!!]

Jon Snow trudged through the snowstorm, his breath freezing into frost on his beard.

Usually clean-shaven, Jon had grown out a thick beard to shield his face from the cold.

Ahead, the world was an endless expanse of white. The snow covered rocks, tree roots, and frozen rivers, turning every step into a potential hazard.

The icy wind howled, carrying flurries of snow that froze the southbound column into what looked like marching snowmen. They struggled through knee-deep drifts, each step more difficult than the last.

"Hold on! We're almost at the Neck. Once we reach Moat Cailin, we should meet the troops building the new defensive line."

Jon's words received only faint murmurs in response. Most of the group had been so sapped by the cold that they could hardly muster the strength to speak.

The only reason Jon still felt energized was the greatsword hanging at his side—a gift from the King.

Along the journey, this sword had been Jon's key to commanding respect among the Northern lords. But more importantly, it radiated a comforting warmth, warding off the biting chill of winter.

Though Jon had never drawn the blade—not needing to, as the Northern lords instantly recognized its distinct features and complied with the King's orders—the sword's warmth alone had been instrumental in helping him successfully complete his mission as an emissary.

As they pressed onward, Jon suddenly caught the salty tang of brine on the cold wind.

He looked up and, through the swirling snow, saw a faint black-green line at the edge of the white horizon.

The Neck.

Jon's spirits soared, and he quickly passed the news to the group.

The mood of the entire column lifted. Those on the brink of collapse suddenly seemed reinvigorated, as if feeling the warmth of the South through the storm.

Their pace quickened, and before long, they saw the outline of a crumbling tower in the distance.

Jon recognized it immediately. This was Moat Cailin.

Moat Cailin, located at the northern edge of the Neck, was a ruined castle said to have been built by the First Men thousands of years ago.

Once, Moat Cailin was a vast fortress of war, boasting twenty towering keeps and walls of black basalt as high as Winterfell.

It had been the key to the North's defense against southern invasions, repelling countless attacks throughout history.

The Andals had conquered six of the Seven Kingdoms, but they had never breached the defenses of Moat Cailin. This was why the North had remained the domain of the First Men for so long.

Now, however, that legacy was gone.

The North had been overtaken by snow and death, claimed by the dead risen from their graves.

Jon swore to himself, with every step he took closer to the ruined castle, that he would reclaim the North—his home.

Millennia had reduced Moat Cailin to a shadow of its former self. Only three towers remained.

The Drunkard's Tower leaned precariously, as if about to collapse. The Children's Tower pierced the sky like a spear, but its tip was broken. The largest tower, with a twisted weirwood growing through its stone walls, looked especially eerie.

Legends said the Children of the Forest had performed magic here, summoning a great flood that split Westeros in two.

The southern lands had been submerged, creating the Neck.

But now, with winter freezing the marshlands solid, this natural barrier separating North and South had lost its effectiveness.

Thankfully, this was the narrowest point of the continent. To the east lay the Bite, connecting to the Narrow Sea, and to the west was the Brightflame Bay leading to the Sunset Sea. The region resembled the neck of a body—thin and narrow. It was the most logical place to build a new defensive line.

It was also well-positioned for supply lines from the southern kingdoms.

As Jon approached, he saw Moat Cailin flying colorful banners. Laborers and soldiers bustled about, building a wall that stretched from the castle to the seas on either side.

Though not as tall or imposing as the Wall had been, this new structure already stood over ten meters high and looked formidable.

Every so often, cylindrical steel barrels jutted from the wall.

Jon immediately guessed what they were. These must be the "cannons" King Samwell had invented—devastating weapons that had helped Storm's End's fleet triumph over the Ironborn and the forces of House Velaryon.

After identifying himself, Jon and his group were allowed inside.

Whether it was his imagination or not, Jon noticed a slight rise in temperature. It felt as though this new wall truly did block some of the winter's cold.

"Is the King here?" Jon asked the commander. "I am his emissary, here to report back after completing my mission."

He held the greatsword Dawn across his chest as he spoke.

The man in charge was Lord Mathis Rowan of Goldengrove. Recognizing the sword, Mathis nodded.

"His Majesty is out inspecting the defenses on dragonback. He should return shortly. You can wait here."

Mathis scrutinized Jon for a moment, then asked, "You're Eddard Stark's bastard, Jon Snow, aren't you?"

"Yes," Jon replied.

"Your brother is here. Would you like to see him?"

"My brother?" Jon perked up. "You mean Bran?"

Mathis nodded and summoned a soldier to guide Jon.

Jon thanked him and followed the soldier into an underground chamber.

The room was dark and damp, lit only by a fire pit burning a block of peat moss.

"Bran?" Jon saw a familiar figure sitting in a wheelchair. A slender girl with brown hair was feeding him.

The girl turned at the sound. "And who might you be?"

"Jon," Bran said before Jon could reply. He hadn't even turned around. "You've returned."

"I have," Jon said, stepping closer. "I almost froze to death in the North, but I made it back. The dead chased us every step of the way—" He stopped mid-sentence, noticing Bran's eyes. "What happened to your eyes?"

"It's all your king's fault!" said the girl indignantly.

"Meera, this is none of the King's business." Bran himself was unusually calm.

"Hmph, you guys chat, I'm going out first." Meera put the bowl of oatmeal heavily on the table and left without looking back.

"The daughter of Lord Howland Reed, leader of the crannogmen," Bran introduced with a smile. "She has a bit of a hot temper."

"They're bandaged," Jon said, his alarm growing. "Who did this to you?"

"It was me," Bran said calmly.

"You? Why would you blind yourself?"

"Because seeing too much isn't always a blessing," Bran replied, his tone detached. "Without my eyes, I've found a sense of peace."

Jon stared at his brother, searching for anger or bitterness but found none.

After not seeing each other for a long time, he suddenly felt that he could not understand his younger brother.

"I miss the old you," Jon admitted quietly.

Bran fell silent before finally replying, "We can never go back, Jon. Wolves grow, and the world changes."

Jon took a deep breath, choosing to let the matter drop, and shifted the conversation.

"What about Mother, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon? Have they all made it south safely? And Father—he hasn't arrived at Moat Cailin yet?"

"Sansa and Rickon are in King's Landing, so there's no need to worry about them. As for Mother and Arya, they're temporarily lost in the snowstorm, but they're not in danger."

Jon's brow furrowed even deeper.

"They didn't evacuate together? And Father—why didn't you mention him?"

Bran lowered his head, speaking softly.

"You'll understand in time…"

Jon suddenly lost his temper. Grabbing his brother by the shoulders, he leaned in and demanded in a low, firm voice:

"I hate riddles! Tell me the truth—what's happened to Mother and Arya? And where is Father now?"

Bran's expression remained calm, almost indifferent.

"Sorry, Jon. Have you forgotten that I'm blind? There are many things I can no longer see. I truly can't give you the answers you want."

Jon stared at his brother intently, his gaze piercing, as though he could see through the white bandages covering Bran's eyes and discern the truth hidden behind them.

"Bran, what are you hiding from me? Don't forget, I'm your brother—I'm a Stark, too."

"You're only half a Stark," Bran replied quietly. "And there are burdens you don't need to carry. Besides, the script has already been rewritten, the tide of fate is surging uncontrollably, and no one can claim to control the flow anymore… So, it's not that I'm refusing to answer—it's that I truly cannot."

Jon, confused and frustrated, was about to press further when a sudden, piercing dragon's roar echoed through the air.

Cheers erupted throughout Moat Cailin as soldiers cried out in celebration.

"The King has returned," Bran said. "Weren't you going to report to him? Go on, then."

Jon had no choice but to let it go, sighing in frustration as he turned to leave.

At the doorway, he hesitated and glanced back. His brother sat alone in the shadows, an eerie and hollow figure, as if he were nothing more than a dried-out husk.

A surge of grief welled up in Jon's chest, sharp and sudden, almost bringing tears to his eyes.

Before they could spill, he quickly walked out.

The cold wind hit his face like a slap, freezing the moisture forming in his eyes. Jon steadied his emotions and stepped outside the tower.

Looking up, he immediately spotted three dragons circling high in the sky.

One was white, another black, and the third a shimmering green.

The white and black dragons carried riders, but the green one flew alone.

"Rhaegal is here too?" Mathis Rowan, standing at the forefront of the crowd, looked up with a puzzled expression. "It doesn't even have a rider…"

"Lord Rowan, I heard the King has four dragons. Why are there only three here?" Jon asked.

Mathis cast Jon a sidelong glance before replying.

"Your information is outdated. The King now has eight dragons. Four are newly hatched and too young for battle. Of the other four, only the white dragon Cleopatra and the black dragon Drogon have riders. The green dragon Rhaegal and the yellow dragon Viserion remain riderless.

"Without riders, dragons are far less effective in combat. They're still beasts, with limited intelligence. When they lose control, they can't distinguish friend from foe.

"I'm not sure why His Majesty brought Rhaegal to the front lines. Does he expect to find another dragonrider here? But who among us has the bloodline to tame a dragon?"

Jon's heart began to pound.

He knew that, as the bastard son of a Stark and a Targaryen, he should, in theory, possess the ability to ride a dragon.

Had the King discovered his secret?

Did his father tell him?

As Jon wrestled with his thoughts, the three dragons began their descent.

Drogon and Rhaegal touched down without much incident, but Cleopatra's arrival caused a stir.

The white dragon was simply enormous—larger than the other two combined.

When it spread its ivory wings, it seemed to blanket all of Moat Cailin in shadow.

This overwhelming presence left everyone feeling suffocated. Even knowing the dragon was an ally, many couldn't suppress the primal fear it evoked.

With a thunderous crash, Cleopatra landed on the frozen marshland, the impact sending tremors through the ground. Many onlookers worried the thick ice beneath might not hold its massive weight.

"Hey, boy," Mathis Rowan nudged Jon out of his daze, "didn't you say you needed to report to the King? Go on, then."

"Oh, right."

Jon nodded, stepping forward quickly.

The closer he got to Cleopatra, the more he could feel its terrifying presence.

Waves of heat radiated from the dragon, forming an invisible barrier that pushed back winter's chill.

Approaching it felt like crossing the boundary between winter and summer—a surreal experience.

"Caesar, Your Majesty. Daenerys, Your Grace," Jon greeted them with a respectful bow, sneaking a glance at the silver-haired, violet-eyed Queen and noting that she must be his aunt…

Quickly shaking the thought away, he focused on his mission.

"Jon Snow reporting in. I've traveled to every castle in the North, ensuring the lords have issued the order for their people to evacuate south. Here is your sword, now returned to its rightful owner."

Samwell accepted the greatsword Dawn with a smile.

"Well done, Jon. You've played a crucial role in the evacuation. What reward would you like?"

Jon's heart pounded violently, but he kept his head bowed.

"Your Majesty, as a man of the Night's Watch, I cannot accept rewards…"

"Night's Watchmen are forbidden from taking lands or titles, but other rewards are fair game," Samwell said casually, pointing to the green dragon resting nearby. "How about that dragon? Want to try your luck?"

Jon was too stunned to refuse.

Daenerys looked at her husband with a mix of shock and concern, lowering her voice.

"Sam, Rhaegal is aggressive. Not just anyone can handle it."

Samwell turned to Jon.

"Well, Jon, do you have the courage to try? The White Walkers are coming, and we need every dragonrider we can get."

"If Your Majesty believes in me, I won't disappoint you," Jon said, his hesitation gone. He turned and strode purposefully toward Rhaegal.

Daenerys watched anxiously.

"Sam, are you sure about this? He's just a Stark bastard. He could get himself killed."

"He's not just a Stark bastard," Samwell replied with a smile. "He's also a Targaryen bastard."

"A Targaryen?"

"Yes. He's the son of your brother Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark."

Daenerys's eyes widened in shock, but before she could respond, the truth was plain to see.

Jon Snow had climbed onto Rhaegal's back.

The green dragon spread its wings and let out a triumphant roar before taking to the skies, carrying its new rider higher and higher.

Jon watched Moat Cailin shrink below him, his heart swelling with exhilaration.

The icy wind whipped his face, but the fire in his chest burned hotter than ever.

"I'm a dragonrider!" he shouted, his voice lost in the roaring wind.

But his elation was short-lived.

Far to the north, on the horizon, a dark line emerged—a black tide, surging forward like a flood.

It wasn't long before it spread across the snowy expanse.

The dead were coming.

Jon's heart sank. He urged Rhaegal to turn back at once.

(End of Chapter)