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drogonthronedestroyer · 5 years

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Game Over....

Epsiode 4

The Plot that was Promised.

Silence. Not a sound could be heard on the air. Jon swung his head around to catch Tormund’s eye and the old wildling raised his bushy, ginger brows.

“Ahh!” They both chimed in unison as it all began to make sense. Jon looked at his feet, now more than a little embarrassed, unable to look his son in the face. “Well, that makes sense! Although…”

“I know…I know; you couldn’t help it! But then all of this,” Torrhen gestured to the frozen vista around him and Drogon followed the arc of his gesture inquisitively. “Well, it’s not canon is it? You are not telling me this is where you imagined you would end up after all they put you through? Jesus, you didn’t even get to take out the Night King after devoting your life to defeating him!” Torrhen made low tutting sounds under his breath. “That must have stung like shit!” Tormund frowned, discomfort writ large on his face whilst Jon hung his head, pursing his lips, his shaggy hair falling forwards to hide his expression.

“It was…a bit…disappointing, yes.”

Despite the sympathetic tone, his son was unrelenting.

“But, didn’t you even stop to question my mother going bat-shit crazy in the space of one episode? I mean, pissed off at Cersei, yes. Fucked off by the Mountain – totally, but she could have destroyed them both in just one triumphant flypast of the Red Keep! But no – she suddenly goes all Rambo and blows the whole bloody place apart! Really? Complete and utter certifiable homicidal madness on the basis of two deep fried Tarly traitors and Varys? And to be fair, she warned him what she would do to him episodes ago. There were a lot of things no one saw coming but that one…you would have had to have both your eyes pushed in by The Mountain not to have seen that one!”

“You weren’t there,” Jon mumbled sullenly, digging a hole in the snow with the toe of his boot. After all, there was nothing else he could say? It was all true. Too true. “We had no choice.” Torrhen raised his fair eyebrows, his face a picture of scepticism.

“So, after you read the script and learned what you had to do, did not one of you have the balls to look the writers in the eye and say ‘Not Today?’”

“I didn’t get any good lines.” Jon mused moodily. “At least, not that good.” He flapped a hand in Tormund’s direction. “He did though.”

“No, but you did get to look good,” Tormund piped up, pulling at his grizzled beard. “I really envied your post-death man-bun era!”Jon’s smile lit up the snow.

“Aww, thanks mate!”Torrhen snorted in utter disgust.

“Jesus guys! What’s wrong with you? Admittedly, it all started so well! All those heart-warming reunions at Winterfell! Well, apart from Sam who for some reason spent a fortnight in the library before he went to see you in the crypt? And he was supposed to be your closest friend?” Jon and Tormund stared back at him nonplussed. “Ok, maybe a fortnight was an exaggeration but you get my point, why wasn’t he out with everyone else when you arrived? Did he not get the Raven? Was the library soundproofed?” Even Drogon nodded in agreement then, which Jon felt was completely surreal. “Everything else was so promising! The swelling music! The call backs to an era when things didn’t move at the speed of light leaving bloody great big plot holes! When it could take a whole series for the Hound and Arya to travel the length of two football fields. A device that was completely abandoned until the Night King took three hours to cross the Godswood which was probably stalling for time whilst Arya found a ladder to jump from. And then…the battle started…”

“I know what you are going to say!” Jon interjected hastily.

“Really?” Torrhen remarked flatly. “Go on then, enlighten me!”

“Nice one!” snorted Tormund, slapping Jon on the back. “Enlighten!”

“Oh how I wish someone had…” sighed Torrhen, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“Energy saving lighting rigs!” Jon piped up defensively. “We had to consider the environmental effects of making a television series over five continents with a cast and crew of thousands and taking over a decade to do it! What you didn’t see is that by the time the night shoots were done all the bulbs had warmed up and…” Jon’s voice trailed off to a murmur as he realised how stupid he sounded. “You sort of had to be there to see it.”

Torrhen looked distinctly unimpressed and cocked one eyebrow high, affecting a high pitched whining voice which made Tormund grin.

“That was rather the point wasn’t it? You couldn’t. Well, you could because you were there but as for anyone else! Are you sure it wasn’t more like “‘Oh well, budget constraints and all that! All this CGI we committed to in order to pull all you sad sacks in for several years is soooooo expensive! This will only take can six episodes if we hack through the character arcs and keep the dialogue to words of less than two syllables. The fans can imagine the rest; they are good at that. Besides we have no more books to go on which is making it really really hard work and it will be much easier to go and make a million more bucks ruining a Star Wars Franchise!’” Tormund leaned into Jon, whispering, his face worried.

“I didn’t see this guy at the table reads!” Jon shook his head, sadly as Torrhen began his punishing rant once more. Cold facts, hotly spoken. Fire and Ice.

“So who was it?” Tormund and Jon scowled as he asked the question. “Who gave the order to charge? Was it Melisandre, because as soon as she lit all those swords, it was like she had plugged them all into the mains! Talk about Duracell Dothraki! Off they went, charging into the dark and towards what? It was the Khalasar equivalent of driving a free Volvo into a brick wall! Then your sister suddenly learns how to fly and kills the Night King by gliding across the Godswood like some caped superhero, passing a hundred or so wights and all the assembled generals without anyone making any sort of attempt to swat her down! Was she invisible? I know if ‘no one’ is there you can’t see them, but this was pushing the ‘no one’ premise just a tad too far don’t you think? And by the way, exactly what was your brother doing whilst he was letting everyone else die? No doubt he was off bargaining with the old Gods and the New to secure a better ending for his character, maybe one where he asked them if it could be Bran for king. He was certainly no for-king use in the battle!”

Jon and Tormund milled about sheepishly, offering up no defence. How could they? Their lives had been at the mercy of different forces those days. But Torrhen had not finished, and was now striding about, waving his arms around to illustrate his points, his former calm a memory. Jon felt sure that if Drogon had eyebrows he would have raised them in tacit agreement at every declaration of dissatisfaction.

“So Night King, the whole lot, gone! Eight years of build up, plot seeding and misdirection and some weird science fiction scene much earlier on in the series which obviously meant nothing, all eliminated in around ninety minutes and then, what? Yay, none of us have a scratch on us so lets all go down to King’s Landing to kill Cersei! Even though technically at that point there should be only around twenty men left despite the – ahem – script unbelievably insisting that only half of the Dothraki had gone. Well I counted six that survived myself, and a horse, mind you it was very hard to see. Is that why they kept it so dark, so the bleeding gaping plot holes weren’t visible? Or maybe they weren’t dead, they were just pining? Then, here it becomes so bloody hysterical if it wasn’t tragic! Mum, apparently, was in such raptures of joy flying around the skies on Drogon that the reason for going to Dragonstone in the first place completely eluded her. That, and the fact that the Iron Fleet may be waiting for them. That same Iron Fleet that wiped out half of her forces in Season seven? And how the hell she failed to see over a hundred boats ranged up beneath them from twenty miles away until one of them shot a round of bolts into Rhaegal and killed him stone dead I just don’t know. Sudden catastrophic memory loss? And such an excellent shot was Euron that they then failed to hit Drogon on any other attempt even when he was heading right for them! So, they gave up on the dangerous flying thing and attacked the other boats instead! The boats that didn’t pose any threat, whereas bloody great fire breathing dragon did - but of course, spoiler, they needed to keep Drogon alive to torch King’s Landing and use as a plot device to turn my mother mad!” He paused for a second, taking a deep breath before he continued. “Apparently, according to the Dumb and Dumber, she forgot. Forgot about the Iron Fleet. Do we think Cersei forgot anything? Mind you she may well have done as all we saw her do was stare out of the window in an alcoholic stupor!”

“Are you some sort of fucking nerd?” Growled Tormund, his hands on his hips, now clearly irritated by the constant tirade. Yet, Torrhen was not to be stopped. His words came thick and fast now, flowing out of his mouth in an – er – Torrhent…

“No, wait! Hear me out, I have waited years for this! So we have Cersei, Qyburn and the Mountain all standing at a convenient dragon height near an open window – but not one of them gets as much as a blister! Cos its far better to have the madwoman kill thousands of CGI men, women and children than confront the main villains.” He gestured to Drogon, frowning. “Look at him! He wouldn’t harm a fly!” Drogon simpered on cue, tilting his head from one way to another like an attentive puppy. “So instead, we have the Hound, Arya and Jamie (somehow) inside the city all looking to wreak their individual revenges. Or possibly not. Well, at least the Hound did. Every dog has its day, as they say. Jamie, who had blood pouring out of more holes than a colander, and should have been dead, is miraculously directed to Cersei in the map room (no pun intended) and they both are romantically reunited and suffer the ultimate fate. Death by masonry. Arya is easily – too easily – convinced to give up on the last name on her list and after running around forever saving innocents from being crushed to death by leading them off to be burned to a crisp, she meets up with a random horse and rides off. Where? Why? Was this some subliminal reference to ‘Arya Horseface?’ Was the budget constraint soo bad that they meant to send Nymeria in to meet her, but could only afford a pantomime horse? Did they think we wouldn’t notice?” Jon wondered just how long they had been standing there and looked at his wrist pointedly, before remembering he had not worn a watch in twenty odd years and so just sighed heavily. Dany had always liked talking. And later, yelling.

“And then, and then…after all of that and King’s Landing stands in ruins, covered in snow, or ash, or the remnants of the fans disappointment, Mum gives a rousing speech. In two very different languages. Neither of them English but you all understood every single word! Bloody amazing!” He pointed angrily at Jon who was all but squirming. “You didn’t need to fuck your aunt! All three of you got right royally screwed! Mum got killed, you got banished and you…” he grinned at Tormund, “you let the Kingslayer fuck your date and then dump her for his sister. And you say my mother was the mad one...!”

Jon had had enough. It was cold, his furs were heavy and he needed a drink. He crossed his arms across his chest belligerently.

“We couldn’t help it. They offered us free Starbucks…”

“And bacon toasties,” Tormund interjected, “don’t forget them!”

“God yes,” Jon grinned, suddenly heartened, “the catering was top notch!”

“Never mind the bloody food!” Torrhen shouted, furious now. “What are we going to do about it? We can’t let this be how such a legendary tale is left to fester in the annals of history! Think about your careers!” Jon scrunched up his face. Maybe it was about time, he pouted, thoughtfully. And, he did rather fancy breaking out the man-bun once more.

“Ok, Ok, you’ve made your point and stuck us with it,” he reasoned, “admittedly at some length.” He twisted about, looking around, considering, his cloak flapping around him like dark wings. Took a deep breath or two before looking back at Torrhen. “You got an army?”

Torrhen shook his head regretfully leaving them all to look all at each other, perplexed. Even Drogon let out a sympathetic snuffle.

“What happened to the Dothraki left behind at Kings Landing?”

“No idea,” said Tormund. “I don’t suppose we can ask the Unsullied?” Jon pulled a horrified face.

“Surely they will all be dead?” His tone was hopeful. Torrhen shrugged.

“Well, we can forget about The Golden Company…”There was a brief silence before all of them burst out laughing.

“You have to admit,” chuckled Jon, “that scene was bloody hilarious!”

“It was! That guy’s face!” Torrhen snickered, turning to Drogon. “Great fire-breathing there mate! To do you credit, you probably had the best scenes in the whole of the last series! But then you had the advantage of not having a script!” Everyone nodded in considered agreement as Drogon preened. Tormund scowled suddenly. He could be slow at times, unlike the pace of the last series, but something bothered him.

“Hang on a bloody minute! You weren’t there! Neither was I? How come we both know what went on?” Torrhen looked suitably thoughtful for a moment, the sunlight peeping out from behind a cloud and painting the surrounding mountain tops with golden rays. Iceland…sorry…beyond the Wall had never quite looked so stunning.

“Perhaps we saw it in the flames? A message from the Lord of Light?”

“What?” Jon snorted. “Like the ‘Prince that was Promised’”.

“Don’t mock,” Torrhen said sombrely. “Look where we are now! Perhaps this is the ‘Plot that was Promised’!” Jon was thinking hard. It had been a long time since he had had to think hard. It still suited him.

“Ok, let’s think this through. So we have you. Me. Tormund…” there was an accompanying snort and Jon nodded in acknowledgement. “Drogon.” His lips pressed into a thin line as the dragon shook his head in appreciation. Smiling. He was. The bastard was smiling. But Jon shook his head, sadly, his hair falling around him in waves, looking suddenly much darker than it had been at the beginning of this tale. “Gonna be a tough one mate!”

It seemed their mission was doomed before it began and they all stood reflecting in ponderous, if splendidly located, silence. Then, as if on cue, there was a strange rumbling sound, one Jon had heard before. It grew closer. And closer. Now punctuated by faint cries. Yells. Were they whoops?

“Maybe not …” Torrhen grinned slyly, his eyes glinting mischievously.

With that, Drogon raised his head and let out a terrifying roar. One which was answered within seconds. Distantly, by something which echoed his cry. Before Jon could turn, another dragon, one he knew all too well if he hadn’t been told it was dead, swooped around with a further throaty scream, landing on the ground with a crash beside Drogon, who turned somewhat clumsily to greet his brother. In the distance, the rolling thunder became the roar of an oncoming tide and within minutes the figures standing alone in the snow were surrounded by a screaming, jeering Dothraki hoard. Much, much bigger than the one last seen at Winterfell.

“Oh come on!” Jon gasped in utter disbelief, wondering if this was something to do with his wife and part of the best April Fool’s day trick revenge ever, but then he had no idea of the date. “This is bloody ridiculous!”

“You gotta be shitting me in my pants!” cried Tormund at the same time. The air became eerily quiet, apart from the snorting of horses and the various chirrups and growls of Drogon and Rhaegal catching up on news.

“Is it?” Someone said. “As ridiculous as that last episode?” A female voice he knew far too well (see – by this stage he knows an awful lot does Jon Snow – that’s called character development) caused him to turn quickly, so quickly he almost fell over his voluminous cloak. Righting himself, he came face to face with his queen. His love. His aunt. His…woman he murdered amidst a passionate snog.

“No!” One word, incredulous.

“Yes!” One word. Clearly pissed. Jon and Dany stared at each other. She was wearing the same leather effect, warlike costume which she had suddenly pitched up in on the day he had – er – killed her. But there was no sign of the mark of his dagger. Still amazed at what a good special effects team could achieve, he could not think of anything else to say, so he played for time, nodding at the green, amber eyed beast from which she had just dismounted.

“Is that really Rhaegal?”

“Uhuh! Surely you know that, if you know nothing else.” He frowned, sulkily.

“I do. But how?” Dany thought for a minute, biting her lower lip seductively.

“Er – what if we say…he wasn’t as badly hurt as it appeared when he got shot through the neck by that scorpion bolt. It looked bad, but it was only a flesh wound. So he managed to swim to the beach at Dragonstone…on the far side of the island opposite where everyone else swam to, except Missandei of course, and where he has been convalescing for many years.” She rolled her eyes upwards as if assessing the quality of her words before giving a satisfied nod. “Then he flew home.”

“That bastard said you were dead!” Tormund snapped, pointing accusingly at Torrhen who raised an eyebrow archly.

“Plot twist?’ After a second, Jon nodded, turning to Tormund.

“I’ll buy it!” Tormund raised his arms outwards in submission.

“Oh, what the fuck!”

“Good!” Dany held out her hand to Torrhen, who muttered under his breath before meekly unfastening the dragon clasp and handing it over.

“Sorry! I only borrowed it!”

“Hmnn,” Dany murmured. “Like you just borrowed Drogon! Next time, ask!” She pinned the clasp back onto her fur coat in a business like fashion, patting it with glee, her dark brows meeting together in an arrowhead as she frowned. “Well then, are we agreed?”

Jon still looked uneasy. Almost out of his comfort zone. He looked around hesitantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to say ‘Shall we begin?’”

Dany grinned. “Like you are supposed to say “You’re my queen?” That did it. He returned her smile ruefully. “I think we can forget all that crap!” They all looked at each other in agreement. “So, men of the north, are our ambitions aligned?”

“Well, that’s a lot more words than ‘shall we begin’, but its worth a try.” Jon admitted grudgingly. “It can’t be any worse than the last attempt surely?”

“Where we all got right royally shit on?” Dany smiled enigmatically. “No. It’s time to put that right. And just as an aside, I do have a stab vest on under this coat! But enough of the past - we will need to re-establish our loyal following. Some have stayed true and were justifiably outraged about what unfolded before their disbelieving eyes…”

“And ears…” Jon’s words were greeted with a mumble of assent.

“But we need something,” she continued thoughtfully, “something to appeal to the disaffected. To put us back where we were around season six.”

They muttered amongst themselves for a while as the amassed Dothraki, getting bored, or getting ready, however you will, took it in turns to try and light their swords.

“What about…Cersei turns up as a Night Queen so she can be killed all over again but this time in a fight to the death with you?” suggested Jon to Dany helpfully.

“That would work. As long as I don’t get killed – again!” she answered pointedly. “Needs to be a long drawn out struggle though, over a couple of seasons?”

“And those White Walker symbols!” Tormund growled. “Perhaps we ought to make something up about that?”

“Good idea. It was some form of ancient cryptic language – warning that those that are dead, again, may not be quite as dead as they thought? Especially if those who are responsible for killing them try to take the throne for themselves.” Drogon snorted suddenly, and Dany turned listening. “Aww, no baby, it doesn’t matter that you melted it! We can make a new one with all the Kingsguard’s armour.” Jon giggled. He had not giggled for a long time. If ever at all.

“Or those they have pissed off and banished might be more pissed off and not so banished as they thought?”

“I’m sure we can think of something.” Torrhen interjected. “Jesus, the original end was so excruciatingly bad, the bar really isn’t set all that high!”

“And this time I get the big woman!” shouted Tormund, “or I’m out!”

“Fine by me.” said Jon, looking over at Torrhen thoughtfully. “Just one thing. Three dragons you said, and discounting those two actual dragons! So, how’s that going to work when we win this thing?” There was a moments silence punctured only by two disgruntled draggony chirrups.

“I’ll take King’s Landing – because I already did!” said Dany firmly. “Torrhen, you can have Dragonstone and Jon…the north?” That seemed to trouble him. After all, he was known for his loyalty to his family, for being as good as his word. For being a true Stark. More Stark than any other Stark ever. Starkly Stark. Which he considered may be a good name for a rapper if all of this failed, again. Maybe Chris Martin had connections he could exploit?

“What about Sansa?” he asked doubtfully.

“What about her?” Dany asked, in a tone of voice that made a certain part of his body freeze.

“Ok!” he shrugged lightly. “It’s her fault I’m here. Done!”

“Finally!” groaned Tormund. “Then I suggest we all celebrate with a meal back at our camp. We don’t have much, some bread, ale and I hope you all like fowl.”

With that, a huge figure dressed all in black pushed his way between the Dothraki horses. A tall, ugly man, his face terribly scarred, his shadow a scar on the pristine snow.

“Did someone mention chicken?” growled the Hound. “I’m in!"

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drogonthronedestroyer · 5 years

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Game of Groans..or at least season 8 was...

Episode 3

Truth…ish…...

“This Red Woman…”

“Kinvara.”

“She…brought Daenerys back from the dead?”

“Why do you look so surprised?” Jon could no longer look at him, instead he turned his attention to Drogon, immediately wishing he had not, for nothing he saw there told him he was wrong, but he could not look back now. Only listen. “Are you not living proof that those murdered by the blades of treachery can stand tall and wreak revenge once again?” He crossed his arms over his chest. His breath misting in the cold air. “You hung them, didn’t you? The men who killed you?”

Jon once again felt his knees weaken. He could not believe what he was hearing, for how could it be true? The evidence was before his eyes, yet why had no one else in the kingdom heard of it? Not Bran, neither by his visions or by the constant flow of news from abroad which his council would discuss and deliberate? Sansa? Although she would get her news from Kings Landing, or from merchants who had crossed the Narrow Sea. Surely, someone would have known? It seemed impossible. No one would fail to see a dragon and talk of it, for they would be well remembered in Mereen, not to mention the other cities Daenerys had liberated. But then, everyone knew Drogon had survived. Jon himself suspected he would have gone east, to the great grasslands where there would be sheep and goats for him to feast upon, with no one to deny him. Someone could have sent news of a sighting back to Westeros, but it would not be seen as unusual that the dragon had returned to the land he knew best. The land he most probably considered his home. As for the rest…that could have been kept secret, particularly in a land thankful for the freedom they now enjoyed. If indeed it were true.

Truth. The longer he stood in the arc of Drogon’s stare he could not deny it. This boy. This man, was his son.

“What is your name?” his voice cracked hoarsely. Yet he dare not move towards him. Not yet.

“Torrhen.” His expression was thoughtful now, and he didn’t make a move either. Tormund barked gruffly.

“Torrhen Targaryen? She certainly was bloody mad to give you a name like that!”

“I believe,” Torrhen countered smoothly, not even flinching, “it is a Stark name.” His unsettling gaze remained fixed on Jon who swallowed with some difficulty. Time was passing, half the day done.

“What do you know of the Starks?” he asked brusquely, feeling a shiver despite the weight of his cloak. The sun had been gradually withdrawing, the sky turning grey. Grey as ash.

“Everything.”

Jon no longer doubted. The cold, hard truth was staring him in the face. By the time he had discovered his true lineage in the crypt all those many years ago, the seed had already been sown. From that day on, no matter how much he loved her, he had forced himself to resist every temptation, and there were many. It had been easy for her. Her ancestors had been marrying their own blood for centuries. But he had been raised a Stark. He would always, no matter what, be a Stark. Even had he ruled. Only by then, his enforced denial was too late. Tears tore at the back of his throat. She could have had children. She did have children. She had been carrying his child when he slid a blade into her heart. He had not only killed her; he had killed his own child. All three of them, it seemed, had been raised from the dead. “And what do you want?” He found it hard to speak, for this was his son. This…stranger…was his very own flesh and blood.

“I want what is mine.” Torrhen may as well have been discussing the weather, his words calm and measured. “Well, what is yours really. So, I came here first, to see you, to see if things have changed in all these years. She asked me to do that. To find you. To seek you out when I was old enough, and find out if you still lived. Begged me, in fact, for all that you were to each other. She forgave you, in her way, even though she never understood. Never understood how you could contemplate killing her as you held her so very closely, professing your undying love.” His eyes glinted like shards of emerald glass. “Only, it wasn’t your love that was undying, was it father? It was hers.” A heartbeat passed. Then another, before a burst of laughter gusted past him like a gale, whistling across his ears.

“You?” Tormund bellowed. “You skinny, milk-sour streak of shit? What are you going to do? Ride that monster down to King’s Landing and what? Sit down with the king and drink that piss they call wine whilst you ask very nicely if you can have the throne?”

“There is no throne.” Jon’s voice was deathly calm. Torrhen had moved a little closer and Jon could now see the silver clasp at his neck. It was one he had seen many times before, had even held its cool weight in his hands. Three dragon heads. She wore it, always.

“A throne doesn’t make a king.” As he heard those words, Jon began to realise that his son, their son, held a wisdom and composure beyond his years. Tormund’s words and his blustering manner did nothing to discomfort him. He had come for a purpose, it seemed, and nothing they could say would divert him from that path. “That’s a mistake far too many have made. The fabled Iron Throne became more important than those who sat upon it, or aspired to. It is a damn shame they didn’t destroy the thing as soon as my grand-father’s throat was cut, for the throne itself became evil personified. But then, I hear the Lannisters always did like their symbols of grandeur, especially if they saw it as a way to inspire fear. The Kingslayer even replaced his missing hand with one of gold, no baser metal would do, oh no, not for him! They say the Lannisters shit gold, well for certain, the Kingslayer wiped his arse with it!” Torrhen turned slowly and walked over to Drogon, once again reaching out his hand to stroke the animal affectionately, as Jon used to do with Ghost. “It took a greater sacrifice to end that tyranny. That was her true destiny.”

Tormund stared at Jon, his blue eyes wide and blazing. “Are you listening to this shit? Tell him!”

Jon looked back at his friend sadly. Tell him what? That destiny was death’s handmaiden? His next words came with difficulty. He doubted he could stop him, but he could try…

“Even if all of this is true, it makes no difference,” he sighed. “The name Targaryen will never be welcome in the capital. You would be imprisoned before you could draw breath.” He flicked a glance over the slim, fur-clad shoulder. “And he won’t be able to help you. He could cause some damage, probably, but as for clearing your path…”

He didn’t expect the laughter. Torrhen appeared slow to anger and he had cause for anger. Even for revenge. But here stood a man, a boy, who preferred to reason to revenge. Or so it seemed.

“I would indeed be a stupid man if I thought I could fly in there, announce myself to the council and expect peace to prevail! Even if I could persuade you to come south with me and testify to my right! Even if none of the lords there show the barest spark of interest in ruling the kingdom, having seen where that leads. Why has your brother remained king for so many years? The throne poisoned the very act of Kingship. Perhaps your brother was such an attractive proposition to them exactly because he needed no such visible trappings of power.”

“You could be lying!” Tormund growled. “Maybe the red witch enchanted the dragon to let you ride him and you are no more than some whore’s bastard!” He didn’t see Jon flinch at the word but Torrhen caught it and inclined his head.

“He knows I am not.”

Jon took a hesitant step forwards, half raised his hand, his eyes fixed on the silver clasp.

“That was hers.” Torrhen reached up and touched it with tender affection.

“It was.”

“Three dragons. She had it fashioned herself. But now…” Jon looked over at Drogon who was eerily quiet, as if listening attentively to every word, waiting for the slightest sign of something he didn’t care for. The merest hint of a threat to his new…master.

“Oh, this was never about that, not really” Torrhen smiled affably. “Kinvara told me. My mother was mistaken. Three dragons, yes. But not the ones she believed. Her destiny was to put a Targaryen on the throne, which she will still fulfil. She sealed it by meeting you. We… are the three dragons.”

“I take it back! You are her son!” Tormund chuckled roughly. “And just as fucking mad as she was!”

“You may think so.” Torrhen replied stiffly, for the first time showing a glimpse of irritation at the big man’s constant denial of him. Drogon sensed his change of mood and the spiny head came up, eyes glittering dangerously. “But this is my destiny.”

“Where have I heard that before?” Tormund grumbled under his breath as Jon shook his head sadly.

“You are right. Daenerys conquered King’s Landing. She won the Iron Throne, the right to rule,” he was consciously aware of Drogon’s burning stare, “and she lost herself in the process. The very fight to get there corrupted her, step by step, in small decisions she had to make along the way. She didn’t see it at the time, not even when it was too late, that her path had turned her into something she would never have wanted to be.” He felt himself growing angry, an emotion fuelled by hurt. A ripping, gut wrenching pain which tore him apart deep down inside. “Besides, she had the Unsullied. A Dothraki hoard at her back. Three dragons.” He looked at Drogon again pointedly. No matter that he was still a magnificent beast, larger than he had been, and no doubt still capable of inflicting catastrophic damage, one man and one beast could not conquer the world alone. “Go back to Mereen and forget this. Do not become your mother. Go. Live the life she should have had.”

“Or take your dragon south and let them capture you, kill it, and throw your bony arse into a dank stone cell.” Tormund was grinning, enjoying Jon’s dismissal of this foreign upstart, no matter who he said he was. He was only to happy to chime in and words belittle this audacious sprat’s ambitions. Which was harder than it appeared for Torrhen stood his ground, continuing to address all his words to Jon. To converse with the man who was his father.

“I have the element of surprise,” Torrhen remarked blandly. “If you try to send ravens south, we will burn them. I can be at Winterfell well before any message you could send! If I have to, I can burn my way down the country before Bran the Broken even blinks! Don’t you think King’s Landing will remember? Don’t you think they will cower in fear at the mere thought of a dragon’s shadow flying over their rooftops?” For the first time, Jon felt the burn of grudging admiration for he saw a confidence that he, for one, had never possessed. “No. I don’t need to go with an army! Not now.” The words rang out across the crisp, clear air. “I go with my birth right and insist that I am given what is mine in peace!”

Fear took place of pain deep down in Jon’s gut. Now, he sounded like Dany. Like Dany just before his world went mad. Confident. The confidence of a madman?

“When a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin…”

Varys word’s echoed in his ear. Could he stand by and see another life lost to the futile pursuit of power. He stepped forward, barely the space of a hand between him and his son. Their eyes connected, the dark meeting the light. He wanted to reach out. To touch his son. Too curl his fingers around his arm and feel the flesh that was born of his flesh. But he dare not. All he could do was try to reason with him, try to prevent another life being needlessly thrown away.

“It won’t be that…”

Torrhen smiled brightly, interrupting Jon’s attempt to dismiss his plans.

“Are you are about to tell me that it won’t be easy? That your brother will see my intentions? That with his all seeing gaze he will be expecting me? That he will spirit himself into Drogon so that he can neutralise the threat and capture us both? If so, you may be wildly overestimating his ability,” he scoffed. “Yes, he can control other beings but let us consider, what exactly is his count so far?” Torrhen raised one hand, counting with his fingers. “His own wolf. Hardly a challenge to take the mind of a loyal dog. Ravens, not particularly known for their overt intelligence but what does he do when he takes over them? Fly around spying! Useful. For him. But who knows how much of what he sees he actually chooses to divulge. Drogon could take out a flock of crows in one breath! Would he die, I wonder, if the crows he had warged into were burnt to a crisp?” He stepped away from Jon, beginning to pace around in a lazy circle. “Then there was his manservant. Hodor? Well, I rest my case…the man was feeble minded.” He flung one arm out then, pointing to Drogon. “You cannot tell me that any of those compare with taking control of him?”

Jon frowned in astonishment at how much the boy knew! He tried hard to remember exactly what he had told Dany that she had passed on to their son. He didn’t recall telling her anything about Hodor, their lack witted manservant from Winterfell. What had Hodor to do with anything anyway? The last Jon had seen of him was at Winterfell, years ago, carrying Bran around in his arms when he was a child. Although…there was something Sam had said. Something about showing Bran and Hodor through the wall, many years ago, aiding him in his quest to find the Three Eyed Raven. There had been no time back when they waited for the dead to attack, no time for Bran to tell him everything and certainly less for him to tell Dany anything he did. He just didn’t understand. What was worse, Torrhen sensed his confusion and his smile grew broader.

“How do you know all this?” Jon asked gruffly. “The Red Woman?”

Torrhen shrugged lightly, before letting out a heavy, resigned sigh.

“No.” His lips hardened into a thin, unimpressed line and he stopped pacing. Lifting his head, he gave a deep resigned sigh. “I’ve read the books.” His gaze flitted from Jon to Tormund and back. “And seen the show.”

Da da daaaaaaaaaaa! Final ep coming up - and unlike season 8 it won't leave you deflated!

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drogonthronedestroyer · 5 years

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Game on...Thrones...!

Episode 2. Enter the Drogon!

(And the language is Tormunds not mine!)

They both look up at the sky, squinting. The sun is hiding behind a thin bank of icy white clouds making them hard to look at. It is Jon who spoke first, his throat dry, the word cracked, even just that one word of surprised denial.

“No.”

Tormund’s exclamation is more profound.

“Fuck me!”

The sound grew louder. It is as unmistakeable as it is unbelievable and both their necks crack with the effort of straining upward. Straining, finally bearing witness to a sight they never believed they would see again. A winged beast. Distant, at first, moving fast, growing larger. It swoops in closer, webbed wings rising and falling in graceful symmetry, heading directly for where they sit on horseback. Jon’s mount side-steps nervously, bumping into the haunches of Tormund’s horse, causing it to snort in irritation and fright. Closer. Closer. And Jon knows. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. It is not just a dragon. It can only be one dragon, despite the years that have passed and as improbable as it seems. The black shape, scales and wings tinged with crimson red, is as recognisable as the face of an old friend, one which grows large enough to cause a shadow to draw over the two of them, obliterating the daylight.

He knows it to be true. Drogon. Drogon who blasted the Iron Throne into liquid fire, obliterating it completely, as the quest to reach it had destroyed the one who sought. He had waited to be next, prepared for Dany’s beloved child, her last living child, to rain fire down upon his head. He deserved it. He expected it. But he had been wrong. Ravaged by grief, his cries heartrendingly painful on the ears, the beast had picked up her small body in one of his huge, clawed feet, and with all the tender loving care of a mother for a child, he had flown away, taking with him the woman who had raised him and ridden him. Jon could still hear it. His wings beating slowly, a thudding heartbeat fading away across the ash-filled sky. Jon’s heart had ripped apart. He knew in that one last act Drogon was telling them all, look what you did! You didn’t deserve her! You made her what she became and then you killed her! He knew he would never forgive himself.

The huge beast, who appeared even larger than he had been twenty years ago, circled around them before swooping down to land in his usual majestic way, losing none of his ability to impress and awe. The ground shuddered under the impact of his clawed feet, snow circling upwards under the downbeat of his red-black wings.

“Shit!” Tormund whispered. “This isn’t fucking possible! How is it still alive?”

It was not that that was bothering Jon. At least, not just that. He didn’t wonder about Drogon having survived these many years for who knew the life span of a dragon? In truth, Drogon was not that old. What did trouble him was something he had learned many years ago, that this animal, this beast, had a strange intelligence. A connection with his Targaryen mother which had been demonstrably obvious on that dreadful day when the Red Keep had been destroyed. There had been many long nights for Jon to think about why the dragon let him live, perhaps because there was no one to tell him to, no mother to whisper ‘Dracarys,’ but that explanation did not wash. The beast knew exactly what had happened. Most probably knew from the moment Dany had him weaving back and forth over the streets of King’s Landing, burning men, women, children and buildings alike. Perhaps he had felt her grief, her despair, her loss. The connection between them was some form of strange, ancient magic, the same magic which allowed people to inhabit the bodies of other animals. Birds. Wolves. Like Bran.

There was a price to pay for such a gift – for Bran was hardly human any more. An odd remote man now, far from the brave, inquisitive boy he had been, listening open mouthed to Old Nan’s ridiculous tales. Tales of the dead who walked on the yon side of the wall. Of mystical priestesses, and dragons…Dany had told him once of the first time Drogon had responded to her call, it was one she had not even consciously made. She was in Mereen, under attack and fearing she would die. She had closed her eyes, prepared for the final blow. She thought of her children, her dragons, two of whom she had consigned to a dank, dark cellar to prevent them roaming and devastating the countryside. But Drogon, ever the most independent, the strongest, had already flown far and wide. So as she feared what would happen to them after her death, Drogon flew in from nowhere and turned the tide of the rebellion. It was the first time she had ridden a dragon, flying away from danger. But it was not the last. He had been summoned by her thoughts. By that spiritual connection with a beast of fire. A beast of destruction. Is that where it all began to change for her without her even knowing? Was her life’s path changed as soon as she clambered onto Drogon’s back?

But for now, that very dragon was lowering his head, nostrils flaring, black scales still tinged with red, eyes like burning embers. Eyes which knew him. Recognised him. A shiver ran through Jon’s body despite his heavy furs. He still could not believe it. Where had he been these past years, and why, why had he returned here now? Dragons did not like the north, he remembered. On the whole, dragons in the north met the same fate as Starks in the south. But then…then…a movement caught his eye. A figure, clambering down from his spiny back, using the webbing of his wings like steps, just as Dany did. Drogon laid his strong, muscular neck along the ground in order to assist the descent and without warning, Jon’s eyes filled with tears, although he didn’t understand why. Or why his heart was pounding so painfully against his ribs. For this figure was not silver haired, not diminutive, but not over tall either. And with each step, it became apparent that this dragon rider was a man. A young man. Dressed in clothes of a foreign design. A grey furred robe clasped at his neck with something Jon could not quite make out, other than it was silver. His heart was in his mouth as the man came closer, much closer and Drogon lifted his head with another guttural warning cry. Announcing their visitor. Whoever it was, he would meet them eye to eye. Jon slid from his saddle, throwing back his cloak, allowing the visitor a glimpse of Longclaw.

“What the fuck are you doing?” growled Tormund.

Jon didn’t answer for within seconds he was face to face with the stranger. A youth, no more than twenty, with waves of dark golden hair which brushed his shoulders. His eyes were large, and green. Dany’s eyes! He almost fell to his knees. This was impossible! The Targaryens were all dead! At least, apart from him. And only a Targaryen could ride a dragon. Even when Rhaegal had allowed him to ride, he had very much doubted that Drogon would have accepted him quite so readily, despite his esteemed lineage. Drogon was exclusively Dany’s child and would brook no other parent. No other master. So what was this? He glanced over the man’s shoulder to find Drogon staring at him with unfathomable intensity. Was there a challenge there? He shook his head and looked away.

“Do you dwell amongst the free folk?”

The man’s voice was cultured, high pitched, with a distinctly foreign tinge. The common tongue was not his usual language, that was evident. As for ‘free folk.’ That was a term Jon had not heard in many a year. There were no free folk now, just the remnants of the wildings who had followed him back into the north and the families they had nurtured over these past years in the shelter of the forest. He doubted anyone in the south even gave them a second thought. Were they Forest Folk then? No one bothered them and they bothered no one. He had no idea what anyone called them to be fair. He didn’t care much either. They were mostly forgotten. Nameless. Over time, he had come to prefer things that way. Names had never profited him much. In the end.

“Who wants to know?” Jon asked stiffly, brushing his heavily furred cloak back over his shoulder, keeping his sword hand free. Longclaw still clearly visible at his hip, not that a sword, Valerian steel or not, was any defence against Drogon in full fiery fury.

“That is not important for now,” the young man said. He smiled, seemingly amiable. Jon could see that under his furs he wore robe or shirt that was deep crimson, but the more he looked at him, the more uncomfortable he became. “Are you the free folk?”

“You heard him!” Tormund bellowed, dismounting heavily himself. “Who the fuck wants to know? If I have to ask you again I will rip off your head and feed it to your dragon!”

The man looked over his shoulder with a casual grin and Drogon moved slightly, closing the gap between them, his eyes glinting fire.

“You can try, by all means, but I don’t much rate your chances.” He turned back to Jon. “It is a simple enough question surely? I seek to find the free folk.”

“Why? What are they to you?” There were so many other things Jon wanted to ask, but dare not. At least, not yet.

“Not they,” the man said flatly. “Just one in particular.”

“Which one?” The answer when it came was no surprise. Not to Jon anyway.

“Aegon Targaryen.” The man flashed a look at Tormund. “You may know him as Jon Snow.”

The day grew even colder.

“What do you want with him?” It was Jon who asked, finding it hard to take his eyes off Drogon now, as if the beast held all the answers, which he was sure he did. And it was easier than looking at the man with Dany’s eyes.

“I will be sure to tell him, when I find him.”

“How do you know he is here?” It was a stand off. Neither of them giving an inch of icy ground.

“I just know.” He turned around and looked at Drogon pointedly. “And so does he. After all, he led me here.”

Jon shrugged his furs closer around his shoulders. There was no pretending, no leading their inquisitor back to the camp on the premise of introducing him to who he sought. What would be the point of that anyway? He swallowed hard. Drogon was still staring at him, if a dragon can stare, which he knew this one could.

“Then you are in luck. You have found him. I’m Jon Snow.” The handsome face before him gave only the slightest betrayal that he may be surprised by the revelation but his eyes took in Jon’s appearance more keenly, looking him up and down. “So, now you have what you want, what brings you here? And more importantly, what brings you here with him?” He nodded towards Drogon. Jon could have sworn the beast understood every word they were saying.

The man smiled at him brightly and Jon felt as if the stale bread he had eaten earlier was about to make a reappearance. Dany’s eyes. Dany’s smile. This was a dream! An impossibility! If this meeting had happened on one of his nocturnal sojourns he would have sworn it was some spell, some imagining. He heard Tormund behind him, his footsteps thumped against the hard packed snow as he drew alongside. Their visitor turned back towards Drogon, standing by his muzzle where he reached out to lay his hand, palm down, on the scaly skin. Jon knew just what that felt like, and how it would reverberate under his fingers as the dragon made a soft, purring sound that took him back too many years. He had not heard that sound since…

“It is because of him I am here,” he announced. “You could say I owe my life to him and you would not be wrong. For without him, I would not be walking this earth.” As he turned back to face them, Drogon shifted his gaze back to Jon. “Did you not care where he went? Where he took his precious burden all those years ago? Did you not stop to wonder even once?”

Jon didn’t even get chance to open his mouth.

“The fucking dragon queen is dead!” Tormund spat, paying no attention to what had been said, his impatience visible. “So how come you have her dragon?”

“True,” he smiled icily in answer, eyes darkening. “She is dead. Now. She could have lingered on, but although her body recovered her heart was broken. Even with…even with the realisation that she could finally bear children of her own when for so long she had believed she could not. All those years thinking that the three dragons who were born in fire would be the only children she would bear. Even after that came to pass, she left once more.”

“Once more?” It was Jon’s turn to snap, as much as he could with his throat closing down on him. “What is all this?” He gestured over to Drogon with one raised arm and the animal reared its head a little. “It is clear you are from across the sea. Essos? The Summer Isles even? A land that perhaps indulges in such trickery, but here…”

Laughter cut across the frigid air. The fair head shook in disbelief.

“So even though you have a brother who can see out of the eyes of animals and holds the history of the world in his head, even though you saw the the Priestess Melisandre call upon the Lord of Light to assist you in your hour of need. Even though that same Priestess brought you back from lands of the dead.” He took a step forward once more, reaching out one leather clad hand in appeal. “Are you still telling me that you don’t believe it could be possible? Not deep down, where doubts chew at your very soul?”

“The Red Woman is dead.” Tormund grunted, but Jon had to admit there was now a tone of uncertainty in the voice of his old friend. A long time ago, Jon had been as sceptical as the rest of the land, yet look what had happened to him. What he had seen. What he had fought. Most of his life had been spent in the unending pursuit of the unbelievable. And had it not, he too would not be standing here. Standing here in rigid disbelief. If that was indeed what he was feeling. He was no longer sure. His head was reeling, slowly, sickeningly. A cold dread seeping though his limbs. A feeling akin to the one he had felt when Sam told him his true name in the shadows of the crypt at Winterfell. His true blood. When he had first realised what that meant for him. What that meant for him and Dany. What that meant for his life, when he came to understand that the all the years that preceded that moment had been built on a lie. But this stranger…this stranger who was not a stranger at all, spoke on.

“I appreciate you reminding me how many lost their lives in the last war. Would it be easier if I first let you reel out a whole roll call of the dead and we go from there? Perhaps we could even discuss the manner of their deaths? Those that fell in battle and those…” his gaze dropped, for the first time showing a chink of weakness. Yet he recovered quickly. “We can of course, if you insist, but I can assure you it is an entirely pointless way to spend our time. The Priestess Melisandre may be dead, but she was not the only one of her kind. I know you know that!”

Jon had a sudden vison of Thoros of Myr. Of Berick Dondarrion. Ghosts. More and more ghosts rising up from the shadows of his past. He wished the man would stop talking.

“When Daenerys Targaryen fled from Mereen on the back of this very dragon, her advisers sought the help of such a Priestess to restore calm to the city. That woman was still there, twenty years ago, and still lives there now for she is younger than the one who laid her life down after fulfilling her destiny. Not that any of you really cared about her, did you? Also waiting for her return, although not in the manner he expected, was the man she left behind to ensure the Bay of Dragons was protected. To ensure that the Masters she defeated were not able to use her willingness to help you win your war to return the city to the evils of slavery. His name is Daario Naharis, commander of the Seven Sons. But I am sure you can imagine,” he smiled easily, shrugging his shoulders as if none of what he said mattered. Not really. “These were just fantastical stories for a young boy. Towering castles, strange far away lands. Battles with the dead against the living. Yet,” he turned and smiled at Drogon affectionately, as the beast reached out his head and nudged his arm gently. A neck which held such power to destroy touched him with the gentle caress of a lover. “Who was I to disbelieve?”

Cold realisation was flowing through Jon’s limbs. Cold as death.

“What the fuck is he talking about?” Tormund leaned in towards Jon, half whispering in his ear.

Jon knew. Jon Snow knew everything...

Chapter three coming...a bit like Winter ...

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drogonthronedestroyer · 5 years

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Game of Moans ...ok...Thrones

Season 9 and three quarters ..

Episode 1

The Real North…remembers…

20 years after the fall of King’s Landing.

In a forest clearing, not far from a mountain shaped like an arrowhead where many years before a wight was caught and a dragon was lost, a small group of settlers are living a peaceful, untroubled, but somewhat spartan life. Conditions are relentless. Unyielding. But still they survive. The old die, the young are born. The summers are harsh, the winters harsher. Those who dwell there have nothing to fear but the elements, and those they are more than well prepared for.

There, remote from the rest of the world, still live some of those old enough to remember what came before and when the worst of the winter storms close in, they huddle around the fire and tell their tales to those who are too young to know. Unbelievable stories, almost too fantastic to believe. Yet still the children gather around the fire, swaddled in their furs, listening, their eyes wide and innocent, mirroring the flames.

There are those who have no need to hear the oft repeated tales. For they were part of the story. Tormund looks older than his years, his beard now white and streaked with only the merest hint of ginger, which could often be mistaken for staining caused by dribbles of ale. Still hale and hearty, his blue eyes are undimmed beneath an even thicker canopy of bushy brows. He often reminisces about the big woman, even though his bed is warmed by a young raven-haired wife.

Jon has never married, choosing to ignore the yearning looks of many a woman over the years. Even one whose colouring gave him some pause, for she too was kissed by fire. He has been determined to forget the past, and for a while, even won that battle. In the constant unwelcome sparring with his memories, he always managed to thrust the killer blow. It helped that there was much to do in the early years. No matter how wild their life, there needed to be some form of organised society. It began with the construction of a small cluster of low, wooden buildings which gave them shelter from the wind and snow. There were always foraging parties, for food, for firewood. There were injuries. And death. And once again everyone had looked to him to provide for them. To protect them. He didn’t understand why, but no longer questioned it. Duty was the death of love, Tyrion once said to him. This was now his duty, for his love was dead.

For him, sleep was never easy to come by. No matter how warm the fire, how deeply piled the furs. Many a night he would walk under crisp, star pocked skies, his shadow dark against the snow. For when he closed his eyes he saw others, staring back at him. Too many others. Or sometimes just one. Accusing. Questioning. For the first ten years, he had company, on those long, nightly sojourns but lately he walked alone. No longer did Ghost, his faithful companion, pad along at his side. One night, the wolf just curled up in front of the crackling fire at Jon’s feet, laid his soft white head upon massive paws and closed his gleaming red eyes for the last time.

There was no longer any need to burn the dead, but Jon built a pyre similar to that he would have built for a brother, despite the cautious glances of the settlers. But they knew him well enough by now. Knew he had been inseparable from his wolf and in the early days they had gained much from the animal’s speed and silence when out hunting for food. Out of all the Stark direwolves, Ghost had always been the quiet one. He had hardly ever uttered a sound other than the odd whine or savage growl, although Davos once told him how loud the wolf howled the night Jon had been stabbed, murdered by his erstwhile companions in the Night’s Watch. Over time, Jon had grown more like his wolf. His hair was now generously streaked with grey and would soon be as white as Ghost had been, and he too spoke little. After all, there was not much to say.

As the acrid smoke had consumed the lifeless form of his faithful friend, it caught in the wind and curled around Jon’s body, bringing back all the memories he had fought so constantly to forget. And they were brighter and more painful than ever before. He had held them back behind the remnants of the Wall, spectres of a life lived in another country. But of course, he had forgotten. The Wall could hold nothing back now, not for long. It was breeched. No longer a formidable defence, and like the walkers before them, his memories came marching through, advancing on him day by day. Ghost was gone, now an intangible memory himself, but long forgotten events were as fresh as yesterday. Vividly painted against his closed eyelids. He could think of only one way to deal with this new trouble. To face it head on as he always had. To let the memories wash over him, hoping they would then recede like the tide against the beach at Dragonstone. But in truth they haunt him still.

It was one of the reasons he left Castle Black. The past. Besides, there were very few men of the Night’s Watch then, or now, for there was little need for them and he had no appetite for the role of Lord Commander, overseeing what was left. The past had not been kind to him so why repeat it? The Watch remained a place for those who had been banished for their crimes, but there had been scant few recruits since Bran the Broken began his rule of the six kingdoms. He saw into men’s souls and showed a merciful hand. The men that did dwell there still took the black, but they no longer had to guard the realm against enemies, alive or dead. Like the settlers, they lived out their lives quietly, days full of routine and the unrelenting graft of survival. A survival at the end of the world.

Now and again a party of rangers would visit the settler’s camp, take shelter for the night, drink ale and talk. The Watch often shared some of their meagre supplies, particularly the ale that they brewed there under the eye of their Maester, Eioghan. Thick and dark, you could almost chew it. They talked, when they came, and Jon both welcomed and dreaded their visits, for he wanted to know his family were well, but that is all he wanted to know. Nothing more of the world below the Wall. Only, when the wind howled and the ale flowed, they gossiped like women. Their words as dark as any raven wings, to Jon at least. But he listened. He forced himself to listen.

Some said the gap at Eastwatch should be rebuilt, but there are hardly enough men to set to such a task and even more of the castles have fallen into disrepair. Only the biting wind dwells amongst them now. Of Arya, there has been no news these twenty years. Her ship sailed west and whatever she found, she had not come back to speak of. Sansa still ruled the north, but remained unmarried. He did not need to wonder why, but it saddened him and he tried not to think of what would happen if she had no children to succeed her. Of who will rule the north then. Hard, for him to remember the keep at Winterfell so long ago. Of Robb knocking Theon onto the frozen ground with his blunt training sword, Theon cursing under his breath before looking around to assure himself he had not been overheard. Particularly by Robb’s father. Bran climbing across the walls like a spider, Summer barking at his heels. Arya, small and feisty, abandoning her needlework in defiance of Septa Mordane, and Sansa…dressing her hair differently every day, dreaming of princes and castles. A dream that became a nightmare. Little Rickon… There were children at Winterfell once. He was one of them. It seemed odd that there would be no Stark children there in years to come and in his deepest, darkest hours, when the air around him was as dark and enveloping as the crypt where his mother’s bones lay, he wondered what it was all for.

Tyrion Lannister is dead. Died in his bed so he heard. The grey faced ranger grinned as he imparted that news and spat on the ground with relish. He was one of the last sent north by a Lannister king. He didn’t understand, he said, how a Lannister could have been left alive in King’s Landing after all that had gone by, so good riddance to him. Jon had stared into the fire keeping his counsel as always. If he had not heeded Tyrion’s words, the man would have died many years before in a cloud of flame. And Dany would have lived. It is the disease that eats away at him day after day. Did he do the right thing? Years later, it still doesn’t feel right. But did he really have a choice? Had he ever had a choice in anything?

One of the Howland Reed’s sons is hand of the king now and the country is still at peace, although there were rumours of disaffection in the Iron Islands. Yara had never accepted a Stark king, despite Theon’s sacrifice. To pay a debt that he owed to the boy who became king. She commanded the Iron Fleet, which was as large now as it ever had been under Euron Greyjoy’s brief usurpation and her men had taken up their reiving and raiding days once more. As she saw it, her promise to Daenerys had been broken by her death. No one seemed eager to disagree.

Bran still ruled these many years no matter the agreement which Tyrion brokered. It seemed no one else had the heart for it. Or the will. No one saw the need to take his place, the memories of twenty years ago still so raw. They all knew. Being king of the seven kingdoms hadn’t worked out so well for the last few incumbents. It was a death sentence in itself. So Bran still lived on, and ruled on. Jon often wondered if the ravens he saw circling around the settlement were all that they seemed. He wished he knew for certain.

King’s Landing is not the shimmering capital it once was. Cersei had paid off one debt to the Iron Bank only to immediately encumber the country with another. The price for the Golden Company had never been handed over . Despite this, the bankers dug a little deeper into their pockets, allowing the port to be rebuilt along with the streets and houses that clustered around it. They had no choice, for without the legendary Lannister gold, where else would the money come from? Without a thriving trade, they stood no chance of recouping what Cersei had spent but still, many parts of the city remained in ruins. Abandoned. Left for only the rats, the dogs and the beggars. And the ghosts. The Red Keep was rebuilt albeit not so grandly, now called The Grey Keep. To remind all of what happened there. Ash. Ash and death. When his mind wanders there, he sees more than ash in the throne room. He sees fire. He sees blood. It is still red to him.

Robyn Arryn rules the Vale, married to some child of a Dornish house. It was a name he didn’t recognise. The Great War decimated so many families, it will take a century or more for those left to recover. Despite his banishment, at times Jon thinks he may have been the fortunate one. If only he could forget.

The last ranger had something else of news that was disturbing. Of patches of melted snow and burnt foliage around the area where Craster’s Keep once stood. Jon set fire to that very holdfast himself, long before the Night King breeched the wall. He found it hard to believe that the ground would still be scarred by what happened over twenty years ago, but what did he know? Yet, he knew he should range south and take a look for himself. He was as certain as he could be that the Night King took all of his blue eyed slaves south, and that they all perished once Arya plunged the Valerian steel dagger into his icy gut. But… was it possible that somehow, a vestige of something had been left behind?

Tormund welcomed the adventure, and the day was clear and bright when they set out, pointing their horses south. Despite all, their first night in the forest was full of reminiscences, things Jon never spoke of in front of the settlers, things that only ever featured behind his closed lids. In his dreams. When Tormund mourns dolefully over the big woman, Jon always thinks of Ygritte. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it was just safer. Ygritte, kissed by fire. Suddenly, he remembers standing by a waterfall…and the woman in his arms has silver hair…

Dawn follows swiftly after night, making the dark mercifully short and once they have doused the fire with fresh snow, they are on their way. But they have not travelled more than a mile or so when a strange sound splits the sky. Strange, but eerily familiar. Jon pulled up his horse so sharply it protested audibly. He waited. The noise came again. From the east. He slewed his head around Tormund’s bright blue eyes met his. Wide. Disbelieving. He has heard it too…

To be continued….cue music ...you know how it goes....

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