A/N: Well, Jon's reaction to next is gonna be interesting. Please let me know if you enjoyed the read and leave a comment with your review :)
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Year 300 AC
Storm's End, Stormlands
The storm lashed against the ancient stones of Storm's End with a fury that seemed almost personal. Jon Connington stood at the window of the Great Hall, listening to the wind howl like the ghosts of long-dead Durrandons protesting the Targaryen banners that now hung where stags had reigned for centuries. A fitting backdrop, he thought, for what was to come.
He turned from the window to observe the hall. The massive oak table dominated the center, covered with maps of the Stormlands and Dorne. Servants moved efficiently around the edges, lighting braziers and arranging chairs for the arriving lords. Guards in Targaryen colors stood at attention by the doors, their discipline a testament to Harry Strickland's training, if not his courage.
At the head of the table stood Aegon, silver hair gleaming in the torchlight as he leaned over the maps, tracing the boundaries of various holdings with a slender finger. The sight sent a pang through Jon's chest – not the greyscale that lurked beneath his glove, but something deeper. For a moment, it was Rhaegar he saw standing there, plotting the future of a realm that should have been his.
Jon approached the table, his footfalls echoing in the hall. "You've studied those maps more thoroughly than most men who've lived here their entire lives, Your Grace."
Aegon looked up, a quick smile breaking across his face. "Knowledge is the foundation of victory, Lord Connington. You taught me that."
"So I did." Jon allowed himself a moment of pride. "And it seems the lesson took."
He glanced around the hall, at the Targaryen banners hanging where Robert's had once been. The taking of Storm's End had been swift, decisive – nothing like his own failed siege during the Rebellion. Where he had faltered, Aegon had triumphed. Perhaps that was as it should be.
"The stormlords will be arriving soon," Jon said, moving closer to the table. "Many have already agreed to meet with you, which is more than I dared hope for so quickly."
"They're curious," Aegon replied. "And leaderless. Stannis abandoned them for the North, and the Lannisters offer nothing but distant demands."
Jon nodded approvingly. "You understand their position well. The Stormlands are in disarray – Stannis's absence has left a vacuum, and the Lannisters' grip weakens by the day. Tommen sits the Iron Throne, but he's a child surrounded by squabbling regents. Meanwhile, these lords have seen their lands ravaged by war after war."
He gestured to specific locations on the map. "House Swann is cautious but pragmatic. House Tarth has kept largely to itself but holds significant influence. House Dondarrion lacks a clear leader since Beric's disappearance." His finger tapped each location in turn. "They're all exhausted, Your Grace. Exhausted and in need of stability."
"These lords are like a weapon broken and reforged too many times—brittle and desperate for a strong hand to wield them," Jon continued, his voice low and intense. "Be that hand, Your Grace, and they will cut down your enemies."
Aegon straightened, his violet eyes meeting Jon's. "I will not conquer them as my namesake did with fire and blood. I will win them with justice and purpose. The realm bleeds, Lord Connington, and I am its remedy, not another wound."
Jon felt another stab of recognition. The words could have been Rhaegar's – that same blend of idealism and determination. He pushed the thought aside.
"You must present yourself not as a foreign invader, but as their rightful king returning to restore order," he advised.
Aegon nodded, absorbing the counsel. "Which lords will be most receptive to our cause?"
"Lord Selwyn of Tarth may be approached through honor – he's known as the Evenstar, and his reputation for integrity is unmatched," Jon replied. "Lord Swann responds to strength, but must be handled carefully. He's hedged his bets throughout the recent conflicts."
Before Jon could continue, Aegon raised a hand. "I've been considering this as well." He moved to a different section of the map. "House Morrigen suffered greatly under Stannis's defeat at the Blackwater. They need assurance that backing another losing cause won't be their end."
Jon blinked in surprise as Aegon continued.
"I intend to offer Lord Morrigen the position of Master of Laws when we take King's Landing, and to cancel the debts his house owes to the Crown as reparation for their loyalty."
Aegon moved his finger to another holding. "House Wylde controls valuable timber we'll need for rebuilding our fleet. I'll offer Lord Wylde's youngest son a position in my Kingsguard, which should secure their allegiance without diminishing their house's future."
Pride swelled in Jon's chest. The boy had been listening all these years, truly listening. Not just to the lessons on swordplay and history, but to the subtler arts of rule and negotiation.
As they spoke, Jon felt a familiar ache in his left hand. He flexed it carefully within his glove, the greyscale a constant reminder of time's passage. The disease would claim him eventually, but not before he saw a son of Rhaegar sit the Iron Throne. He had failed Rhaegar; he would not fail his son.
"After we secure the Stormlands," Aegon said, drawing Jon from his thoughts, "we must look to Dorne. My mother's people should be the first to recognize me, by rights. I look forward to seeing the Water Gardens she spoke of in her letters."
The mention of Elia's letters – preserved all these years, read to the boy as he grew – tightened Jon's throat. He had never been close to Elia Martell, his feelings for Rhaegar having complicated that relationship. But he had respected her, and the thought of her son reclaiming his birthright with Dornish spears at his back felt like a circle closing.
Jon nodded. "Dorne has waited a generation to avenge your mother. Prince Doran is cautious, but his daughter Arianne has ambition that matches her beauty. If you do not wish to go to Meereen to marry Daenerys then win her, and you win Dorne."
A knock at the door interrupted their discussion. The steward entered with a bow. "Your Grace, Lord Connington – the first of the stormlords have arrived. Lord Selwyn of Tarth awaits your pleasure."
Aegon straightened, and Jon watched a transformation take place. The young man's shoulders squared, his chin lifted, his expression became at once more regal and more approachable. It was not an act, Jon realized, but the emergence of something that had always been there, waiting for its moment.
"Earlier than expected," Jon murmured. "A good sign."
Before Aegon could respond, Jon stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Remember, these men bent the knee to Robert Baratheon because he was strong but fair. Show them you have your father's strength without your grandfather's madness, and they will follow you to King's Landing and beyond."
Aegon nodded, his expression solemn. "I understand."
"The stormlords respect strength, but they've had their fill of cruelty," Jon added. "They fought against your grandfather. They need to see that you are not Aerys come again."
"I am my father's son," Aegon replied quietly.
Jon stepped back, taking his position to the right of where Aegon would sit – close enough to advise if needed, but far enough to make it clear who ruled. His hand rested on his sword hilt, not as a threat but as a reminder of his readiness to serve.
"Send in Lord Selwyn," Aegon commanded, his voice carrying the natural authority that Jon had nurtured over the years.
The doors swung open to admit a tall, imposing man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. The Evenstar of Tarth entered with the confident stride of a man comfortable in his own skin, his gaze taking in the changed hall before settling on Aegon.
Jon watched the first meeting between his king and the stormlord with keen attention, noting the measured respect in Lord Selwyn's bow – neither too deep nor too shallow. Aegon's greeting was equally well-calibrated, formal but not cold.
As more lords entered the hall, Jon's mind turned to their broader strategy. The Stormlands first, then an alliance with Dorne through Arianne Martell. With those secured, they would present a united front against the Lannisters, whose support crumbled by the day. And then, King's Landing – the culmination of years of planning, sacrifice, and exile.
He imagined their march on the capital, Aegon at the head of a combined force of sellswords, stormlords, and Dornish spears. The people would cheer for their returning prince, the son of their beloved Rhaegar. The gates would open, the city would fall, and Aegon would ascend the steps to the Iron Throne that was his by right.
Jon's gaze returned to the present scene. Aegon stood tall among the gathering lords, his silver hair catching the light, his bearing every inch a king's. In that moment, Jon saw not just the boy he had raised but the man he had become – and the king he would be.
I will not fail you as I failed your father, he promised silently. This time, the dragon will triumph.
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Highgarden, The Reach
Olenna Tyrell drummed her fingers against the polished oak table, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the tall windows of Willas's solar. Beyond the glass, Highgarden's famous gardens stretched in immaculate splendor, a stark contrast to the grim matters they discussed within. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting the rise of House Tyrell from stewards to lords paramount—a history of calculated loyalty that had served them well until now.
"That Lannister woman," Olenna said, tapping her cane against the floor for emphasis, "has the political acumen of a particularly stupid sheep, yet believes herself Tywin reborn. Such delusions make her dangerous—and predictable."
Across from her, Willas Tyrell nodded thoughtfully, his intelligent eyes never leaving her face. He shifted slightly, adjusting his crippled leg on the cushioned stool beneath the table. Unlike many men twice his age, her grandson had the patience to listen completely before speaking.
"Her paranoia grows by the day," Olenna continued, reaching for a grape from the silver platter between them. "She sees enemies in shadows because she herself lurks in them. And her pride—" She popped the grape into her mouth and made a dismissive gesture. "Her pride blinds her to consequences."
"And her allies?" Willas prompted, his voice measured and calm.
"Sycophants and fools," Olenna scoffed. "Aurane Waters has absconded with her new fleet. The Kettleblacks have proven unreliable. And that disgraced maester of hers can only protect her from so much."
Willas leaned forward, his fingers tracing the outline of King's Landing on the map spread before them. "Then we must exploit this rift. There are others in the capital who chafe under Cersei's rule."
"The Faith," Olenna nodded approvingly. "Precisely where I was heading. The High Sparrow may wear rags, but his ambition clothes him in steel."
"Our coffers remain deep," Willas said. "Gold placed in the right hands could secure friends within the Faith. Not bribes—these are not men easily bought—but donations to feed the poor, repair septs..."
"Piety with purpose." Olenna's thin lips curved into a smile. "Yes. We create allies who might soften Margaery's treatment, perhaps even influence her trial."
Her smile faded as she thought of her granddaughter, locked away by that vindictive Lannister bitch. "Margaery will be playing her role perfectly. The perfect penitent, humble before the gods."
"She knows when to bend the knee and when to wear the crown," Willas agreed. "The Faith will find her a model of piety while that Lannister woman continues to dig her own grave."
"We should gather evidence of Cersei's own indiscretions," he added, reaching for his wine. "The rumors about her and Jaime Lannister have persisted for years. And there are whispers about her and others."
Olenna nodded. "The Faith holds both women to the same standards. The difference is, only one of them is guilty."
She turned her attention to another pressing concern. "What word of Loras? These reports of his injuries at Dragonstone—I find their timing suspiciously convenient for Cersei."
Willas's face darkened. "The reports are inconsistent. Some claim he's been grievously burned, others that he's taken a mortal wound. Either way, I agree—we need him home."
"For his safety and our strength," Olenna said firmly. "The Reach needs its Knight of Flowers, not some broken hostage for Cersei's games."
"Which brings us to Uncle Paxter and the Redwyne fleet," Willas said, shifting his attention to the portion of the map showing Dragonstone. "They've spent enough time serving Lannister interests."
"More than enough," Olenna struck her cane against the floor again. "Dragonstone is taken. Stannis Baratheon is freezing in the North. Uncle Paxter has fulfilled his obligation to the Crown. Now the Reach must be his priority—and Loras's safe return ours."
Willas nodded, reaching for parchment. "I'll draft the orders immediately. We'll frame it as a security concern for the Reach—which isn't untrue. The Ironborn have been quiet too long."
"Careful with the wording," Olenna cautioned. "We mustn't appear openly rebellious. Not yet. We—"
The door burst open without warning. Maester Lomys stumbled in, his gray robes disheveled, chain links jangling against his chest. His face was flushed with exertion, eyes wide with alarm.
"My lord! My lady!" he gasped, clutching a scroll in his trembling hand. "Forgive the intrusion—terrible news—"
"Out with it, man," Olenna snapped. "We haven't got all day for you to catch your breath."
"The Shield Islands have fallen," Lomys blurted. "The Iron Fleet took them in a surprise attack. They're raiding up the Mander even now."
Olenna felt her blood run cold. For a moment, she sat perfectly still, absorbing the shock.
"How many ships?" Willas asked sharply.
"At least a hundred, possibly more," Lomys replied. "Led by Euron Greyjoy himself. The smallfolk call him Crow's Eye. He's returned from exile and claimed the Seastone Chair."
"Euron Greyjoy?" Olenna's initial shock quickly hardened into cold anger. "The man was exiled for good reason. If he's returned to lead these raids, we face no common reaver but a madman with ambition."
She rose from her seat with surprising agility for a woman her age and moved to the map table. Her finger traced the path from the Shield Islands up the Mander River.
"How far have they penetrated?" she demanded.
"The latest reports place them here," Lomys indicated a spot alarmingly close to Highgarden. "They're burning settlements, taking slaves—"
"Slaves," Olenna repeated with disgust. "In Westeros. The man truly is mad."
Willas had joined her at the map, his limp more pronounced as he moved without his cane. "They'll target the richest prizes," he said, his voice steady despite the crisis. "Highgarden for its wealth, Oldtown for its strategic importance and riches."
"And with the Redwyne fleet at Dragonstone, our naval defenses are critically weakened," Olenna observed bitterly. "How convenient for the ironborn. One might almost suspect coordination."
Willas straightened, his face set with determination. "Maester Lomys, prepare three ravens immediately. The first to Lord Paxter Redwyne—he is to return with the fleet and Ser Loras without delay. The second to Lord Leyton Hightower—Oldtown must prepare its defenses. The third to call the banners of the Reach."
Lomys bowed. "At once, my lord."
"And send word to our river patrols," Willas added. "They won't stop the ironborn, but they can at least track their movements and warn settlements ahead of the raiders."
As the maester hurried from the room, Olenna and Willas returned to their seats to continue planning.
"It seems we fight a war on multiple fronts now," Olenna remarked, her mind already calculating the new balance of power. "Against Cersei in King's Landing, potentially against the Faith, and now against the ironborn in our own territory."
She reached for her wine, her hand steady despite the dire news. After a thoughtful sip, she fixed her grandson with a sharp gaze.
"It seems we must deal with krakens before lions," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "The roses of Highgarden have thorns enough for both."
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Outskirts of Castle Black, The Wall
Edd Tollett's stomach lurched as the ground fell away beneath him. His fingers dug desperately into the scaled ridge of Jon's massive clawed hand, the black dragon carrying him through the frigid northern air like a child's toy.
Of all the miserable ways to die, being dropped from the sky by my resurrected commander wasn't one I'd considered, Edd thought, squeezing his eyes shut as they banked sharply over a ridge.
He risked a glance downward and immediately regretted it. Castle Black looked like a child's playset, the Wall itself reduced to a white line scratched across the landscape. Men scurried about like ants below, their shouts inaudible over the rush of wind. The forests and hills of the North stretched out endlessly, dusted with snow and morning frost.
"Seven bloody hells," Edd muttered through chattering teeth, his words whipped away by the wind.
The dragon—Jon—angled downward toward a clearing in the forest. Edd's heart hammered against his ribs as the ground rushed up to meet them. At the last moment, Jon's massive wings spread wide, catching the air and slowing their descent. They landed with surprising gentleness, the snow beneath them melting from the heat of Jon's body.
Jon carefully lowered Edd to the ground, the motion unexpectedly delicate for such an enormous creature. Edd's legs wobbled as they touched snow, and he stumbled, catching himself before he fell face-first into the slush.
He turned slowly to face his friend. The dragon towered above him, obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. Red eyes—Ghost's eyes—stared down at him, somehow containing the unmistakable consciousness of Jon Snow.
Neither spoke. Edd studied the fearsome visage before him, searching for traces of the solemn young man who had been his brother, his commander, his friend. The silence stretched between them, growing heavier with each passing moment.
"Well, Lord Commander," Edd finally said, his grim humor surfacing despite everything, "when I said you needed to rise to the occasion, this wasn't quite what I had in mind. Though I suppose a dragon does outrank a direwolf."
A rumbling sound emerged from the dragon's throat—something between a growl and a laugh. The tension eased, if only slightly.
"I wasn't expecting it either," Jon replied, his voice deeper and resonant, yet recognizably his own. "But here we are."
"Here we are," Edd echoed, shaking his head. "What happened, Jon? After the mutiny, after... after you died?"
Jon's massive head lowered slightly, bringing those burning red eyes level with Edd's face. "I felt the knives, Edd. The cold. Then... it gets complicated. After which I woke burning from within, scales where skin should be."
Edd listened without interruption as Jon described his death and transformation—visions of Winterfell's crypts, Lyanna Stark's statue, and a massive black dragon waiting in a cavern deep beneath the earth. With each word, Edd's expression grew grimmer, the implications of Jon's resurrection settling on him like a physical weight.
"Can you change back?" Edd asked when Jon finished. "Return to human form?"
The dragon's head dipped slightly, a gesture painfully familiar from Jon's human days. "I don't know. I haven't tried. Been more concerned with other matters than being able to grab a mug of ale."
Despite everything, Edd snorted. The dry comment was so quintessentially Jon that it cut through the strangeness of their situation, reminding him that whatever form he took, this was still his friend.
"I sense the Wall's power waning," Jon went on, his voice grave. "The ancient spells that sustained it for millennia are unraveling, and my... changes... seems entwined with this."
Edd nodded, accepting this without question. If Jon said the Wall was failing, then it was failing. "The Others?"
Jon's voice grew somber as he continued, "The Others are growing bolder, hunting actively now. The dead are massing beyond the Wall in numbers we've never seen before." He recounted the harrowing tales shared by the Free Folk tribe he had brought with him, detailing their perilous journey and the horrors they witnessed. "The Free Folk at Hardhome are in grave and immediate danger, Edd. They face an onslaught of unimaginable proportions, and time is running out."
"We need to get them south," Edd said. "The ships we sent—"
"Won't be enough, and won't arrive in time. I can help with that now. I can carry many, and the rest can follow by land with a proper escort."
They spoke at length, discussing strategies and plans to unite the disparate forces of the Night's Watch and the Free Folk. It was a daunting task, but one they both knew was essential for the survival of all. They needed to prepare for the coming storm, to convince not just the North, but all of Westeros, to stand together against the true enemy that threatened them all.
Edd's face was set with determination as he made his vow. "I'll hold Castle Black," he promised solemnly. "I'll keep the Watch together as best I can. Some of the brothers won't like it, I know. They'll grumble and complain, maybe even try to mutiny. But fuck 'em. They'll fall in line or they'll answer for it, one way or another."
Jon nodded, his draconic features somehow conveying a sense of grim approval. "The realm must stand together," he said, his voice resonating with power and urgency. "Every kingdom, every house, every man, woman, and child. We must all stand as one, or we will fall one by one." He paused, his fiery eyes meeting Edd's with an intensity that seemed to burn right through him. "Dragon or not, I cannot face this winter alone."
"Of course the Wall chooses now to fail us," Edd remarked dryly. "Why break during summer when it could wait for the dead to come knocking?"
Jon made that rumbling laugh again. For a moment, they were simply brothers of the Watch again, sharing a moment of gallows humor in the face of impossible odds.
Then Edd's expression changed as he remembered something important. "There's something else you should know. A girl arrived claiming to be your sister. Arya Stark. Brought by some of Stannis's men. She's asking for you, Jon."
The change was immediate and alarming. The dragon's form tensed visibly, its eyes burning brighter. A low, dangerous rumble emanated from Jon's chest, like distant thunder before a storm.
"Arya? At Castle Black?" The intensity in Jon's voice made Edd take an involuntary step back. "Is she safe? Is she hurt? Tell me everything, Edd. Everything."
"She's unharmed—physically at least," Edd said quickly. "But she's... she's not well, Jon. Scared half to death and jumpy as a rabbit. Won't speak above a whisper. The Mormont woman—Alysane—says she escaped from Winterfell, from the Boltons. There are rumors about what Ramsay did to her, but—"
"Ramsay Bolton touched my sister?" The dragon's voice was terrifyingly soft, but heat radiated from his scales, melting more snow around them.
"I don't know the details," Edd said carefully. "She's safe now, that's what matters. But Jon, there's something odd about her. I don't see the resemblance between you and the girl, though maybe the har—"
"I need to see her. Now." Jon's wings unfurled, stretching wide. "I'm returning to Castle Black immediately."
"What about frightening everyone half to death? You were concerned about that before."
"That's secondary now. My sister needs me." The determination in Jon's voice was absolute. "I'll try to be... diplomatic."
Edd sighed, resigned to another terrifying flight. "At least try not to burn anyone this time? Explaining a dragon is hard enough without adding extra charred bodies to the mix."
Jon lowered his clawed hand for Edd to climb aboard. "I make no promises about Bowen Marsh and the other mutineers. Now we return"
As Edd settled into Jon's scaled grip, steeling himself for the impending journey, he contemplated the dire fate that surely awaited the Boltons.