Game of Thrones: Kill The Boy

A/N: I wonder what comes :o Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)

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Year 300 AC

Meereen, Essos

The smoke reached her first.

Black columns twisted against the sunset, thick enough to choke the western horizon. Daenerys leaned forward on Drogon's neck, her thighs aching from hours of flight, the Dothraki Sea's endless grass finally giving way to familiar coastline. But this was wrong. Those weren't cookfires or forge smoke—that darkness billowed from Meereen itself.

No. Not my city.

"Faster," she urged, though her voice cracked from thirst. Drogon's muscles bunched beneath her, his wingbeats thundering harder. The leather of her riding leathers had worn raw against her inner thighs during the long flight from Jhaqo's burning khalasar, but pain meant nothing now.

The bay came into view, and her stomach dropped. Ships burned in the harbor—not just one or two, but dozens, their masts transformed into torches. The great pyramid's golden cap reflected not sunlight but flame.

My people. My children.

She'd left them. Left them to play at being a queen in the Dothraki Sea while her city burned. The weight of it pressed against her ribs, made each breath taste of ash and failure.

Drogon roared—not his usual cry of dominance, but something sharper. A warning.

Another roar answered from below.

Daenerys's heart seized. That sound, she knew it like her own heartbeat. "Viserion?"

Her cream-and-gold child rose from the smoke, wings catching the dying light. Joy flooded her chest for one perfect moment—her sweet son, her gentle dragon, safe and whole and—

Wrong.

Everything was wrong.

Viserion flew wrong, his movements too sharp, too aggressive. The connection she'd always felt, that invisible thread binding mother to child, stretched thin as spider's silk. Almost... absent.

"What have they done to you?" The words tore from her throat as Viserion wheeled toward them. And then she saw.

A man sat between Viserion's shoulders.

Not possible. No one could ride her children except—

The man wore iron. Plate armor dark as old blood, a kraken helm that caught the firelight. He sat Viserion's back like he belonged there, one hand gripping the dragon's scales, the other holding something that gleamed dull gold.

Rage flooded her mouth with copper. Her dragons were hers. Her children, her blood, her soul made flesh. This man in this iron, this thief—

Viserion tucked his wings and dove.

"No!" But her sweet child's eyes held no recognition. Only hunger.

Daenerys threw her weight left, and Drogon responded instantly, rolling away from Viserion's snapping jaws. The wind of his passage tore at her braids. Too close. Far too close.

"Viserion, stop! It's me!" Useless words. Whatever bond they'd shared, this iron-clad stranger had severed it. Or worse—claimed it for himself.

The man shouted something in a tongue she didn't recognize, guttural and harsh. Viserion banked hard, coming around for another pass. His cream-colored scales caught the firelight beautifully, just as they had when he was small enough to perch on her shoulder.

I sang you to sleep. Fed you from my own hand. You are mine, mine!

Drogon roared his fury, and Daenerys felt his rage merge with hers. His brother had been stolen. His mother threatened. The insult would not stand.

"No," she whispered, even as she felt Drogon's muscles coil for attack. "Please. Not Viserion."

But her gentle child was already diving again, jaws gaping. The iron man leaned forward, anticipating the strike, and Daenerys saw her moment. If Drogon could just—

Viserion's tail lashed out, catching Drogon across the snout. Black blood spattered Daenerys's leathers. Her child's pain shrieked through their bond, and something inside her snapped.

"Dracarys!"

The word erupted without thought. Drogon's flames bloomed black and red, forcing Viserion to veer away. The heat washed over Daenerys, familiar as a mother's embrace. But Viserion's cry of pain as the flames licked his wing.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my sweet child.

The iron man was shouting again, wrestling with something at his belt. That gleaming object. Horn-shaped, inscribed with glyphs that hurt to look upon. He raised it toward his lips.

No.

"Drogon!" She didn't need words. Her black child felt her intent, her desperate need to end this before she looses another child.

They collided mid-air. The impact nearly threw Daenerys from the saddle. Dragons tangled, wings beating, claws raking. The iron man's horn went spinning into the smoke below.

She caught glimpses between the thrashing wings—the man's face behind his helm, bearded and scarred, teeth bared in a rictus of fury. His gauntleted fist smashed into Viserion's neck, trying to direct him, control him.

You dare. You DARE—

"Kill the rider!" she screamed. "Only the rider!"

But Drogon was beyond hearing. His brother had drawn his blood, threatened his mother. The black dragon's jaws found Viserion's neck just as the cream dragon twisted to protect his rider.

The bite meant for the iron man found flesh anyway.

Time slowed. Daenerys watched Drogon's teeth sink deep into Viserion's throat, exactly where the man had been a heartbeat before. Watched her gentle child's eyes go wide with shock and pain. Watched the light in them, that spark she'd kindled with her own blood in a funeral pyre… fade.

"NO!"

The scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. But Drogon's jaws were already closing, and Viserion's neck tore apart.

The iron man fell with her child. Dragon and rider plummeted toward the burning city below, Viserion's wings folding like broken dreams. The last thing Daenerys saw was the man's face—no fear there, only rage to match her own.

Then they were gone, swallowed by smoke and distance.

Daenerys couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The place where Viserion had lived in her heart was a raw, bleeding wound. Her child. Her son. She'd named him for the only family she knew, had watched him grow from a creature small enough to curl around her neck to a beast magnificent enough to crack the sky.

Gone.

Drogon keened, the sound vibrating through her bones. He felt it too, the absence. The wrongness. They were three, had always been three. Dragon has three heads. Mother of three.

Now two.

"I killed him." The words came out broken. "I killed my child."

No. The iron man killed him. The iron man who'd stolen her son, turned him against her. Used him.

The rage came then, cold and pure as winter steel. Meereen still burned below, her people still needed her. But first—

A horn blast split the air. Different from the iron man's artifact. This came from the city walls.

Her city. Her people.

Daenerys forced herself to look away from the water, from her murdered child. Time for grief later. Time for vengeance later.

But as Drogon winged toward the pyramid, she felt the change in herself. Something had broken when Viserion fell. Some softness, some mercy she'd clung to.

Fire and blood, the words of her house whispered. Fire and blood.

Yes. Those who had done this—who had stolen her child, burned her city—would learn what those words truly meant.

The Mother of Dragons was coming home.

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Castle Black, The Wall

The wind cut through Wylis's cloak like a Frey blade, sharp and merciless. He shifted his bulk in the saddle, leather creaking beneath him, and tried not to think about Harrenhal's dungeons. Failed. The phantom ache in his wrists flared, rope burns long healed but never forgotten.

Too many wars. Too many dead.

Castle Black's walls loomed ahead, black stone against white snow. The sight should have brought relief. Instead, his gut churned with the same unease that had plagued him since leaving White Harbor. Behind him, nine hundred good Manderly men rode in formation, their merman sigils hidden beneath plain cloaks. And beside him a kraken.

"Grim-looking place," Asha Greyjoy muttered, her wrists bound loosely enough to be symbolic rather than secure. The ironborn woman sat her horse with casual grace despite her supposed captivity. "Makes Pyke look cheerful."

Wylis grunted. The pretense gone, but the onset of worry remained. Worry about his daughters, his father, his br—

Wendel.

His brother's face flashed unbidden. Not as he'd been at the Twins, full of wine and wedding cheer, but as Wylis imagined him in those final moments. Crossbow bolts sprouting from his chest. Blood on his lips. The Freys laughing as they—

"Open the gates!" The shout from the Wall jarred him back. Four black brothers manned the entrance, their faces pinched with cold and something else. Fear? No. Wariness.

The heavy gates groaned open, and Wylis led his party through. The courtyard beyond was wrong. Too many men, too few black cloaks. Baratheon colors dominated, the crowned stag fluttering from makeshift standards, southern knights huddled around braziers.

"Hold there!" A knight with pockmarked cheeks stepped forward, hand on his sword. Ser Richard Horpe, if Wylis's memory served. One of Stannis's hard men. "State your business."

The Manderly men tensed. Hands drifted to weapons. Wylis raised his own hand, palm out, but kept his voice level. "Ser Wylis Manderly, here to speak with Lord Commander Snow."

"Manderly?" Horpe's scarred face twisted. "You serve the Boltons."

"Aye, we heard about your lord father's pretty speech at Winterfell." Another Baratheon man spat in the snow. "Licking Roose Bolton's boots while good men died for King Stannis."

The rage came sudden and hot. Wylis's hand found his sword hilt before he could stop it. "You dare—"

"Enough!" The voice cracked like a whip. Torghen Flint strode between the two groups, his weathered face set in hard lines. The old mountain lord moved with purpose, ignoring the drawn steel around him.

He clasped Wylis's arm without hesitation, grip firm as iron. "Wylis. Good to see you breathing, lad."

"Lord Flint." Some of the tension bled from Wylis's shoulders. Torghen had always been a friend to House Manderly. "You know why we're here?"

"I can guess." Torghen's eyes flicked to Asha, taking in her bonds with a knowing look. "The Manderlys were never Bolton men. Any fool could see that."

"Fool?" Horpe stepped forward. "They sent men against King Stannis. They—"

"They survived." Torghen's voice could have frozen the Wall itself. "As we all must, in our own ways. Or would you have had them throw their lives away for nothing? Would you have had White Harbor burn?"

Wylis found his voice. "My lord father plays a careful game. The Boltons demanded proof of loyalty." He gestured to Asha. "The Greyjoy woman was... available. A gift for the Lord Commander, to show our true allegiance."

Asha scowled. "You just got lucky."

"And the Freys?" another knight demanded. "What of them?"

The question hung in the cold air. Wylis met the man's gaze steadily. "The Freys got butchered in the fields, Stannis saw to that."

Understanding dawned on several faces. Horpe's hand loosened on his sword, though suspicion lingered in his eyes.

"I need to speak with Lord Commander Snow," Wylis repeated. "There are matters—urgent matters—that require his attention."

"Aye, well." A new voice, weary and sardonic. A lean man in black pushed through the crowd, his face gaunt beneath thinning hair. "That might be a bit complicated."

"And you are?"

"Eddison Tollett. Acting Lord Commander, for the moment." The man's expression suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. "You'll want to come inside, Ser Wylis. All of you." He glanced at the Baratheon men. "Stand down, you bloody fools. We've enough enemies without making more."

"Acting?" Wylis frowned. "Where is Lord Commander Snow?"

Edd's mouth twisted in what might have been a smile. "That's the complicated bit. Come. You'll need wine for this. Or something stronger, if we had it."

Something strange is happening. The unease in Wylis's gut deepened. But what choice was there? He'd come too far to turn back now.

"Bread and salt," he said carefully. "If you would."

"Oh, aye. We're not Freys here." Edd's tone was desert-dry. "Though after you hear what I have to say, you might wish we were. At least that would make sense."

They dismounted, Wylis's men forming a protective circle around him and their "prisoner." The Baratheon knights watched with hostile eyes, but Torghen's presence kept them in check.

As they crossed the courtyard, Wylis noticed other details. Scorch marks on the ground. Men with bandaged burns. And everyone—black brothers, queen's men, even the Free Folk lurking in the shadows—kept glancing at the sky.

What in the seven hells happened here?

The great hall was warmer, though not by much. A servant brought bread and salt, and Wylis ate mechanically, the ritual of guest right somehow failing to ease his nerves.

"Now then," Edd said, pouring wine with a steady hand. "Lord Commander Snow. You want to speak with him."

"I do. The North has need of him."

"The North." Edd took a long drink. "Aye, well. He's dealing with northern matters, after a fashion. Flying north, last I saw."

Wylis blinked. "Flying?"

"Did I stutter? Flying. On great black wings. Breathing fire." Edd's expression remained perfectly deadpan. "Turns out dying and coming back as a dragon does that to a man. Who knew?"

The wine cup slipped from Wylis's nerveless fingers, shattering on the stone floor. Around him, his men muttered oaths and made warding signs.

"You're mad," Wylis whispered.

"Oh, aye. We're all mad here." Edd poured himself another cup. "But it's true nonetheless. Jon Snow is a dragon now. Literally. Saw it myself. Magnificent beast, if you like that sort of thing. Terrible for conversation, though."

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Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, The Wall

The field stretched endless, knee-deep snow crunching beneath Jon's boots. Each step sank through the pristine crust, the cold biting through his breeches. Wind howled across the barren expanse, carrying ice crystals that stung his exposed skin.

Where am I?

No Wall. No trees. Just white stretching to a grey horizon where sky and earth blurred together. His breath misted in the frigid air, each exhalation torn away by the relentless wind.

The memories crashed through him like waves against stone. The ice dragon's teeth, each one long as a sword, sinking through scale and flesh. The White Walker atop its back, armor gleaming with unnatural frost, directing the beast with touches that burned colder than winter itself.

Jon's hand moved to his shoulder, fingers searching for wounds that should have killed him. The wool shirt was intact, no tears, no blood. He pressed harder, expecting agony. Nothing. Just the ghost of pain, like pressing on a weeks-old bruise.

Purple fire. I burned them both to nothing.

The memory was sharp as broken glass. That final, desperate surge of power, drawing on something deeper than his core.

A shadow passed overhead.

Jon looked up, squinting against the glare. The ice dragon descended from the colorless sky, larger than the one he'd fought at Hardhome. Its translucent wings caught what little light filtered through the clouds, refracting it into deadly rainbows. The creature's eyes burned with ancient malice, fixed on him with predatory focus.

Not again.

He reached for the fire within, that molten core that would transform flesh to scale, man to dragon. Nothing. The power that had become as natural as breathing simply... wasn't there. His human form felt small, fragile, meat and bone waiting to be frozen or torn apart.

The ice dragon folded its wings and dove.

Jon's gaze dropped to the snow at his feet. Longclaw layed there, half-buried in the ground, its blade wreathed in orange flame. The fire danced along the steel, melting the snow around it in a perfect circle. Steam rose from the puddle it created.

That wasn't there before.

No time to question. The dragon's shadow grew larger, darker. Jon reached for the burning sword.

The heat seared his palm before he could close his fingers around the hilt. He jerked back, hissing through his teeth. The smell of charred flesh filled his nostrils.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd bathed in flame, become flame, and now a simple burning sword defeated him. The ice dragon's shriek split the air, so close he could see individual scales, each one perfect as carved crystal.

Jon looked up at death approaching on frozen wings. A smile tugged at his lips.

If I'm dying again, I'm dying with steel in my hand.

He plunged both hands into the fire, fingers closing around the hilt. The pain was immediate, absolute. Flesh bubbled and blackened. The smell of cooking meat made his stomach turn. But the sword came free of the ground, its weight familiar and right.

The dragon's maw opened, revealing rows of teeth like icicles. Its breath preceded it, a killing cold that would freeze blood in veins, turn living flesh to frozen stone.

Jon raised the burning blade—

Darkness swallowed him whole.

He woke gasping, hands clawing at unfamiliar furs. The dream's pain lingered, phantom burns across his palms. Sweat soaked through wool and leather despite the cold.

"Jon!" Val's face appeared above him, her blue-grey eyes wide with concern. "Still breathin'. Ain't many crows got grit like you."

Pyp hovered at her shoulder, relief plain on his narrow features. "Seven hells, you gave us a fright. Thrashing about like you were fighting something."

Jon tried to sit up. The world tilted sideways. His shoulder screamed protest, a deep ache that radiated down his arm and across his chest. He forced himself upright anyway, noting the thick furs he'd never seen before—white bear pelts lined with fox.

"What happened?" His voice came out rough, throat dry as old leather. "Where are we?"

"Not far from Eastwatch." Val pressed a waterskin to his lips. The water was cold, with a hint of pine. "Laid out like a stone for near eight nights."

"Eight days?" Jon nearly choked on the water. "That's not... how?"

"Aye, well." Pyp scratched at his patchy beard. "Turns out fighting ice dragons and falling from the sky takes it out of a man. Who knew?"

The memories crashed back. Hardhome. The ice dragon. That final, desperate burst of purple fire that had consumed everything. Then falling, falling, the ground rushing up—

"Eyes on the cliffs seen riders from Eastwatch," Val continued. "They'll be on us soon."

Jon swung his legs over the edge of whatever he'd been lying on—a makeshift cot of pine boughs and furs. His body protested every movement, muscles stiff from too long immobile. "I need to get up."

"No." Val's hand pressed against his chest. "Save yer strength. You'll need it soon."

"You're still healing," Pyp added. "Grenn said—"

"I feel fine." Jon brushed Val's hand aside and stood. The world swayed again, but he locked his knees and stayed upright. "Just sore."

"Sore?" Grenn's voice boomed from somewhere behind him. Jon turned to see the big man ducking through a tent flap, arms full of firewood. "You call those bite marks 'sore'? Half your shoulder was missing when we found you."

"Bite marks?"

Grenn dumped the wood beside a small brazier. "Aye. Deep ones, like that ice beast got its teeth in you proper. Should've killed you, but..." He shrugged. "Healed while you slept. Hours, not days. Still got the scars, though."

Jon's hand went to his shoulder, fingers finding raised ridges of scar tissue through the wool shirt. The flesh was tender but whole.

I should be dead. Again.

"The riders," Jon said, pushing the thought aside. "How many?"

"Eight." Toregg appeared in the tent entrance, frost in his red beard. "They're close now. Just climbed the last rise."

Jon pushed past his friends, ignoring their protests. Outside, the world was white and grey, snow falling in fat, lazy flakes. They'd made camp in a small grove of sentinel pines, the trees offering some shelter from the wind.

The riders appeared through the snow like wraiths, black cloaks stark against the white. Jon recognized the lead man—Ser Glendon Hewett, master-at-arms of Eastwatch. The knight reined up at the edge of camp, his men spreading out behind him.

Jon remembered them—the reinforcements who'd arrived just as the ice dragon attacked. Men who'd seen him transform, who'd watched him fight as something other than human.

For a long moment, they simply stared. Jon could see it in their faces—awe, fear, uncertainty. These men had seen him as a dragon. Now he stood before them in human form again, scarred but breathing.

"Lord Commander." Ser Glendon's voice was carefully neutral. He dismounted, movements stiff with cold or caution. "We've come to escort you to Eastwatch."

"And the Free Folk?" Jon gestured to the camp around them—dozens of tents and lean-tos sheltering the survivors of Hardhome. "All of them?"

The knight's jaw tightened.

"They come with me." Jon's tone left no room for argument. "All of them. They've earned passage through the Wall."

Ser Glendon's men exchanged glances. One younger brother couldn't hide his amazement, eyes wide as he stared at Jon like he was seeing a legend made flesh.

"As you command, Lord Commander." Ser Glendon's words were formal, but Jon caught the slight emphasis on his title. Whatever else had changed, these men still saw him as their leader.

Or they fear what I've become.

"We leave within the hour," Jon said. "Get them ready."

Val appeared at his elbow as the riders dispersed to spread the word. "You can barely stand."

"I can ride."

"Jon—"

"I'm fine." The words came out harsher than intended. Jon softened his tone. "I need to get back. There's too much at stake."

Val studied him, those sharp eyes seeing too much. "You dreamed of something. I heard you calling out."

Jon flexed his hands, remembering the phantom pain of burning flesh. "Just a dream."

But even as he said it, he wondered. Longclaw wreathed in flame. The ice dragon larger than any he'd faced. It had felt too real, too specific.

A dragon dreams of dragons.

"Help me with the armor," he said, pushing the thought away. "It's time to go home."