A/N: If you read Chapter 1 (An Unexpected Guest) before April 8th, 2018, you might want to reread it. I heavily edited it. The plot is generally the same, but I think it flows better now.

Aerion

An insatiable thirst roused him from sleep.

His head pounded with the familiar aftereffects of alcohol. With a groan he reluctantly opened his eyes. He lay in what were now, he surmised, his own chambers. Aerion looked to his nightstand and thanked the gods that someone had to keen foresight to provide a jug of water. Quickly and greedily he poured himself a cup and drank down the heavenly liquid, washing both his thirst and the bitter taste of old wine away with every gulp.

Once finished and his thirst quenched, He flopped on his back, content to sleep off the persistent hangover. Unfortunately, sleep never came.

Even in his bleary state he noticed the lack of Unsullied guards. Two familiar swords had been carefully propped up against his bedframe. He recognised the ruby pommel and the black-dragon crossguard of his older trustworthy weapon and beside it, he saw the jagged black-gold of his other – one he had found amongst the ash and rubble of the Freehold.

Aerion grudgingly pushed himself off the bed and unto the cool stone floor. With a hiss he stretched his stiff arms and stumbled over to examine his new gifts – a tunic, breeches, boots and gloves were neatly piled next to the swords. They were black, gray and red – like his other clothes, but these were undoubtedly meant for rougher activities than the finery he had worn the night before. Finery that now lay strewn about his chambers, hastily removed in his drunken state.

Taking another long drink, he thought back to the night before. The memories were hazy but clear enough. Thankfully, he hadn't gotten to the state where the wine would make it impossible for memories to take root. He remembered listening to her story. An epic tale. They had both been through a great deal, but Dany had suffered more than he cared to think about. But she also had achieved more than he possibly imagine.

Stowing away such thoughts for a later time, he dressed in the gifted clothing, strapped the black-gold sword to his hip and slung the other over his back. It was good to feel steel again. Aerion hadn't realised just how insecure he felt without it.

He exited his chambers. He found that without an escort he had no idea how to navigate the castle. He vaguely recalled being all but dragged to bed by pair of patient Unsullied and a giggling queen. He looked left then right. To his left the corridor stretched for some ways before branching off in two directions. To his right, the same. Steeling himself, he went left.

Aerion walked for a few minutes through the winding halls of Dragonstone. Each less familiar than the last. I really must get the tour, he thought. Eventually, his wanderings led him outside into a stone courtyard. The heavy clouds blocked the sun but by the angle of the light he could tell it was still early. Very early.

Around him, the sounds of clashing steel rang out as scattered pairs of Unsullied drilled. Weapon racks littered with spears, shields and blunted sparring swords were placed strategically around the perimeter. One by one, the courtyard's occupants noticed his presence. And one by one they stopped their sparring. Each looked at him with a mixture of suspicion, awe and curiosity. Dany had told him about how he came to arrive on Dragonstone; unconscious, half-naked and apparently in the clutches of a massive golden dragon.

Aerion couldn't blame them.

He wandered through the courtyard. Despite his empty stomach and throbbing headache, he itched to partake. "Aerion Blackfyre." He was greeted by Grey Worm. "Have you come to see how Unsullied fight?"

Before he could respond a loud roar cut across the courtyard. He flinched and craned his neck, trying to find the source of the sound. He watched as an impossibly fast, dark shadow flew over the courtyard toward the sea. He quickly recovered and looked around embarrassed. No one else seemed to even notice the massive interruption. Mother of dragons indeed. Enthralled, he followed the shadow out of the courtyard and found himself on a long narrow stair that led down to shore below.

He was amazed. By habit, he fiddled with the necklace that rested against his chest. As a child he had always dreamt of seeing a dragon, even riding one, but he never truly expected that it would happen. Dragons had been gone from the world for centuries.

He cautiously descended the steps, but his eyes never left the dragons flying in the distance. Eventually, Aerion came upon a landing in the stair that provided an unhindered view.

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" came a familiar voice filled with pride. He wiped around. Dany approached wearing a thick white dress and looking regal as ever; and perhaps a bit tired.

"Beautifully terrifying," he answered, turning back to watch the dragons. She settled to his right. "How are you feeling Your Grace?"

"I've been better," she responded, her lips twitching upward. "Lord Tyrion has thoroughly scolded me."

Aerion chuckled and the two returned to watching the dragons in silence. The sheer size of the them was astounding. Seeing them made everything Dany had told him the night before more real. He began to reconsider everything he knew about the Queen.

"I see you found your precious swords," she said. "I can see why you were so worried. They're quite beautiful."

"Thank you, Dany."

She shook her head. "Don't thank me yet. My men are eager to test the man who fell from the sky… And I'll admit, I'm curious as well."

"The man who fell from the sky?" he asked, receiving a shrug. He rubbed his temples. "Perhaps later. I'm still a bit… sore."

Unsullied were famed for their discipline and lack of fear, not their one on one fighting skills. While a single Unsullied possessed far more skill than the average man, Aerion was not average. He had trained since he was old enough to hold a sword. First, Illyrio had provided tutors, then an old bravo had taken an interest in him. After that, his time with the Golden Company further honed his skills. One doesn't carry around a Valyrian steel sword, let alone two, without knowing how to use it. The steel was worth several times his weight in gold.

Dany smirked. "I can imagine. Lord Tyrion is already morning the lost of wine."

"Yesterday, Lord Tyrion and yourself both mentioned a dragon? My dragon?" he asked, carefully broaching the subject that had been nagging at his mind.

She nodded slowly.

"I thought there were only three dragons – Yours."

"As did I. It appears we were both wrong," she said staring intently at her children.

His mind was back in the Doom. Was this why Rhae had to die? A sister for a dragon? He shuttered at the thought. The pain was still too real. Was the price I had to pay?

"It's the only way." The memory of the formless voice almost made his shutter. He looked more closely at the flying creatures. He saw a green one, Rhaegal, white one, Viserion and the black one, Drogon, but no gold. They said mine is gold. "Where is it?"

Dany shrugged. "Dragons are unpredictable, stubborn, independent – You could try calling it."

"Calling it?" he scoffed. "I doubt it would hear me Your Grace."

"Drogon, the one I ride," she said, trying to contain her amusement as she pointed at her largest child. "Sometimes I can feel a connection, a bond – it's hard to explain." He gave her a blank look causing her to laugh. "I never thought I'd have to explain it to anyone." She scrunched her brow in concentration. "Here, close your eyes."

He did.

"Breathe… Can you feel a… foreign presence – emotions that aren't your own?"

Aerion did as he was told. Slowly he breathed in then out, concentrating, trying to clear his mind. He heard the crashing of the waves on the shore below and the wind rustling through his hair. He felt that same chilly wind brush across his skin. Far over the bay, he heard the screeching and roaring of Dany's dragons.

In then out. He did so with his eyes closed, for what seemed like ages.

And then he felt it. Deep in the back of his mind. Senses that didn't make since. Sights that he had never seen, smells that could not be. Like a fleeting memory, he focused on it. Then came the emotions. Slowly at first, then all at once; unbridled primal emotions. Hunger and rage, determination and pride. The flood of memories and emotions caused him to grip the stone wall for support.

He was flying. Soaring above the clouds. A sea of white stretched below him. The sun shined bright above him, causing his scales to shimmer a brilliant gold. He dove down through the blanket of white. The mist rolled over his outstretched wings. He felt powerful.

Aerion could feel the dragon taking his presence as a personal insult. Two minds fought for control of one body. The dragon would not be tamed easily. He pushed and pushed, then as though he opened a door or breached a barrier, memories of a time long forgotten flashed before him.

All around him black towers stretched to unimaginable heights and dozens of dragons, each a unique colour, weaved in between them. Below, hundreds of people, silver-haired and golden-haired scurried, from place to place.

Valyria. Before the doom.

His scattered consciousness recognised the Freehold by description. It was a dream, and like a dream, the memories unraveled just as quickly as they came. Until finally, they vanished. Slipping from his memory.

Daenerys

She watched with curiosity as Aerion closed his eyes.

Having him here, with her, still felt surreal; explaining her connection to her children, even more so. Words seemed terribly inadequate. The first time she rode Drogon she didn't have much of a choice but ever since that moment, her most rebellious child had become her most loyal. What she shared with Drogon went beyond mere words. In some cases, they were of one mind.

She had considered trying to ride Rhaegal or Viserion, but it felt wrong, none of her ancestors ever rode more than one dragon. The thought left her saddened. Her two children would never have riders. She would be the last Targaryen.

She frowned when Aerion's face contorted in struggle as he gripped the stone ledge for support. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow. His knuckles went white as his hands gripped harder and harder. She started to grow concerned. She didn't expect this reaction. Her bond with Drogon was peaceful, it made her feel complete. Two minds working together.

It appeared as though Aerion was stuck in a mental battle. She reached out a touched his hand. His face calmed slightly but his eyes remained tightly closed. Dany was at a loss for what to do.

After what felt like hours, Aerion finally opened his eyes and exhaled sharply. He looked at her in confusion before he collected himself. "Aerion?" she asked, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"What happened?" he asked through bated breath.

"You closed your eyes, then you began –"

"I was flying," he said. "It was incredible."

She sighed in relief and smiled. "Yes, it is."

"I tried to call it, to guide it here, but it… it didn't want to."

"It's okay, we will try again later."

His eyes were unfocused, and he was still out of breath "You could've warned me, about the power, the emotions."

"Words don't do it justice,' she said truthfully.

"No, I suppose they don't."

She started back up the steps. "Have you broken your fast yet?"

He shook his head. "Not yet."

"Then join me."

"Yes, Your Grace." Aerion said smirking. She wondered if he would ever address her properly, without friendly sarcasm. Not that she minded. When they were alone. She was Dany and he was Aerion. A peaceful respite from her world of necessary formalities.

Tyrion

Dawn found Tyrion standing on a high balcony overlooking the courtyard and harbor below. The early morning air was chilly, almost biting. But Tyrion needed to think, to observe. Aerion Blackfyre was a problem and an enigma. Something he was determined to solve.

"They make quite the striking pair."

He turned to find Lord Varys gliding towards him with his gaze fixed on the silver-haired pair far below. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Tell me Lord Varys, is it not your job to know things?" Varys arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Your friend, Illyrio Mopatis."

At the mention of the magister Varys' blank mask twitched. "What about him?"

"The Queen called his manse home for years, correct?" he asked, receiving another nod. "This Aerion Blackfyre was all but raised by the magister. Yet you claim to have no knowledge of him."

"This boy is not Illyrio's son. And despite what you might believe, we do not share all our secrets."

"So, your oldest and most loyal friend harbours the last of the Blackfyres for years and neglected to mention it? Not once?"

"I was aware of silver-haired twins. Illyrio owed their mother a favour. I didn't question it. The Targaryens garnered far more attention. As did Robert Baratheon."

"Twins? He has a brother?"

"A sister."

Tyrion rubbed his beard. "Two Blackfyres and two Targaryens… Quite the collection, wouldn't you say?" I wonder where the sister is now?

"Whatever grand plan Illyrio concocted went up in flames. The twins disappeared a decade ago."

"Yet, one has miraculously reappeared," Tyrion mused. "With a dragon no less."

He continued to watch the Queen and the Blackfyre. They were watching the dragons in the distance. From his spot on the balcony it was hard to make out the details, it appeared as though Lord Aerion was having difficulty standing. He had gripped the stone wall for support while Daenerys looked on. He watched with interest. It remained to be seen whether or not this Blackfyre could be trusted. Childhood friend he might be, but people change.

"The Queen left a lover behind in Meereen only to find another on Dragonstone?" The change in topic was abrupt but Lord Varys was never one to dawdle.

"Daario Naharis was a distraction. She needed allies and the best way to make allies is through marriage."

"And who would you have her marry? There are no male Tyrells left, nor Martells. Robert Arryn is by all accounts sickly and too young besides. Edmure Tully is married and hasn't been seen since the red wedding. Your brother isn't an option and the Westerlands will never follow you."

"Jon Snow. He brings the North; and the Vale and Riverlands are swore to him through Sansa Stark. Three of the kingdoms. With Jon Snow, the Queen will have Dorne, the Reach, Riverlands, Vale and the North. My dear sister will be surrounded."

"That's your master plan, have the Queen wed the Bastard of Winterfell?" Varys said, looking pointedly in the direction of the Queen and her companion, they were now making their way back up the steps and into the courtyard. "Of course, there is one problem."

He shook his head. "Regardless, the Queen cannot rule the Seven Kingdoms with a Blackfyre by her side."

Aerion

"Your Grace, I have something for you." It was passed midday and he was standing in the courtyard with Dany, Missandei and Lord Tyrion, watching the Unsullied train. The group had just finished giving him a brief tour of the Targaryen fortress. Aerion was impressed. Despite the dark stone, and distinctly unique motif, the place was incredible. Unlike any building he had ever seen.

His companions turned and looked at him expectantly. Slowly he unstrapped the sword and scabbard that hung on his back, its ruby studded pommel and winged crossguard sparkled in the sun. He held it out for Dany. Lord Tyrion eyed the gift with curiosity and Aerion watched a knowing smile cross his features. The Hand was smart, Aerion was surprised no one noticed his sword before.

"I was given this sword years ago. It has served me well," he finished as Dany carefully accepted the sword while giving him a questioning look.

Tyrion got a closer look. His eyes shifted from the blade back to Aerion. "It cannot be?"

He nodded. "This is Blackfyre."

"How?" Tyrion asked. "That swords been lost for decades."

"Not lost, just hidden."

"This is the Blackfyre?" Dany asked in awe. "Why are you giving it to me?"

He shrugged. "Its yours Your Grace, I am just returning it."

"This is the most famous sword in the world, save maybe Dawn itself, and you're just handing it over?" Tyrion exclaimed.

"It belongs to House Targaryen, my Lord. I've already told you, I have no interest in the throne or anything else that rightfully belongs to Her Grace." He said before smirking. "Besides, I can't rightly wield a weapon with the same name as my house. Tyrion Lannister wielder of Lannister, doesn't sound right does it?"

This caused Tyrion to laugh. His attention returned to the Queen. She was inspecting the sword, running her fingers over the flat of the blade and tentatively holding it by the grip.

"Keep it." Dany said sweetly, handing the blade back to Aerion. "It would be wasted in my hands."

He took the sword and bowed. "Then, Your Grace, I am merely borrowing it."

"Maybe Lord Aerion can give us a demonstration of his vast skills," Tyrion said, smirking. "Prove that he's worthy to wield such a treasure."

"I agree, Lord Tyrion," the Queen said, almost to eagerly. "A fine suggestion."

Dany's sudden change in demeanor worried him. She was far too happy with Lord Tyrion's idea. Aerion looked toward the sparring area. "I should warn you, I'm not responsible for any bruised egos." He quickly unstrapped his other sword and handle both to Lord Tyrion. "Don't lose these."

He watched as Dany whispered something to her hand and the pair broke out in sinister smiles. "Grey Worm, Qhono," she declared. Two familiar figures stepped forward, one a massive Dothraki and the other the Unsullied Commander. Both had determination on their faces. They've been waiting for this, he realised. "Try not to kill him, I'm quite fond of him."

One of the Unsullied handed him a sparring sword. He swung it a few times before decided that it would do. "Two against one?" he asked, sounding more confident then he felt. "At least allow me another sword."

Dany granted his request and he accepted the second sword. They were dull, heavy and poorly balanced. Typical practice weapons. Aerion was used to the light weight, superior nature of Valyrian steel.

He examined the two warriors, he wasn't even wearing armor. but neither were they. The Dothraki wielded an arakh. Grey Worm, a spear and shield. Aerion took up a fighting stance as the Queen, Missandei and Lord Tyrion backed off to the edge of the courtyard. A crowd was forming.

He kept his back to the crowd and waited, circling his foes. He would let them come to him. As predicted, the Dothraki grew impatient first and charged at him, arakh raised high. He smirked and sidestepped the blow.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Grey Worm swing his spear. Aerion blocked the blow with an upward slash, shattering the weapon. Grey Worm quickly recovered, discarding the halved shaft as he drew his sword.

Seconds later the Dothraki slashed again, this time at his legs. Aerion once again sidestepped his blow and bashed Qhono with the pommel of his sword, staggering him. He spotted Dany gripping the arm of her advisor and looking at the fight with concern.

He smirked despite himself. Unfortunately, he didn't notice Grey Worm's shield until it bashed him in the face sending him to his back and causing stars to litter his vision. His daze was short lived. Aerion rolled out of Grey Worm's foot as it came down with a vengeance.

The three separated briefly and Aerion regained his feet. He wiped the blood from his nose as he gripped his swords tighter and pointed both towards his opponents, taunting them. "Your Grace, I'm concerned for your safety with these two guarding your back."

If the Queen responded, he didn't hear her. Qhono and Grey Worm charged as one. Aerion spread his legs and crouched, prepared for the coming onslaught. Both warriors raised their weapons high, each hoping to deliver the finishing blow.

On instinct, darted forward and he blocked both blades hard. Stunning the two and knocking the weapons from their hands. Not trusting the Dothraki to yield Aerion kicked out his legs, sending Qhono to the dust. As he turned around to finish off the Unsullied Commander he was met with a flash of black. The shield once again knocked him off his feet.

This time Aerion saw more than just stars. He saw an explosion of fire. Unending black towers crumbled upon themselves. Screams of man and dragon alike tore through the sky. Then it was gone.

He hit the titled floor. His swords clattered out of his grip. Grey Worm quickly placed his boot firmly on his chest, preventing him from getting up. "Yield," he commanded. Aerion's head felt like it had been split open.

He raised his arms in surrender and accepted Grey Worm's offered hand. He saw Qhono still struggling to push himself of the ground, looking furious. All three of them were breathing heavily.

The courtyard was silent.

"You fight well," Grey Worm said. "But unfocused, arrogant."

He pinched his nose. It wasn't broken, but it was bleeding slightly. Thankfully, the pain had already begun to subside. "Best two out of three?" he asked, smirking at the Unsullied Commander.

Grey Worm gave a deep laugh but Qhono looked like he had seen a ghost. He watched as the Dothraki unsteadily grabbed a knife and lifted it to his braid. Suddenly remembering the Dothraki custom Aerion grabbed his hand. "No, this was practice. Not battle." Qhono lowered his knife and looked at Aerion with newfound respect.

Still holding his nose, he staggered back towards the Queen and Lord Tyrion. Both looked shocked, and in Dany's case, there was a hint of something else. He thought it might be pride, pride in himself or her men. He hoped it was the former even though he had technically lost.

"Well?" he asked the pair. "Am I worthy?"

"I…The…" Dany composed herself and nodded.

"Where in the seven hells did you learn how to fight like that." Tyrion hissed, handing back Blackfyre and the other yet unnamed blade.

Aerion accepted the swords but ignored his words. He limped past and sat down on a bench. Someone handed him a wineskin. He uncorked the skin and took a swig, staring blankly at the titled ground.

"Aerion… Are you hurt? Have someone look at you nose." He heard her through the ringing in his ears.

"It's nothing," he said, gingerly touching it with his hand. "Just a bit of blood."

"Aerion," Dany repeated. Her glare made it clear she wouldn't take no for an answer. With a groan he agreed. She took his arm and guided him back into the fortress. Lord Tyrion followed at a distance. Missandei appeared to be fussing over Grey Worm.

The King in the North

"She has three dragons!" Jon argued. They had had this argument countless times. "The Northern armies aren't enough, we need allies." They were in his solar. Jon was leaning on a table that contained a map of the North. In front of him, Sansa paced the length of the room. If Tyrion's letter spoke the truth, this Daenerys Targaryen was the best hope the North had – the best hope Westeros had in stopping the Night King and the Long Night.

"She's a Targaryen! Our Grandfather and Uncle –"

"I know!" he interrupted. She didn't understand. The Night King was coming, and he didn't care about the living and their petty politics. "I've made my decision and my decision is final."

"Father and Robb rode south too," she shot back, desperate to get Jon to listen.

"Enough Sansa," he ordered. She huffed in defeat and barged out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He closed his eyes and messaged his temples. All this planning and arguments were giving him a headache. There was too much to consider, too many pieces to juggle. He never wanted to rule, Lord Commander or King in the North, yet here he was. But if being King allowed him to prepare the realm and its people for the Night King, then so be it. It was a burden he would gladly bare.

He knew that Sansa and the Northern Lords had valid points. It was risky, and probably a trap, but if it wasn't, this was the best opportunity he was likely to get. He had no choice.

Jon took a final sip of his ale, grabbed Longclaw and set off for the godswood.

Winterfell was bustling. Men and woman rushed from one place to another. Smiths clanged their hammers and solders sparred in the courtyard to pass the time. Jon had never seen Winterfell so busy. So full of life.

People he didn't know. His Winterfell was gone.

The buildings were the same, the muddy roads and smoking chimneys were the same, but this wasn't his Winterfell and it didn't feel like home. The people were all different. Ser Rodrik, Hullen, Jory, even Maester Luwin were all gone. His father, Robb, Bran, Rickon, Arya, Lady Catelyn – all gone. Dead and missing. Sansa was the only family he had left.

The presence of the Northern Lords and their men caused the castle to feel more like a city. Or what Jon imagined a city to feel like, he'd never been to one, but that would change in the coming days.

At dawn, the horses would be readied and Jon, Ser Davos and thirty northern volunteers would ride for White Harbor. Then sail to Dragonstone. For good or ill.

He knew his story was hard to believe. Hell, he might not have believed had he not seen. He knew Sansa trusted him, but he doubted she truly believed him. Most of the Northern Lords probably humored him, but for now, if they followed his instructions he didn't care if they believed or not. They'll all discover the truth sooner or later. Hopefully later, much later.

He entered the godswood. The hour was growing late, and the thick canopy only hastened the coming dusk. It was quiet, eerily quiet, the godswood always was. The sound of his swift footsteps was soaked up by the moss cover ground. Jon came here to think. A habit he picked up from his lord father.

As he walked through the dense grove his thoughts dwelled on home. Not Winterfell, but the North. If his trip was successful and Daenerys Targaryen didn't kill him, then he would be likely begone for weeks, perhaps months. If his trip was indeed a trap, he would never walk the godswood again.

If the Night King gets passed the Wall and he isn't ready – none of it mattered.

He sat upon an exposed root that belonged to the ancient weirwood that dominated the godswood. He unsheathed Longclaw, not to polish it like his father, but to simply admire the ripples that ran through the Valyrian steel. This sword, along with Ghost had seen him through trials and tribulations that most couldn't even imagine.

But not all. He didn't like to think about it, but one's death wasn't something that one forgets. Subconsciously his hand traced his scared torso through his leather tunic. He remembered the feel of the blades and look on their faces. He remembered the cold that came with death.

He remembered the nothingness that awaited him. That awaited everyone.

He was broken out of his dreary reflections by the sound of quiet footsteps. Jon looked up and saw his sister gliding towards him. Her red hair bouncing behind her. So similar but so different from Ygritte's. He sighed, he didn't want another argument. Not here in the godswood. "Jon –"

"Leave it, Sansa," he snapped, annoyed.

"Jon, I'm not here to argue." Sansa replied softly as she sat down on an adjacent root, smoothing out her dark dress. "You're leaving at dawn, I didn't want to part on bad terms."

Jon smiled softly. Sansa was the one sibling he never truly got along with. Bran and Rickon were too young to care about his bastard status. Rob never seemed to care, and Arya, Arya cared even less about station and titles. Sansa took after her mother.

The memories of his lost siblings brought warmth to his heart. He had long since mourned for them. Their deaths still pained him, but he chose to focus on the good. Even a king cannot change the past.

"Aye, you're right to be concerned but we both know Lord Tyrion isn't that type of man."

It looked as if Sansa wanted to argue but let the topic drop. "I don't want you to go. I've been alone for so long Jon. We just got Winterfell back and now you're leaving."

His heart went out for his little sister. "You're not going to be alone. Lady Brienne and Podrick will be here. The Northern Lords and the Lords of the Vale are loyal to you." Even Littlefinger, Jon grimaced at the thought of the slimy man, but there was little he could do now. He had to trust Sansa. She was no longer the girl who love songs and dreamed of marrying a golden-haired prince.

"They're not my family," Sansa said, her voice wavering. The sun had set and the godswood fell into near complete darkness. The only source of light was a distant touch that marked the entrance to the ancient grove. Jon didn't need light to guide his way.

Winterfell may have changed but the godswood had not.

He reached out and took her hand. trying to reassure her. "You're strong and smart. You're the Lady of Winterfell now Sansa. Father would be proud." A teary-eyed smile grew on Sansa's face. "We should get back. We both have long days tomorrow I'd imagine."

That night was restless. He couldn't remember the last time he had a proper night's sleep. Not since he joined the Night's Watch and definitely not since he left it. The morbid side of him wanted to say that the last time he truly slept, was when he was dead.

The following morning didn't fare any better. He yawned as he watched a stable boy saddle his horse. The air was crisp and unforgivably cold. Winter was here. All around him, men readied their horses, double checked their belongings and said their goodbyes. Something Jon had already done. He left Sansa with a promise to return and reassuring words. The North was hers now and it was in good hands.

He pulled his fur cloak tight and gripped his sword out of habit. He was eager to get on the road. A small part of him was excited. He had never been south. His entire life had been spent in the North. He only wished the circumstances were different. "Ready to move out?" The voice of Ser Davos would've startled him if he wasn't so tired.

"Aye, how long do you suppose it will take to reach Dragonstone?"

"Difficult to say – With clear weather, few days ride to White Harbor. Strong winds – about a week from White Harbor to Dragonstone." Jon nodded, a fortnight, maybe less if he was lucky, till he met the Dragon Queen.

He mounted his horse and watched as the others did the same. Shaking off his fatigue, he began to lead the men out of the courtyard, through Winter Town and into the North.

He silently prayed he wasn't leading his men to their deaths.

A/N: A short chapter. Things will pick up next chapter.