Disclaimer: I don't own HP, GOT, or ASOIAF.
Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Cataclysmic Moon and Bub3loka.
Author's Note: Hello, guys and gals. This is going to be an HP/GOT crossover, having elements from both the book and the show-verse. That being said, this is my first time writing, and English isn't my native language, so don't set your expectations too high. Constructive criticism is always welcome. I hope you enjoy this.
Year 2319. The Ruins of London.
A cloaked figure sat quietly in reminiscence atop a pile of rubble.
In the summer after his fifth year at Hogwarts, he was left alone again in Surrey with only the Dursley family for company. Harry stewed alone in his regrets once more. The worst part of his stay with his relatives was the complete silence from the magical world. Nobody contacted him, not even a single meaningful letter. He felt like a mushroom – kept in the dark and only fed shit. Then Dumbledore came with the news that one of his best friends - Hermione - had been attacked during the summer and had her wand snapped after retaliating in self-defence for breaking the statute and casting underage magic on 'upstanding members of society'. They had no Dark Marks, no skull masks, and had claimed Imperius.
And they might as well have been controlled for all he knew, as according to the Headmaster, there had been no previous stains on their records, and nothing in their personal life had suggested any bias against muggles or muggle-born according to their families.
What reason would two peaceful bookshop clerks have to attack a muggle-born girl they had never met?
Regardless, a night later, Hermione's house had been torched, and Harry's friend and her parents lay dead on the front lawn with no visible injuries.
Harry, of course, was even more furious and disappointed with Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. They had promised Hermione's family and home protection. He already knew from experience that relying on adults wasn't helpful at all and that the Ministry of Magic was a nuisance at best and a burden at worst.
'We must be seen doing something!'
Apparently, when the inaction got too much, they just brushed the news under the carpet, so the people would not panic. The news of the attack had not even reached the Daily Prophet.
This, however, finally drove the point home. So, when Dumbledore casually asked him for his assistance, he told him to 'sod off' and that he had no desire to see anyone right now. The offer to spend the rest of the summer in the Burrow with the Weasleys was also declined. Before the Headmaster had shown up, Harry longed for his friends, but now Hermione was gone, and all he had left was Ron.
And while Ron was a good companion, enjoyable and relaxing to be around, at this point, Harry's desire for fun and games had dwindled to nothing. His friend was indeed grieving the death of Hermione in his own way, but his rather laid-back attitude did not change at all. Ron had no sense of urgency… And worst, could he afford to drag him into his own problems to be targeted and die?
'And neither can live while the other survives.'
Harry couldn't sit still anymore, and while he couldn't practise any magic until school, he could work on his body. And work on his body, he did. Jogging in the local park until his limbs could scarcely move, and he had even signed up at a local gym at the advice of a fellow jogger.
He completely ignored the Dursleys. In turn, they had enough sense to not bother him at all.
They still scarcely fed him anything decent, but thankfully he had a stroke of inspiration. And when he called Dobby, the loyal house-elf answered.
The rest of the summer days were spent pushing himself physically every day to the limit while carefully reviewing DADA, Transfiguration, and Charms theory in the evening. He feasted every day on meals prepared by the kind house elf. Harry had also found a book on muggle meditation that grabbed his fancy, and had finally managed to start clearing his mind successfully after doing his daily workouts.
When the school year started, he dropped everything but the three classes above and Potions. The latter was now thankfully available with his OWL grade without Snape teaching the subject. And he could do better in potions without the overgrown bat hovering over his head. Professor McGonagall had tried to hand him the Quidditch Captain badge, but he simply returned it, stating that he clearly remembered being banned from Quidditch for life and no longer held any interest in the sport. And he truly didn't. Flying felt like a distant dream now. His Head of House had attempted to dissuade him from dropping the non-wanded subjects like Herbology and Astronomy, but not, much to his amusement, Divination, yet Harry simply did not budge.
Ron tried to cajole him into playing wizarding chess or even flying on the brooms, but Harry felt no desire. The clock was ticking, and he had to prepare himself. The redhead's attempts persisted for a few months before slowly waning, and soon after the new year, Ron had completely given up.
But, of course, Dumbledore wasn't done with him yet. When he asked for a meeting, Harry obliged in an attempt to appease the headmaster. However, he quickly realised that all he would be doing was viewing some memories. Completely fed up with the old wizard's passive tactics, he simply asked the headmaster to get to the point directly or spend some time teaching him actual magic. Or perhaps even no longer bother him at all. After a few silent minutes, Dumbledore relented and admitted he was dying. A long discussion followed about Voldemort's childhood and the Horcruxes.
This gave Harry a goal, a direction.
Using his time wisely by avoiding people, moving around the castle under his cloak with a silencing charm, eating in the kitchens, and simply focusing on his magic, body, and mind produced incredible results. He had managed to find obscure ancient tomes and materials in the Room of Requirement, which pushed his prowess even further. He had even found a book on war tactics of a famous old hit wizard.
When Harry noticed that Malfoy was planning something, he didn't bother informing anyone. He knew it would be useless. As always, they would do nothing. So, he didn't waste much time and took things into his own hands. Ambushing him was easy using the Marauder Map and his invisibility cloak. After disarming Malfoy and restraining him, Harry pumped the blond full of veritaserum that he nicked from Slughorn's class. After Malfoy revealed his plan, he obliviated the Slytherin back to his formative years and left him slumped in the hallway, but not before leaving his forearm exposed, revealing the wiggling Dark Mark.
Towards the end of the year, Dumbledore finally called for his help. The headmaster had found the possible location of a Horcrux and wanted Harry to come along with him. The trip turned out to be a disaster, and in the end, the Headmaster simply asked Harry to disarm him and to use his wand in the future.
Two days before school ended, Dumbledore was killed by Snape. Harry had foreseen something like this was going to happen, so he did what he knew to be best; hide. He slipped away from the train station, and instead of leaving with the Dursleys, he left for a small beachside property he had inherited from Sirius that almost nobody knew of. To be safe, Harry kidnapped a Japanese muggle tourist to use him as a secret keeper. In theory, it would work, and it did. He easily cast the Fidelius charm, something which he had researched extensively after the revelation that Dumbledore was dying. He secured the secret on a few slips of paper, which he decided to keep safe in the safe-house and obliviated the memory of the last hour from the tourist. Since the secret was hidden in the soul, he wouldn't need to remember it. In a week, the muggle would be back in Japan, blending in among more than one hundred million others.
During the following summer, with Dumbledore dead, the ministry predictably fell, and Harry spent half a year leading lone guerilla warfare, taking a page from the Death Eater's book. It helped to sharpen his skills and magic further whilst also searching for the whereabouts of the Horcruxes. Slowly but methodically, he decimated Voldemort's followers. It was easy enough with all his current skills and tools in his possession. Ambushing unaware people was much easier than fighting them to the death directly, and evened his odds against multiple opponents.
Harry had noticed pretty fast that his cloak hid him from all forms of magical detection, including barriers and wards. Dobby had managed to get him the sword of Gryffindor from the headmaster's office, once again proving that wizards simply underestimated house elves severely. Although according to Dobby, the only reason he could do that was that Dumbledore had long allowed him access, and the sword belonged to the 'great Harry Potter sir'. With the sword in hand, Harry had an easy time destroying all the Horcruxes he found. It took him nearly three weeks, with the elf's help to locate the Diadem of Ravenclaw and subsequently sneak into the Room of Requirements unnoticed. Two months of tracking to acquire the Locket of Slytherin and six weeks to find the Cup of Hufflepuff and figure out how to sneak into Gringotts undetected.
Shortly after Christmas, he found the last Horcrux, the snake in Godric's Hollow, wearing the skin of Bathilda Bagshot. A few moments after the serpent was slain, Voldemort angrily appeared with a few of his remaining followers in tow. It was a rather short yet devastating battle, and he had been overwhelmed by the Dark Lord, who had sixty years of experience over him.
Harry's drive and natural talent had gotten him far during the last year and a half. If he had more time, he would probably be able to beat the Dark Lord despite Riddle's experience and ritualistic advantage. Testament to that, Harry had held his own for nearly ten minutes, and everyone else that came with the Dark Lord perished during the fight. Yet Harry couldn't claim all the credit here, Voldemort had used devastating magic freely, without any care for his minions slaying more than one in the crossfire. When Harry was finally struck by the killing curse for the second time, he simply smiled as the green light hit him in the chest.
Seeing Dumbledore in limbo, explaining how he was a Horcrux and that he could go back and fight if he wanted to, pissed Harry off immensely. He yearned to reunite with his family, yet it was still denied to him, so he settled for punching the old Headmaster in the nose. Harry might have become utterly ruthless and cold, but recognising that he had been set up for martyrdom and self-sacrifice didn't sit very well with him. However, he wasn't about to leave wizarding Britain in the clutches of Voldemort, no matter if he was mortal or not. Theoretically, he could end the snake bastard if he hit him with a curse by surprise.
When he woke up, Voldemort was gloating about finally killing the 'great' Harry Potter to the small crowd that had gathered in Godric's Hollow. The Dark Lord had been losing grip on his sanity for some time, although it did not seem to affect his wandwork. While Riddle was still euphoric from his victory, with his back turned to Harry's corpse, Harry slanted his eyes open. Noticing Voldemort's position, he slightly jerked his wand in his direction and cast a quick, silent, and deadly decapitation curse. Voldemort's maniacal laughter ceased abruptly as his head rolled to the side while Harry stood up. A great burden had finally been lifted from his shoulders. Now, he was finally free from the shackles of prophecy. His fate was his own.
The figure shook its head and sighed. Things were far too easy and simple back then. Pondering over this, he looked at the destruction that lay all around him.
Multiple cracks, broken bones, rusty stains, and various rubble covered the ground. Twisted vehicle frames in various states of rust, broken beyond repair, adorned the landscape. Charred ruins were seen in every direction, and the sky was unnaturally crimson. The air was deathly still and filled with the sickening stench of death and decay. Everything was dead. Everything aside from himself.
Finally reaching a decision, Harry stood up. He inhaled deeply and disappeared in a flash of thunder, tearing the grave silence apart with a loud thunderclap.
Deep under the ruins, untouched by the destruction above, lay a large, rectangular room. A stone archway stood in a pit in the centre, surrounded by ascending stone benches towards the walls. The room was surprisingly lit, although the dim lights were flickering violently. With a flash of lightning, a cloaked figure appeared in the pit in front of the archway. The following thunderclap caused all the dust inside the chamber to rise, but the cloaked figure subtly waved his hand, and it all dissipated.
Harry looked at the Veil intently. The space between the stone arch was rippling. The last time he was here was three hundred and three years ago, and he had no idea what he was looking at. Now, though, he could slightly understand the runes inscribed on the archway. While he couldn't exactly recognise all of them, from what he could gather, the archway was a portal. The destination definitely wasn't the afterlife. However, he could see why it was called the Veil of Death. In the past, it had been used as a method of execution. Without properly activating the portal, you'd end up in between dimensions, and your body, mind, and soul would be shredded into oblivion by the volatile interdimensional energies.
However, he had nothing to lose as the last living person on Earth. Harry gently placed his hand on what he recognised as a power rune on the left side and started pumping his magic into the stone arch. The ancient archway seemed to be a bottomless pit, devouring even his seemingly endless magic without much change. Yet he did not let this discourage him. Soon, the ripples between the archway slowly began to twist and rotate. Slowly, one by one, the runes started to light up in a soft blue colour, and the air began to hum with power. He kept pouring all of his magic relentlessly, and he barely managed to light up all the runes before going dry.
As soon as the last rune lit up, the hum disappeared. The only sound was the swirl of the furious vortex between the stone columns of the arch. Drained of magic, his body felt incredibly heavy and barely responsive. Exhausting his magic until he had a sliver remaining made him feel like a baby – struggling to even lift a finger. Anyone else would have long faded in the embrace of Morpheus, but Harry managed to hold on to his consciousness by a bare thread. All he could do was lean slightly forward and fall directly into the portal just before the runes started to fade. As soon as he disappeared into the vortex, the arch cracked, and everything turned dark.
303 AC, near Castle Black
Her fingers were cold, despite her leather gloves, her thighs were rubbed raw from the saddle, her wounds sent slivers of pain across her body, and she felt stiff.
The road was much more daunting than anything she was used to. The Vale's rocky highroad and the southern parts of the kingsroad were pleasant in comparison. Sansa had travelled little in the North itself, and it had been in the comfortable safety of a wheelhouse.
Without the protection of the warm walls of Winterfell, the northern wilderness gnawed at her like a hungry dog bone.
Yet she persisted.
The truth of the matter was that she had no choice but to continue heading north. She had to reach Castle Black or die trying. The alternative was returning to Ramsay and facing his wrath.
She'd rather die.
Even if Sansa somehow avoided her husband and his men, she had only more enemies further south. Braving through the cutting northern wind, her group continued to slowly make their way through the snow. At least they were lucky, it hadn't snowed enough to make the road unpassable.
Sansa winced. The cuts all over her body were throbbing again. Riding a horse did not help alleviate the pain between her legs. Her moonblood came a little less than a sennight after escaping the clutches of Ramsay Bolton. It only added to her growing pains, but it was a sign that she was not carrying the child of that monster. Sansa had been in pain for so long that she had forgotten how it felt when nothing hurt.
In the distance loomed an impossibly tall structure hewn entirely out of ice. A few rays of sunlight speared through the cloudy sky and illuminated the icy wall, giving it a dirty grey shine.
Soon, they approached the few motley structures nestled at the base of the Wall. Sansa just hoped her bastard brother would not turn her away, despite her distance in their childhood.
Bastards can rise high in the world.
The voice of Ramsay rang in her head, and her wounds flared up painfully once again. While she couldn't help but feel joyful at Jon's ascendancy towards the position of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, her half-brother's next move baffled her greatly.
The wildlings, who were as hated as much as the Lannisters, if not even more, were allowed to pass the Wall under his orders. Sansa shook her head, she would get to find out the truth for herself soon enough.
They finally arrived; Castle Black couldn't be called much of a castle, it just was a dilapidated mash-up of stone towers and timber keeps. There were no actual curtain walls, but the towers and keeps were designed in such a way that there was only one entrance. A giant wooden stairway adorned with a small shabby gate. The whole fortress, if it could even be called that, looked incredibly bleak without a hint of liveliness.
When they arrived at the 'gate' of Castle Black, she noticed that it was quiet. There was a lack of noise surrounding the keep. No horses braying in the stable or the quiet hum of people talking in the distance. The silence was as if someone had died, and they were all attending a funeral. As they crossed the gate, a greybeard clad in black spotted them over from the wooden keep adjacent to the stairway.
"What do ya want?" His tired voice broke the deathly silence.
"We are here to speak with the Lord Commander," Brienne came to the front and answered.
The man furrowed his eyebrows before sighing. He warily appraised Brienne for a few moments and shouted, "Open the gate!"
Within a few minutes, the gates were open, and they met the black brother, who now had a dour expression on his face.
"Yer looking for Lord Commander Snow?" Brienne nodded, steadying her horse. "Then I regret to inform ya that the Lord Commander has passed."
Her strength left her.
Sansa swayed and almost fell off her steed, barely managing to stay on her saddle. She was used to grief and tragedy, but this was it, now, she had finally lost everything. Her last remaining family member was gone; there was nothing left for her.
Sansa Stark was now completely alone in the world.
Her stomach twisted into a painful knot, and she felt her insides turn to ice. She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened instead, and all she could let out was a strangled sob.
"This is Lady Sansa Stark. She is the Lord Commander's sister," Brienne clarified. The man's eyes widened, and he bowed his head at her.
"I am sorry for yer loss, m'lady. We're now preparing for his funeral. If you want to say your goodbyes, I can lead you to his chambers."
Sansa nodded wordlessly, dismounted her horse and handed the reins to Podrick. Everything felt numb as she followed the man into one of the stone keeps while ignoring her pain. Brienne followed while her squire remained to take care of their horses.
The greybeard led them up the most imposing keep towards the commander's solar. It was a rather small room, she noted, but she realised that she had gotten used to the Eyrie, Winterfell, and The Red Keep, which were all great seats, while Castle Black could barely even be called one.
There, on a table in the middle of the room, was her last brother. Theon claimed he hadn't killed Bran and Rickon, but even if Sansa trusted him, which she didn't, that would mean they were stuck in the northern wilderness on their own. And after having a taste of it herself, she doubted that a young child and a cripple with no help or supplies had a good chance of survival.
Jon looked so peaceful that she would have thought he was sleeping if he wasn't deathly still and if there weren't bloody holes in his black clothing. Next to the table, Ghost was lying on the ground whimpering quietly. This was the first time she had heard the white direwolf make a sound, and it only brought tears to her eyes.
"Pardon me, m'lady." Sansa jumped at the young soft voice. She had been so distracted by Jon's body that she did not see a young man sitting on a chair near the wall. "Are you the Lord Commander's sister?"
Sansa couldn't bring herself to speak and simply nodded while trying to wipe off her tears. An uncomfortable silence settled in the air until she could muster some strength. "How..." Her voice was quivering, but she braved on. "How did he die?"
The young man's face twisted into a scowl, and grimly replied, "He was betrayed. Some of the black brothers were not happy that the Lord Commander had allowed the wildlings to pass the Wall or support the Stag King. And after the news of Stannis' defeat came, they lured him out in the night and stabbed him to death. But Edd, one of the leal men, went to call the wildlings for aid. We caught the traitors and threw them in the ice cells. They are to hang on the morrow."
His words chilled her further. She thought it was cold before, but now she couldn't suppress her shivers. Jon had been betrayed... just like his father and just like her brothers. Just like her uncle Brandon and her grandfather. Was that to be the fate of all the men of House Stark? However, before she could say anything, a group of people poured into the room.
There were two women that looked completely out of place in the bleakness of Castle Black. The first was tall with long red hair and garbed in a thin red gown. She seemed completely unaffected by the cold and wore a choker on her neck adorned with a red ruby. Sansa had never seen her before, but something about her seemed familiar. A moment later, she realised what it was; the lady fit the description of Stannis' infamous Red Witch– Melisandre of Asshai. The other woman was, undoubtedly, a wildling–a long bone knife strapped at her belt, clad in white leathers and furs with dark honey-coloured hair flowing towards her waist. She had high, sharp cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.
They were followed by the dour watchman who opened the gate for them, an old man with thinning grey hair who was missing the fingers of his left hand and a burly, red-headed wildling clad in fur.
"My lady." The old man nodded politely to Sansa before turning to the red woman. "Can't you do something? Anything?"
These words finally snapped Sansa out of her grief. What could they even do for her brother? He was already dead. Were they going to try a crazy ritual or a magic spell to bring Jon back?
The priestess was intently looking at her brother's body when she finally replied, "I don't know, Ser Davos. But I will try."
"Could you fetch me hot water and a clean rag?" Melisandre had turned to the dour watchman, who simply nodded and left. Then she slowly walked over to Jon and beckoned the young man to join her. They started undressing Jon's body. Sansa averted her gaze, respecting her brother's privacy. To the side, however, she noticed that the blond wildling woman was looking with keen interest instead.
After some time, the shuffling of clothes finally stopped, and Sansa dared to look to see if they were finished. Jon's body was naked, and only his private parts were covered by a small cloth. His chest and belly were littered with holes. Ugly purple stab wounds adorned his torso, and the cruellest one was over his heart. It was like someone had twisted the knife after sticking it in. Sansa once again could feel her tears threatening to spill from her eyes and barely managed to hold them back.
Finally, the Black Brother arrived with the water. The young man and the priestess carefully dipped the rag and cleaned his body of blood, and the Red Woman finally started her ritual.
The air grew heavy, Melisandre kneeled in front of the table, bowed her head, and began to utter words in an unknown tongue.
The monotone incantation felt as if it dragged on forever. The only thing left in Sansa was a tiny spark of hope that whatever sorcery they were doing would bring Jon back, and she would not be alone. She stood there and kept staring as the woman chanted in what she vaguely recognized as High Valyrian.
But it was all for nought. The red priestess finished her chanting, and Jon was still lying there, unmoving.
Sansa had long stopped believing in gods, children's tales, and songs. But she had also heard in whispers about some of the impossible feats that the priestess had done. A small ember of hope bloomed within her; maybe the red woman would succeed.
Alas, it was not meant to be. The seconds painfully dragged on after the priestess had stopped, yet nothing happened. Everyone slowly left the chamber but Sansa and the young man.
"M'lady, we should prepare him for the funeral now." She looked at the young man but could barely see him from the tears pooling in her eyes.
"What's your name?" Sansa managed to croak out weakly.
"Satin, I am… was the Lord Commander's steward." He replied quietly.
"Satin, could you-" she choked on her words.
The young man gave her a sad, understanding smile and nodded, "I'll be back soon with some clean clothes for him to wear."
She stood still until he left. As soon as the door closed, Sansa couldn't hold herself back anymore and broke out in sobs. The tears now flowed freely. She closed the distance between herself and Jon and simply buried her face in the nook of his neck and cried.
Her half-brother had always been good and kind to her, even if she acted distantly. But Sansa now knew firsthand how it felt to be a bastard after her stay in the Vale. And she bitterly regretted her treatment of Jon.
But it was simply one more regret, one more sorrow, in the long, painful string of griefs.
Time had lost its meaning, but as she heard the door open again, Sansa reluctantly tore herself from Jon and let Satin do his work. Soon her brother was carefully garbed in a clean black tunic and breeches. A few minutes later, two solemn watchmen entered and carried Jon's body outside to the courtyard; she trailed after them numbly.
A wooden pyre sat in the middle of the yard, and her brother's body was gently placed next to another one belonging to a very, very old man. He looked decrepit and shrivelled and was wearing a simple black robe, and there were three round stones, all dull, one red, one purple, and one deep blue with dark swirls, surrounding his body, along with a few personal effects. Brienne and Podrick were waiting outside among the other Night's Watchmen and wildlings. Sansa could even spot a few men with Baratheon heraldry in the crowd. Nobody was paying any attention to her or the other newcomers.
Sansa slowly walked to the forefront, where she found Satin and carefully nudged his shoulder and whispered, "Who is the old man? And why are there stones on the pyre?"
"He was the maester here - Maester Aemon. He was old, very old, and could barely get out of bed for the last moon. They say that Aemon had been here for seventy years now. After the Lord Commander was killed, we also found him dead in his bed in the morning.I don't know what the stones are, but they were also his, and his wish was to have all his belongings burned in the pyre with him when he passed away." Satin quietly explained.
Something large and warm moved next to her. Sansa craned her neck and saw Ghost, with his ears drooping low and tail hanging down in defeat. She hadn't noticed his gigantic size before, her thoughts were with her brother, and the direwolf was deceptively sprawled on the floor, but Ghost had gotten unbelievably big. He was easily as tall as her, and Sansa wasn't short by any means. It was a bit ironic that all the direwolves of her trueborn siblings were dead, and only her half-brother had managed to keep his alive. Ghost gazed at her face and gave her a sad, silent whine. Sansa's limbs felt shaky, as if they would give out any moment, and leaned onto her brother's direwolf.
Her attention turned back to the pyre. Another thin man with grey hair and a dour face lit up a torch and threw it at the pyre. The fire spread slowly but surely.
The man sighed and spoke up, "They came to us from Winterfell and King's Landing. North and South. They fought and died protecting men, women, and children who will never know their names. It is for us to remember our brothers. We shall never see their like again... and now their watch is ended."
Snow softly began to fall from the grey skies.
Sansa tried to hold her tears but simply couldn't anymore. They started small, but the sobs grew and grew. She didn't care that there were people around her anymore. She missed her family, and most of all, she missed Jon right now. The regret returned with a vengeance, it felt as if someone had struck her with a hammer in the belly.
She was alone now.
On the way here, Sansa had hoped to reunite with her brother, someone who would not sell her away or manipulate her for his own ends and needs.
A treacherous thought wormed itself into her grief-stricken mind.
Sansa could still reunite with her brother.
She could see all of her family. Sansa was strong, she could easily squash this thought. Even after all the tragedy and suffering so far, she clung to life.
But was it worth it?
She hadn't thought of the future on her way to Castle Black aside from finally meeting someone from her family again. All she could think about was her now dead last brother.
Yes, Sansa could continue trudging along. But she was valuable and would never be left alone. The future only seemed grimmer with each passing moment. Deep inside, she knew what followed – running from her family's numerous enemies. But how far could she run? This was the end of the world already….
Sansa wasn't a fighter, so all she could do to get revenge was to scheme. She only felt smaller and smaller, while the Boltons and Lannisters only seemed bigger and bigger. Her numerous wounds all across her body ached painfully. Few of them have had the time to heal properly. Some were probably infected.
At that moment, Sansa Stark felt incredibly tired. One might say that she was the least impulsive of her family. But the Wolfsblood running through her veins was shown true as she reached a decision. Taking a deep breath to gather the last vestiges of her strength, and her soft blue eyes hardened into two chips of ice. She rushed forward and leapt into the burning pyre, hoping to join her family in the afterlife.
Author's Endnote: I was heavily inspired by a lot of other works, but the main one was Naerys Blackfyre's 'Father of Dragons'. I do recommend you give it a read if you like the Jon/Sa pairing and villain! Dany. You can probably recognise the second scene here from one of Naerys' works, after a twist/rework, I have used it with their permission. Now, with that out of the way, this is the moment to announce that I'm going to do a soft rewrite/revamp of the whole 'Dragonwolf'. Low priority, but you'll slowly see me re-uploading chapters from the start.
Now, with that out of the way, this is the moment to announce that I'm going to do a soft rewrite/revamp of the whole 'Dragonwolf'. Low priority, but you'll slowly see me re-uploading chapters from the start.