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[Kill The Boy] Chapter 59: The Sleeping Dragon
🕑 Added 2026-01-09 00:01:16 +0000 UTCDisclaimer: This is a work of fiction and all rights for character, plots and settings belong to GRRM. I have no ownership.
A/N: I know some of you have been waiting for this chapter so we go straight into the aftermath of the battle at Sunspear. Enjoy! :D
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Year 300 AC
Sunspear, Dorne
Samwell Tarly remained on his knees in the wet, ruined sand, his hands hovering uselessly in the air as if he wanted to embrace the monster but feared burning his fingers.
The massive head of the dragon rested heavily on the beach. Up close, the creature was a landscape onto itself. The obsidian scales were cracked and scored by the beaks of krakens. Rivulets of dark, smoking fluid leaked from a wound near the jaw, hissing where they touched the ground. The eye that watched Sam was half-closed.
"How..." Sam choked on the word. He wiped his nose with a dusty sleeve, leaving a streak of mud across his face. "Jon… Jon, what happened? What is… this?"
It was the question of a boy looking at a world that had stopped making sense.
Jon released a breath. It was a heavy, rattling sigh that blew Sam’s hair back from his forehead. The gust washed over him, carrying the scent of a blacksmith’s forge and the copper tang of cooked meat.
"Later, Sam," Jon rumbled. It vibrated in the wet sand under Sam’s knees, low and groggy, like a man speaking from the bottom of a deep well. "Long road."
Sam laughed. It was a hysterical sound that bubbled up from his chest. Even as a nightmare of legend the size of a mountain, Jon still sounded like the Lord Commander after a double shift on the Wall, wanting nothing more than mulled wine and sleep.
The dragon shifted. The massive neck tensed, the spines along the ridge clattering together like iron pikes. The red eye narrowed, looking past Sam’s shoulder.
Sam spun around on his knees, his robes tangling around his legs.
Daenerys Targaryen stood there at a distance, staring at them.
She was a statue carved from salt and ash. Her silver-gold hair was a tangled mess, whipped by the winds of the battle. Her dress was stained with seawater and the black blood of the krakens. But Sam did not look at her dress. He looked at her eyes. They were wide, violet discs of pure shock, fixed on the dragon with a hunger that was almost terrifying.
In her right hand, she gripped a dagger. It was a simple blade, the one she had used to free Ser Loras, but her knuckles were white around the hilt. She looked hypnotized, drawn to the monster like a moth fluttering toward a torch, unaware that the flame would consume it.
She took a step forward. Then another.
Jon did not rise. He did not have the strength. He simply lowered his chin back to the glassed sand, the movement heavy and final. He did not roar. He did not posture. He spoke with the last ounce of his reserves.
"Greyjoy is missing."
The dragon took a long, rattling inhale. The ribs expanded like the hull of a great ship.
"Your fleet is here, Daenerys Stormborn. The rest... is yours."
The red eye closed.
"Jon?" Sam whispered.
The dragon exhaled.
Violet fire erupted from beneath the black scales. It did not burn outward; it consumed inward. The flames licked through the gaps in the armor, outlining the massive silhouette in a blinding purple corona.
The sound was of a glacier cracking in the deep winter, the sound of a thousand bones snapping at once.
CRACK-BOOM.
The air rushed in to fill the void. The massive black shape collapsed inward, casting its bulk away into some other place, some shadow world where magic slept.
Sam scrambled backward, crab-walking on his hands and feet, terrified by the sudden emptiness.
"Jon!"
Steam hissed from the crater in the sand. It swirled in the dawn light, thick and white, smelling of sulfur and cold stone.
Sam squinted, waving his hand to clear the vapor.
The steam dissipated.
Lying face down in the center of the glassed depression was a man.
He was naked. His body was long and lean, corded with muscle that twitched with fading tremors. His skin was pale, stark against the blackened sand, and he was covered in soot.
Sam crawled closer as the figure groaned, a sound pain. A human sound.
Sam saw movement from the corner of his eye.
Daenerys Targaryen was walking toward the crater. She moved with the stiff, jerky gait of a sleepwalker. Her eyes were locked on the naked man. Her hand was extended, the dagger still clutched in her grip, the blade gleaming in the rising sun.
She looked entranced. She looked dangerous.
Sam looked at Jon, helpless and unconscious. He looked at the Queen, armed and approaching.
He forgot she was the Mother of Dragons. He forgot she commanded an army of Unsullied. He forgot that her beast, Drogon, was looming somewhere behind her in the smoke.
He only knew that this was his brother.
Sam scrambled to his feet. He threw himself between the Queen and Jon. He fumbled at his belt, his fingers thick and clumsy, and ripped his own dagger from its sheath.
It was a pathetic thing, a knife for cutting apples, for skinning rabbits. Against a woman who rode fire made flesh, it was a joke.
But Sam held it up. His hand shook so hard the blade blurred.
"Stay back!" Sam shouted. His voice cracked, high and desperate. "Don't touch him!"
Daenerys blinked.
The command seemed to slap her awake. She stopped, her foot hovering over the edge of the crater. The trance broke. Her eyes cleared, the violet sharpening into focus.
She looked at Sam. She looked at his trembling hand, holding a dagger.
Then she looked down at her own hand.
She seemed surprised to find the dagger there. She stared at the steel as if she had never seen it before. Slowly, she lowered her arm.
"Really, Tarly?" Her voice was hoarse, raspy from the smoke, but it carried the imperious edge of House Targaryen. "Put that away. You have no need of it."
Sam swallowed. He glanced over her shoulder. Through the drifting dust, he saw the massive black shape of Drogon. The dragon was watching them, his head low, smoke curling from his nostrils.
"No," Sam said. He planted his feet in the sand. "But I'll use it anyway."
Daenerys stared at him. For a moment, her face was hard, the face of a conqueror who had burned cities. Then, something softened. A flicker of respect, or perhaps just exhaustion.
She sheathed her dagger. The click of steel sliding into leather was loud in the quiet morning.
"I am not going to kill him," she said quietly. She looked past Sam, at the scarred back of the man in the sand. "I just… just want to know what he is."
"He's my brother," Sam said. It was the only answer that mattered.
Before Daenerys could respond, a shadow fell over them.
The air grew hot and chaotic. Sam looked up and flinched.
Rhaegal landed right next to him.
The green dragon hit the sand with a heavy thud. He was bleeding from a few wounds where the kraken's suckers had torn his scales but Rhaegal was still a monster of bronze and jade.
He ignored Daenerys. He ignored Drogon, who hissed a warning from the dunes.
Rhaegal moved with a fluid, serpentine grace. He lowered his great head, his golden eyes fixed on Sam.
Sam froze. He lowered his knife, terrified to provoke the beast.
Rhaegal nudged him.
It was gentle, for a dragon. The snout, hot as a furnace door, pushed against Sam’s chest. It was like being shoved by a horse. Sam stumbled back, his boots slipping in the sand, forced away from Jon’s body.
"Hey!" Sam protested weakly.
Rhaegal ignored him. The dragon continued forward, sliding his bulk into the crater.
He curled his long neck around Jon. He tucked his tail in, encircling the unconscious man in a wall of bronze scales. He lowered his head, resting his chin on his front claws, positioning himself directly between Jon and the rest of the world.
The green dragon hissed.
It was a low, warning sound, directed squarely at Daenerys. His golden eyes narrowed, the pupils contracting to vertical slits.
He's protecting him, Sam realized with a jolt.
Daenerys took a step back, her face pale. She raised a hand toward the green dragon.
"Rhaegal?" she whispered. "Dohaerās."
The dragon did not serve. He did not move. He simply watched her, his body a shield, his breath a warning.
Sam watched the Queen. He saw the hurt in her eyes, the confusion. Her own dragon was barring her path.
Movement on the walls caught Sam’s eye.
The survivors were coming.
From the ruins of the Shadow City, from the broken gates of Sunspear, figures were emerging. He saw the glint of armor, the bright orange of Martell silks.
Obara Sand was limping through the debris, leaning on a spear. Areo Hotah walked beside her with his distinct longaxe. Behind them came Daemon Sand, his face a mask of dried blood, and Nymeria Sand, looking dazed.
And behind the nobles, the common folk. The people of the Shadow City who had not been dragged into the sea. They crept out of the dust like ghosts, silent and terrified, drawn to the beach to see the end of the world.
They stopped at the edge of the debris field. Hundreds of eyes fixed on the scene. The Queen. The fat man in black. The green dragon curled around a naked man.
Daenerys saw them too. She straightened her back. She smoothed her ruined dress. She pulled the mask of the Queen back over her face, hiding the shock, hiding the fear.
She looked at Rhaegal one last time. She realized she could not force this. Not here. Not now. The world was watching.
She spoke in High Valyrian, her voice soft but carrying on the wind.
"Keligon," she said. Stop. "I will not harm him."
Rhaegal let out a puff of smoke. He did not move, but the tension in his neck eased slightly. He settled deeper into the sand, his golden eye never leaving her.
Daenerys turned to Sam.
"Cover him," she commanded. It was not a request. "An audience approaches. We will not have our savior lying in the dirt like a common corpse."
Sam scrambled to obey. He unclasped his light cloak and hurried to the Jon's side.
Rhaegal watched him approach. The great eye tracked Sam, but the dragon did not hiss. He seemed to understand. He lifted his wing slightly, allowing Sam to reach the man within the circle.
Sam draped the cloak over Jon. He tucked it around his shoulders, covering the scars, covering the vulnerability.
He touched Jon’s arm. The skin was burning hot, fever-hot.
"I've got you," Sam whispered. "I'm here."
Jon did not stir.
"What... what is he?"
Obara Sand stood at the edge of the glassed crater. Her spear was lowered, the point dragging uselessly in the sand. She wasn't looking at the Queen. She was staring at the man wrapped in the grey cloak, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and reverence.
"Your great beast..." Daemon Sand whispered. The Knight of Godsgrace looked like a man who had forgotten how to hold his sword. "It burned. And then..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. He gestured vaguely at Jon.
A murmur ran through the crowd behind them. It wasn't anger. It was the low, terrified hum of a people who had just realized that the world was stranger and darker than they ever imagined. They shrank back from Rhaegal, huddled together like sheep in a storm.
Areo Hotah stepped forward. The Captain of the Guards did not tremble, but his knuckles were white on the haft of his longaxe. He looked at the crater, then at the Queen.
"Your Grace," Areo rumbled, his deep voice lacking its usual boom. "The city stands because of your dragon. We owe it our lives. But..." He pointed his axe—not in threat, but in confusion—at the unconscious man. "Where did the dragon go? And who is this man that sleeps in the green one's shadow?"
Daenerys turned to face them. She saw their fear. She saw that they were teetering on the edge of panic.
"The dragon is resting," Daenerys said, her voice projecting clearly over the sound of the surf. She chose her words carefully. "And the man... the man is the one who saved you."
"He is a sorcerer," Nymeria Sand whispered. She looked like a child who wanted to hide behind her sister. "A skinchanger. The old tales..."
The mood began to shift. The awe was curdling into suspicion. Fear makes men dangerous, and there were hundreds of terrified eyes fixing on Jon.
Sam saw Obara’s grip tighten on her spear. He saw the way the soldiers were whispering, pointing at the "demon" who wore a man's skin.
Sam stepped up beside Daenerys. He felt small next to her presence, but he forced himself to speak.
"He is no demon," Sam said, his voice trembling but loud. "He is a brother of the Night's Watch. He is the shield that guards the realms of men."
Nymeria looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "That doesn't answer how the unconscious man got here and the dragon disappeared to."
Sam didn't have an answer that wouldn't get them all killed. He needed to move their eyes. He needed a different monster.
He pointed a shaking finger toward the sea.
"The enemy is not gone!" Sam shouted.
He pointed past the breaking waves, where the wreckage of the Silence bobbed in the black water. Farther out, amidst the debris, heads were bobbing. Survivors. Ironborn reavers clinging to driftwood, trying to kick their way toward the shore.
"Look!" Sam yelled, desperate to turn their eyes away from Jon. "The krakens are dead, but the men who summoned them... they are still there. They are swimming for your shores!"
The distraction worked. The paralysis broke. The heads of the Dornishmen snapped toward the water. The fear in their eyes was replaced by something familiar. Something they understood. Hate.
"Ironborn," Obara hissed. The brittle shock vanished, replaced by the lethal focus of the Viper's daughter.
Daenerys seized the moment. She did not look at Sam, but she stepped into the space he had created.
"You heard him," Daenerys said. Her voice was ice and iron. "The Ironborn are broken, but they are not dead."
She looked at Obara Sand. She looked at Nymeria. She offered them an outlet for their pain.
"Hunt them down," Daenerys commanded. "Leave none alive. Come Samwell, let us take your Lord Commander to safety."
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The solar of the Tower of the Sun was a crucible of heat and silence, broken only by the rasp of labored breathing from behind the silk.
Daenerys Targaryen stood by the arched window, the heavy velvet curtains pulled back to invite a breeze that refused to come. Outside, blocking the light and the wind, was a wall of bronze and green scales.
Rhaegal was perched on the outer masonry, his bulk far too immense for the delicate Rhoynar architecture. Stone groaned and crumbled under his talons, sending dust drifting down into the courtyards below. His great head filled the main archway, blocking the exit to the balcony. His golden eye, slit-pupiled and burning with an intelligence that unsettled her, swiveled slowly, tracking every movement within the room.
The green dragon had lowered his snout to the floor, sniffing the air flowing from the sickroom. He let out a low, vibrating croon—a sound she had not heard since he was a hatchling.
She had told herself earlier, on the beach, that Rhaegal protected the man out of gratitude. The Beast had saved him from death and it was a debt of life. Or perhaps it was dominance, animals sensing a greater predator and submitting.
Rhaegal was not guarding her. Daenerys knew that to be the truth. He was guarding the man behind the veil.
A semi-sheer screen of Myrish silk divided the apartment, obscuring the bedchamber where the stranger lay. Through the fabric, Daenerys could see the silhouettes of two men moving with frantic, hushed urgency. Archmaester Marwyn was a bear of a shadow, his movements heavy and deliberate, while Samwell Tarly fluttered around him like a nervous moth.
"His heartbeat is thundering," Marwyn’s voice rumbled, muffled by the silk. "Like a hammer on an anvil."
"The fever is breaking," Samwell whispered back, the sound of water splashing into a basin following his words. "His skin is cooling. The wounds... Archmaester, look at the knitting of the flesh. I’ve never seen cuts close this fast."
Daenerys felt a jolt of surprise at the words, but she quickly steeled herself, chiding the reaction away. Surprised? The man had lit the sky in violet fire transforming from beast to man after wrestling a kraken into submission. To marvel at knitting flesh seemed foolish now. Nothing about Jon Snow should surprise her anymore.
Yet, the conflict gnawed at her, pulling her mind in two directions. She looked at Rhaegal, her green child, who watched the bed with such absolute devotion. This stranger had saved him. He had saved them all.
But he was a son of House Stark. The bastard son of Eddard Stark, the man who had helped tear her family from the Iron Throne. He was a wolf of the North, perhaps even their King by now, blood of the Usurper's dogs.
How could a wolf be a dragon? The logic refused to hold. A Stark should not burn with inner fire. A bastard of the North should not command the loyalty of her children. It was a riddle that terrified her if answered.
Who is Jon Snow truly?
Daenerys turned away from the veil, to look at Prince Doran Martell. The Prince of Dorne sat in his wheeled chair, his face grey and drawn, the gout in his joints likely screaming in this humidity. Yet he held himself with the stillness of a statue.
"The smoke from the city proper," Daenerys said, her voice steady, though her throat felt raw. "Did the fire spread?"
Doran looked up, his dark eyes weary. "No fire, Your Grace. The stone does not burn easily. But the carcass of the Kraken thrown by the blast landed on the weavers' district." He paused, his hands resting heavily on the blanket covering his legs. "It crushed six homes. Four families are buried in the rubble."
Daenerys closed her eyes for a heartbeat. The cost of war. The words were easy but the reality was anything but.
"I see," Daenerys said, opening her eyes. "I will see the survivors paid. Gold cannot replace the dead, but it can feed the living. We will rebuild what was broken. I will not have my arrival remembered only for the ruin it brought."
Arianne Martell was pacing the length of the solar, her silk skirts swishing with the sound of dry leaves. She stopped, her eyes darting to the veil, then to the dragon filling the window.
"Reparations are noble, Your Grace," Arianne said, her voice sharp. "But we are ignoring the knife at our throats. You call him a 'Brother of the Watch,' Samwell Tarly calls him a friend, but that tells us nothing of what he is."
"We know exactly what he is," Doran interrupted. His voice was calm, cutting through his daughter's agitation.
Arianne paused, turning to her father.
"He is the King in the North." Doran said, his eyes shifting to the veil. "And if I were to believe a few spies in the Riverlands, confirm it. Jon Snow is no longer just the King of the North. He is much more than a brother of the Watch."
Arianne’s eyes went wide. She looked at the veil, and the fear in her face melted into something slower, something hungrier. A slow smile curved her lips.
"The Riverlands too?" Arianne murmured. She smoothed the silk of her dress, her voice dropping an lower, rich with sudden interest. "Well. No wonder Roose Bolton lost. It is hard to flay a dragon, isn't it? I suddenly find myself much more interested in Northern politics."
She glanced at the bedchamber with a look that was less about threat and more about appetite.
"But King or not," Arianne said, shaking off the thought and gesturing violently toward the balcony, "that dragon out there... It is not looking at us with affection. It is looking at us like we are threats to its hoard. And the hoard is in that bed."
Ellaria Sand stood in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were cold, despite the stifling heat. "We have placed him in the heart of the Tower," she said, her voice tight with fear. "Is this wise, my Prince? If that dragon outside decides to free him, or if the man wakes with the same rage he showed the Krakens... the Old Palace will be our tomb. We are trapping ourselves with a monster."
Doran struck the arm of his chair, a sharp, wooden crack that silenced the room.
"He is the reason you are breathing, Ellaria," the Prince said. His voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of absolute authority. "He is the reason Sunspear is not sliding into the sea. If he wished us dead, he would have let the Ironborn take the city. He fought the horrors of the deep while we hid behind our walls. We do not chain our saviors."
"The man is under my protection, Lady Ellaria," Daenerys added, stepping into the center of the room. She drew herself up, wearing the face of the Queen she needed to be. "He is my guest. No harm will come to him, and no harm will come from him, so long as I command here."
The words felt hollow to her even as she said them. So long as I command here.
"And as to what he is," Daenerys continued, her eyes flickering to the veil where the King in the North lay sleeping. "I do not know."
The heavy oak doors of the solar groaned open.
Daemon Sand stepped through, his face still streaked with dried blood and dust, but he was pushed aside before he could announce the arrivals.
Ser Barristan Selmy strode into the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His white cloak was stained with soot, his armor battered, but his eyes were bright with panic. He swept the room for threats in a single glance, ignoring the Dornish royalty, searching only for her.
"My Queen!" Barristan breathed. Relief flooded his weathered face, softening the hard lines of the veteran knight. "We saw the battle from the bay. The krakens, the fire—" He stopped, composing himself, remembering where he was. "Are you harmed?"
Grey Worm followed him like a shadow, his spear leveled, his shield up. He positioned himself immediately between Daenerys and the veiled bedchamber, his eyes locked on the silhouette behind the silk. He did not know what lay there, but he knew it was the center of the room's tension.
"I am unharmed, Ser Barristan," Daenerys said, touched by their ferocity but needing to de-escalate the room. "Stand down. We are among allies."
Barristan hesitated, eyeing Rhaegal in the window, but he lowered his hand from his sword. "The beast does not seem convinced, Your Grace," Barristan said, nodding toward the dragon. "He is watching them as if he expects treachery. It relieves me to see him guarding you so closely."
The rest of her council poured in behind them.
Missandei entered with quiet efficiency, moving instantly to Daenerys's side, her eyes scanning her queen for injuries. Ser Jorah Mormont followed, looking dusty and wary, his hand never straying far from his weapon as he glared at the Dornish faces. Strong Belwas lumbered in, massive and scarred, his vest stained with salt spray. He found a bowl of dates on a side table and began to eat them, glaring at the Sand Snakes with open suspicion.
And finally, Tyrion Lannister.
The dwarf entered last. He was pale, his mismatched eyes wide and unblinking. He walked with a pronounced limp, favoring his left leg more than usual. He looked like a man who had seen something that had taken his understanding of the world, chewed it up, and spat it out.
The room bristled. Another Lannister in Sunspear was a match in a powder keg.
Nymeria Sand stiffened. She was leaning against a pillar, cleaning her fingernails with a dagger, but at the sight of the dwarf, she straightened. Her hand drifted toward the hilt of a second blade at her belt.
"The Imp," she said. She didn't shout. She just spat on the floor near his boot. "You have some nerve showing your face in the city after my father died trying to save you."
"Peace, Nymeria," Doran said, raising a hand. "We have larger concerns than old grudges."
Tyrion ignored the threat. He ignored the Sand Snakes entirely. He hobbled into the center of the room, his gaze fixed on the archway where Rhaegal’s golden eye watched him.
"Prince Doran," Tyrion said. His voice was uncharacteristically subdued, stripped of its usual armor of wit. "I had hoped to meet under better circumstances."
He looked around the room, his eyes catching young Trystane, but he spoke to the Prince.
"My niece," Tyrion said, his voice dropping. "Myrcella. Is she safe?"
Trystane stepped forward, protective but polite. "She is in the castle, Lord Tyrion. And she is safe."
Tyrion let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "Good. That is... good."
But his attention did not stay on the Prince. It drifted, inevitably, to the veil.
He turned to Daenerys, his hands clasping behind his back.
"My Queen," Tyrion said, his voice shaking slightly. "We saw the battle from the bay. I have seen wildfire burn ships on the Blackwater. I have seen men die in a hundred ways. But I have never..."
He stopped, swallowing hard. He gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the sky.
"Two titans," he whispered. "A dragon of black fire and a mountain of tentacles from the deep. They fought like gods. Like something from the Age of Heroes torn out of a book and thrown into the world."
He pointed a stunted finger toward the veil.
"And the dragon—it had arms. How is that possible? It grabbed the kraken like a man wrestling a serpent. Dragons do not have arms."
The room was silent. Even the Sand Snakes were listening now.
"We saw the explosion on the beach," Tyrion continued. "The purple light. We assumed the beast was dead. But you have a guest behind that curtain. And your green child is guarding him like Drogon would you."
Daenerys felt the weight of the secret pressing against her ribs. It was too big to keep.
"Pull it back, Samwell," she commanded.
Samwell Tarly emerged from behind the veil. He looked terrified, wiping his hands on a blood-stained rag, blinking at the assembly of warriors and lords. He reached up and pulled the silk divider aside.
The fabric rippled and parted.
Jon Snow lay there.
"This is the man who… was the Black Beast."
He was covered by a linen sheet to his neck. His face was pale, his dark hair damp with sweat and plastered to his forehead. He looked remarkably human. There were no scales. No horns. Just a man, battered and exhausted, sleeping the sleep of the nearly dead.
The scars on his face were stark against his pale skin. Three jagged furrows running down the left side, cutting through the eye.
Daenerys watched him. She noted the sharp lines of his jaw, the way his dark curls fell across his brow. He was striking, even in unconsciousness. It was a face carved by hardship, by cold winds and hard choices.
Nymeria tilted her head, a playful, dangerous smile touching her lips. "Well. He is certainly prettier than the Kraken. If he wakes up with fire in his blood, I wouldn't mind helping him cool down."
"Nymeria," Tyene warned.
Daenerys felt a cold flash of irritation. It wasn't just the lewdness. It was the possessive way Nymeria looked at him, like he was a prize to be won, or a meal to be devoured.
Tyrion walked closer. His boots clicked on the stone floor. He stopped at the foot of the bed, staring at the man. He stood there for a long moment, his mismatched eyes searching the features.
"Well," Tyrion said quietly. "The world really is a circle."
"You know him?" Daenerys asked.
"I know the brooding look," Tyrion murmured. "He wore it the last time I saw him. Standing atop the Wall, freezing in the wind, staring south at everything he couldn't have."
He turned to the room, a strange, crooked smile touching his lips—a mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.
"This is Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell. As a fellow outcast, I gave him some advice. And I do not know how I feel about the result."
Tyrion shook his head, glancing at the massive dragon filling the window, then back at the man.
"It seems he took the advice literally. He didn't just build armor. He grew wings."
Ser Jorah Mormont stepped forward, frowning deeply. "Ned Stark's bastard?"
Jorah looked from the unconscious man to Daenerys, confusion warring with suspicion on his face.
"What is he doing so far from the North?" Jorah asked. "And how..." He gestured helplessly at the man who had been a dragon moments ago. "How is this possible?"
"Samwell Tarly," Daenerys said sharply. "I wish to know everything there is to Jon Snow."
Sam jumped. He shuffled out fully from the shadows of the alcove, clutching his rag like a shield.
"He... he is a man of duty," Sam stammered.
"Duty?" Arianne walked to the bedside, looking down at the scars on Jon's face. "You speak of him as if he were a simple ranger, Maester Tarly. But simple rangers do not turn the tide of wars with fire and claws. Is he a man? Or is he a weapon?"
"He is neither," Sam said. His voice was shaking, but he stepped forward, placing himself between the Princess and his friend. "He is the shield that guards the realm of men. You saw what awaits us. If death comes for us, why can the living not have a champion of it's own."
The room went quiet. Sam realized what he had done—stepped in front of royalty—but he didn't move.
"He saved your city," Sam said, his voice gaining strength. "He saved all of us. I don't know how the dragon is part of him, or why. But I know Jon. He made a pact with the Wildlings to save them because he knew the real enemy was the cold, not the free folk. He is the most honorable man I know."
Sam looked down at Jon.
"If he is here... if he is like this... it is because he had no other choice."
Archmaester Marwyn stepped out from the shadows near the head of the bed. He wiped his hands on his heavy robes, his face grim.
"Whatever the case may be," Marwyn rumbled. "There is a strange curiosity written on his body."
He kept his distance from the bed, but he addressed the room with the authority of an Archmaester.
"I examined him while you argued about politics," Marwyn said. "The fire did not touch him but there are scars. Silver and old. One over the heart. One over the lung. One in the belly."
Tyrion frowned. "Those sound like fatal wounds, Archmaester."
"Indeed," Marwyn said. "Wounds that should have killed a dozen men. Yet his heart beats. And his blood is hotter than a forge—I burned my fingers just checking his pulse. I have read of some such things in the Book of Lost Books, of blood magic and resurrection, but nothing... nothing like this."
He shook his head, his heavy jowls wobbling.
"I cannot say he died. But I can say he has walked a path no living man has walked before."
Sarella Sand entered from a side door, slipping into the room like a shadow. She had been checking on Loras Tyrell.
"Ser Loras will live, Your Grace," Sarella said, her voice cool. "The maester says he will need weeks to recover, but he is awake. He is asking if everything was a dream but I couldn't answer him. I, myself am not sure if I am dreaming right now."
Tyrion’s head snapped up. "Loras? The Knight of Flowers is here? In Dorne?"
"He was a unwilling guest of Euron Greyjoy," Daenerys said briefly.
Tyrion shook his head, muttering. "The world has gone mad. Starks are dragons, Tyrells are in the desert..."
Sarella paused, looking at Jon Snow lying on the bed. Her dark eyes gleamed with intellectual hunger.
"Marwyn says the Starks have the blood of the First Men.," Sarella murmured. "Wargs. Skinchangers. If you mix that with the fire of Valyria... perhaps death is just a cocoon. Perhaps the dragon was always there, waiting for the wolf to die so it could be born. Fire and Blood."
"Fire and Blood," Daenerys repeated.
The words, her House words, triggering something sharp in her mind. She looked from the dragon in the window to the man in the bed.
"You all call him 'Bastard,'" Daenerys said, her voice cutting through the scholarly hum. "Over and over, you use that word. But a bastard requires a mother."
She turned her violet eyes on Samwell Tarly.
"Who was she?" Daenerys demanded. "Who was the woman who made the honorable Ned Stark break his vows? Who is Jon Snow's mother?"
Sam opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked helpless.
"A question that has plagued the Seven Kingdoms for twenty years," Tyrion said, stepping forward. He looked at Jon with a renewed curiosity. "I asked him once. He didn't know. Lord Eddard took that secret to the grave."
"We always assumed it was Ashara Dayne," Arianne said, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Jon's features. "Or perhaps the wet nurse, Wylla."
"It doesn't matter who—" Sam started to stammer.
"It matters," Daenerys snapped. "If he is—"
A heavy boot scrape against stone silenced them.
Ser Barristan Selmy had been silent.
The old knight stood near the foot of the bed, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He had been staring at Jon’s face since the veil was pulled back.
Daenerys watched him. She saw the change in his expression.
At first, it was confusion. Then, a dawning, terrified recognition. It wasn't disbelief; it was the look of a man seeing a ghost rise from the grave.
Barristan took a step closer. His hand trembled slightly, the leather of his glove creaking.
"The face..." Barristan murmured. It was barely a whisper. "The jaw... those are not Stark features alone."
Daenerys frowned. "Ser Barristan? What is it?"
Barristan did not answer immediately. He was studying Jon’s face with an intensity that made the room fall silent.
He turned to Daenerys. The look he gave her was not one of a knight reporting to his queen. It was the look of a man who has just seen the foundations of his world shatter.
"Your Grace," Barristan said, his voice hoarse. "I need to speak with you. Alone."
The urgency in his tone was palpable.
"Ser Barristan," Arianne interjected, "surely whatever you have to say can be said before the Prince of Dorne."
"No," Barristan said. He did not look at her. He looked only at Daenerys. "Alone. Now."
Daenerys felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the old knight, then at the room full of people.
"Everyone out," she commanded.
"Your Grace?" Jorah protested. "I will not leave you unguarded with—"
"Out!" Daenerys snapped. "Now. All of you."
There was a moment of hesitation. The Sand Snakes exchanged glances. Doran Martell gestured to his son, and Trystane began to wheel him out.
One by one, they filed out. Tyrion gave Jon Snow one last, lingering look before limping after the others. Grey Worm and the Unsullied backed out, their eyes never leaving the bed until the doors closed.
Sam hesitated, clutching his rag.
"You too, Samwell," Daenerys said, her voice softer. "Wait outside."
Sam nodded nervously and scuttled out.
The heavy doors closed with a thud.
Only Daenerys and Barristan remained in the solar. Rhaegal’s golden eye watched them through the archway, unblinking.
Daenerys walked to the bed. She looked down at Jon Snow.
"What did you see, Ser Barristan?" she asked.
Barristan took a breath. He looked at Jon, then back at Daenerys. His voice was heavy with the weight of decades of service, of secrets kept and memories buried.
"Your Grace," Barristan said. "I served your brother Rhaegar for years. I rode with him. I guarded his sleep. I knew his face better than my own."
He pointed a trembling hand at the man on the bed.
"This man... he has the Stark coloring, yes. The long face. But the jaw... the brow... the way the hair falls..."
Barristan swallowed.
"I am saying, Your Grace, that if I did not know better... I would say I am looking at Rhaegar Targaryen's son."
Daenerys stared at him. He had spoken the impossible, conjuring a ghost in the middle of the solar.
"Rhaegar's son?" she whispered. "Impossible. Rhaegar's son was murdered. His head was dashed against a wall by the Mountain. You know this."
"Aegon was murdered," Barristan said. "But Rhaegar... Rhaegar had secrets. He died at the Trident, whispering a woman's name. Lyanna."
He looked at Jon Snow.
"Ned Stark's bastard," Barristan whispered. "Ned Stark. The most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. He returns from war with a bastard? He refuses to name the mother? He hides the boy in the frozen wasteland of the North?"
Barristan looked at Daenerys, his eyes pleading.
"It was not shame, Your Grace. It was protection. If Robert Baratheon knew Rhaegar had a living heir... he would have crushed the boy's skull just like the others."
Daenerys looked at Rhaegal.
The green dragon was named for her brother. For Rhaegar.
And Rhaegal was guarding this man.
"Three heads of the dragon," Daenerys whispered.
She reached out, her hand hovering over Jon’s face. She traced the line of his jaw in the air. She had never known Rhaegar; he was a ghost made of stories and songs. But she had known Viserys.
Now that Barristan had said it, she could see the echo of her brother in the sleeping man. The sharp architecture of the cheekbones. The high, imperious brow. It was Viserys’s face, but stripped of the cruelty. It was the face of a dragon, tempered by the cold.
"We can only be sure when he wakes," Daenerys said. Her voice trembled. "But if this is true... if he is Rhaegar's son..."
She looked at Barristan, tears stinging her eyes.
"Then I am not the last," she said. "I am not alone."
Rhaegal let out a puff of smoke, a sound like a deep, contented sigh.
Comments
Winter
Can we please have jon fuck all of them just one time lmao cause hes a hero and a hero needs tending lots of it 😂 hes earned it the dornish gonna be tight that jon is rhaegars child
Justin Archibald
Fantastically written. I hope Jon knows how to handle these thirsty women. I mean a lot of men have been lost from this war, so repopulation efforts are needed.
Sylphrena
He's in Dorne. I'm sure everyone in the city wants to "ride the dragon" lmao
darklordjsmith
Jon is getting a large fellow of woman how want a ride a dragon Hehe Hehe (So jealous) Please we need more! more!! more!!!
Blake Thomason
Awesome chapter! Can't wait to see how this unfolds.
Manal Mqirage
Oooh hope she will not go down the road of: I am the queen, I deserve it blablablabla. Only Jon is worthy ! All Hail Jonny!
John Pinson
Real quality chapter, thank you.
Black Wolf
Why must you always leave chapters in a cliffhanger? CURSE YOU AQUA SKUNK!!! I love your stories, and look forward to more.
Sylphrena
More.
Neonxd 37
I need more!!!
Hpfanboi
love the way this chapter progressed.
