[Chapter Size: 4500 Words.]

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Third Person POV

Winterfell, 299 AC.

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He left the wooden crates with the charred bodies of the children. Despite them still being innocent children and despite condemning such crimes, he felt a little bad for feeling relieved when he realized that they were not truly his cousins inside those crates. This meant they were somewhere else and alive.

After all, they were his blood.

It was easy for Jon to deduce that they had probably escaped on the night of the riot. But Jon still needed to know what had happened that night, how they managed to flee, and who the strange person was—according to the servants outside—who had entered Winterfell and escaped along with, presumably, Cassandra.

“Mother… the word still sounded uncomfortable coming from Jon’s mouth. He seemed to never get used to it.

Jon returned for the second time to the statue of his mother.

Only twice had he been here to call her mother…

He had not come here before because of the confusion caused by the king’s presence, and Jon did not want to bring unnecessary trouble to his uncle if they saw him there at the time.

The last time he had been there was when he discovered the truth and called her mother for the first time… and almost crushed his uncle’s head with a punch out of rage for hiding this from Jon his entire life. He could still see the crack in the wall that had never been repaired, right in front of the statue.

“They say your statue does not do justice to your real appearance…,” Jon murmured to the carved image. “I am sure of that, I have already seen what you looked like in life… but I am still satisfied that they made something in your honor here. Even if it is a statue that has nothing to do with you…”

He still lamented that, had he known Lyanna was his mother, he would have lived practically inside the crypts in his free time when he lived in the castle, just to talk to her. But it had been a long time. Even so, he had wanted this truth much earlier, back when he spent nights crying and calling out for her; he wanted to know it was her, even dead, to pretend that she was watching over him, that she gave him attention that no one else gave him at that time. After all, he was just a bastard.

“I want to talk to you, even if it is only with this statue and you only answer me with your silence, in your rest in the other world. I wanted to tell you about my life, about what I have achieved, what I fight for, and about the people I love. About my family, you have 9 grandchildren and a tenth is coming in the next moons… However, I cannot do that now, mother. Maybe when this is over I will return to Winterfell and have proper time with you”, he said.

He stared at it for a while after that, in silence, paying closer attention to the statue, every detail, wondering if his mother had really been like the way it was carved, even though he had heard that she was not…. Then Jon noticed something behind the statue. His eyes narrowed. He moved closer, seeing a strange shape there, and when he touched it, he realized it was hollow. He realized that no other statue had the same shape at the back; Lyanna was the only one among the Starks’ cemetery in that crypt…

That did not seem to be her bones, since they were buried beneath the statue itself.

“What is this?”, he murmured. He did not think twice before pulling his arm back and punching the clay mixed with stone. The stones exploded, and he also felt wood breaking inside.

There was a chest there. Jon quickly removed all the dust and the pieces lying on top. He clearly saw the chest he had just broken open, and in the hole created by his fist, among the first papers inside, was the Targaryen symbol.

Quickly, he began destroying everything that held the chest in place. After removing the last supports, he pulled it out.

He placed it beside the statue and began to open it.

There were papers, letters, and a Targaryen cloak. Jon’s eyes widened, surprised by that.

“This has been here all this time…”

He wanted to read everything there immediately, but he did not have time.

He would do that when he found his cousins and took them to a safe place, Jon decided, closing the chest.

His eyes turned first to the castle above him. He quickly bonded with all the animals: the ravens, horses, the cats, and the dogs that were still there. There were ravens from that night, and even cats and dogs had witnessed the riot. It was easy to access their memories with his powers.

He saw everything. He saw the chaos take hold when the people of Winterfell themselves reached their limit after what happened to Ser Rodrik. Jon also saw his death in the memories, through the eyes of a cat, watching from the rooftop. That did not make him any less furious.

Even while cursing Theon with everything he could and wishing him every possible evil for his cowardly and pathetic act, Jon grieved for the death of Winterfell’s master-at-arms. Ser Rodrik was someone he respected. As strict as he was with Lady Stark’s orders, he never did anything extreme and was fair and honorable with him when he had the status of a bastard. He had trained him and never stopped teaching him, not even as a favor to Robb. Even at eight years old, Jon was already better with the sword than his cousin, the heir of Winterfell at the time, much to Lady Stark’s displeasure. Ser Rodrik never saw this as something bad the way the trout did.

That man deserved a much better death than that. Theon had proven to be just another damn Ironborn, as bad as any other: without honor, cowardly, and pathetic.

Killing, raping, and pillaging.

Jon relived the night of the attack. He saw a man enter Winterfell wearing a cloak and hide until night fell over Winterfell and the Ironborn began to celebrate, drinking.

Then this man acted. First, he eliminated some of the Ironborn men along the way. Next, he freed the Stark soldiers who had not been executed, armed the servants, and started the riot. Many Ironborn were killed, but even so, they managed to regain control of the situation, even with half the number that had entered Winterfell.

Jon identified the gray-haired man who had started the chaos. He saw him fleeing with Bran, Rickon, with Cassandra, and one more woman with a wild appearance.

‘So it was you…’, Jon thought, remembering the knight who had been absent from Lord Stark’s execution and whom even the king was searching for. He had already seemed like a deserter at that moment, trying to help Lord Stark escape, but thwarted by the Faith Militant.

Jon expanded his search to the forest and to the areas where the wolves had passed. He continued bonding with various animals and followed the memories of birds flying across the sky and small rodents running through the forest; he also bonded with nocturnal animals, expanding the search, with owls in their nests and wolves in their dens, quickly selecting the images.

He saw two more people joining the group, who already seemed to be waiting for them in the forest. The Winterfell group was clearly suspicious, but upon recognizing the two sons of Lord Reed, they headed north.

Still in the crypt, Jon organized all the memories he had received, looking for more information about the fugitive group. They continued moving north. They would not go to Deepwood Motte, due to the Ironborn siege outside the walls. So they would cut through the middle of the North and head toward the Wall. Everything indicated that. Jon commanded a large number of animals to find them; at the next moment, aside from those he already had under control along the path with Eragon up to here.

Jon left the crypts shortly after. His heavy steps echoed through Winterfell, passing by walls blackened by flames. Once again, he wished the worst upon that man called Theon Greyjoy, if he could not catch him at another time, for the arm Jon had broken in that courtyard when he was eleven would be nothing compared to what he would do.

“Those are not the Stark children.” The servants saw him advancing and approached him, lost. They sought hope, guidance. But Jon was not that person; after all, they had a king, they were Robb’s responsibility, not his—he was trying to save the world north of the Wall.

“How so, my lord?” They asked, surprised by the statement.

“I am saying that those are not my cousins. Immediately look for any pairs of dead or missing children in the region. You will find two of them. Despite, in the midst of all this confusion, many children having been killed, those bodies are not Rickon and Bran Stark, I guarantee it. Inform the North. Inform Robb Stark that, in the South, his brothers are not dead.” That was all Jon said.

He left the crypts with the chest in his hands and entered the godswood once more. Then, he left Winterfell through the secret passage. Shouts from soldiers and townsfolk echoed when they saw the enormous dragon, drawn by the thunderous sound heard before the landing. The dragon was about 10 to 15% the size of the castle, which made it immense and terrifying to anyone, being a legendary creature and so large.

“Stop screaming like that,” Jon said irritably, walking past the people who ran away from him as he approached the dragon.

He merely adjusted the chest better so it would not fall, and Eragon spread his wings before finally taking flight, rising with a thunderous roar, as the air reacted to the dragon’s enormous wings, with more than forty-five meters of wingspan.

It was so large that everyone there heard the sound of the air echoing through the wings. Even the city was able to hear the echo of the wings, and many people must have witnessed Eragon for the first time in the South — or for the second, due to the battle against Cannibal that some northerners had witnessed, though no one believed them when they said that two adult dragons had fought each other, while one of them was as large as a castle.

Jon left Winterfell behind quickly and soon could see the entire northern horizon. His eyes turned first to the north, to where his cousins and the fugitive group had gone. Still, before that, he needed to see one thing.

Something that tightened his heart just by imagining that this place too had become a victim of the Ironborn.

He headed directly east.

He arrived some time later and, as he feared, the farm was in complete chaos — or at least what remained of it.

Icehill lay north of Torrhen’s Square. As in the entire dominated region, all the surrounding farms, along with villages and small towns, had been attacked by the Ironborn. That area had been taken by looting and all kinds of horrific crimes. It did not matter how rich or poor the family was; they sought any kind of wealth, and Icehill was a rich farm and famous throughout the North, and the Ironborn must have heard a great deal about the place.

Of all the places in the North, that farm was one of the ones Jon held most dear. Seeing the barns, the houses, and everything partially reduced to ashes tightened his heart.

Those three families had no chance to fight. The Ironborn attacked when even the castles of the North could not hold, with their soldiers busy defending their own walls. A farm would have even less of a chance…

Jon moved forward slowly. The dragon landed in the middle of the destroyed farm, and the simple beating of its wings destroyed even more of the structures already damaged by fire, merely with the force of the wind caused by Eragon.

Jon dismounted from the dragon without saying a word. Eragon growled the entire time, feeling the fury of his rider. Jon looked at the farm, completely destroyed.

Eragon was so large that he was bigger than any house or structure, casting an enormous shadow over the place. Not that Jon noticed it; he only looked around at the place he had once left to continue his journey.

He took slow steps among the ruins, moving through what remained.

There was no grain left in the barn. The garden had been destroyed, burned after being looted. Jon went to the house. He said nothing, showed nothing, but the fury emanating from Eragon represented all the rage he felt inside.

He entered through the very opening created by the fire in one of the corners of the house. The building had been renovated; it was no longer as it used to be. Even so, Jon could swear he remembered when he was eight namedays old and spent time there, talking with those humble families, not knowing what the future held for him back then.

He remembered where the hiding place was and went to the spot where the trapdoor should be. The house had not been completely burned, and the shelter had been spared. That brought back the memory of a time when women and children had hidden there during a bandit attack, when he had been in that place.

The trapdoor was even more hidden than he remembered. Even so, Jon found it and tore it open with ease, breaking the lock and splintering the wood.

All he saw there was darkness. He created a flame and let it float. There was no one. Even so, he went in, hoping to find at least bones.

But there was nothing.

There were clear signs that the place had been used. There had certainly been food and supplies there, but everything had been taken. That indicated that part of the family — or perhaps all of them — had managed to hide and flee from there.

Jon left the shelter with the hope that this was true and returned outside the house, looking for animals to access their memories.

He saw glimpses of the chaos. Most of the animals had fled immediately, without time to observe everything. Even so, there had been death and destruction throughout the farm when the Ironborn arrived. Jon saw people he had known for a long time dying, while the animals escaped.

That tightened his heart.

Jon went to one of the most isolated corners of the farm. There, he found eight graves. There was a plaque with a name on each of them.

The man with whom he had formed the strongest bond had died simply for being there. “Lucas of Icehill. Died protecting his family,” the plaque read.

Another he recognized was Dult’s, the man who had wanted to adopt him and stop him from going to the Wall, the one who was most responsible for the farm and the older brother of Lucas.

“Dult of Icehill. Died fighting bravely for his family,” the plaque read.

Jon noticed a horse approaching the farm quickly, but he continued reading the graves.

There was Greg, head of the third Icehill family, as well as the wives of Greg and Dult, Andreza and Mari…

The sons of Dult and Greg had also been killed. André, Dult’s eldest. Matheus and Jain of Greg as well, all of them dying while fighting…

He had not imagined that leaving Arctic would make his heart weigh so heavily that morning. His hatred for the Ironborn had reached its peak at that moment. Even relieved to know that his cousins were still alive somewhere in the North, everything he witnessed there rekindled his fury.

“I will make them all pay. And I will make them all pay in the same way I swore to deal with Joffrey for the death of my uncle. I will deal with the Ironborn in a way they will never recover from! I swear before all the gods who are listening to me right now!”, Jon swore with hatred. He would have done it before a weirwood tree, but there was none in Icehill; the nearest one was in that magical forest a few miles from there.

He knew the Greyjoys had been given carte blanche by King Robert to increase their fleet, with the intention of having naval power to oppose Arctic.

They had more ships than in the Greyjoy Rebellion itself. There were more than six hundred ships spreading terror along the entire coast, which in the end the Ironborn ended up using against the Seven Kingdoms and not Arctic… especially in the North. Still, Jon would deal with them. He would leave them in such a miserable state that they would never try to rebel again.

The sound of the horse could already be heard; Eragon was finishing positioning himself between his rider and whoever was approaching. Jon forced Eragon to remain in place, behind the partially burned houses and barns. Whoever was coming had not seen the dragon as they advanced toward Jon.

Jon kept his gaze fixed on the graves. The man on horseback stopped at a certain distance, dismounted, and stared at him, even with Jon still having his back turned. Other horses were approaching.

The man took a hesitant step forward, drew his sword, and pointed it at Jon when he saw that stranger by the graves, wearing armor more gleaming than anything he had ever heard of in the fantastical stories of the Age of Heroes. Jon did not even look at him and knew this was not a warrior; he did not even know how to hold a sword, with it trembling.

“Who are you?”, the man asked, his voice tense.

Jon turned for the first time, ignoring the arriving horses, and stared at the man. With just his gaze, he made the man step back.

His instincts clearly told him that he should not face that man in gleaming armor; even so, his sword trembled as he insisted. He looked again at the graves, and a contained anger also took hold of him.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”, he repeated.

“I do not remember you,” Jon said simply, in a strangely calm tone, but those who knew him knew he was very angry.

The man seemed confused, unsure how to react. At that moment, the other horses arrived.

“Wait!”, exclaimed a woman who dismounted from the other horse holding a bow.

A young girl quickly got down from the horse and stepped forward. She did not aim the bow at Jon, because when she looked at him, her eyes widened. They had come running when they learned there was someone at the farm, expecting it to be a looter, taking their last belongings, or an Ironborn.

“I know you… I know those eyes!”, she said, trembling.

Jon looked at her, and a glimmer of recognition appeared in his gaze, as more riders approached.

“You are Dult’s daughter, if I am not mistaken. Your name is Mikaela,” Jon said. She was the same age as Jon. Back then, Dult had wanted to bind Jon to her through a future marriage when they stopped being children. The girl had had fantasies at that time.

Now she had become a young woman, and everything indicated that she was the wife of the man with the sword.

The girl nodded upon hearing her name and took a few steps forward, before being stopped by the man.

“Wait! What are you doing? This man is dangerous,” he said, keeping the sword pointed. To everyone’s eyes, Jon wearing Valyrian steel armor, with a handsome face and a kingly posture, his eyes shining, was suspicious to anyone who saw him; they would either act submissively or in a hostile manner. “Prepare your bow. He needs to answer why he is here,” he said as a threat.

“I would not do that if I were you,” Jon spoke calmly.

At that very instant, a growling sound echoed beside them.

Both of them startled and turned at the same time, seeing, among the burned houses, the head of a gigantic dragon emerge. Its neck was larger than the surrounding buildings, and its eyes were fixed on them.

Both screamed, terrified.

Jon asked Eragon to lower himself and turned his gaze back to the couple, who stumbled just from seeing Eragon and fell to the ground, trying to recover.

The horses approaching in the distance seemed hesitant upon seeing the dragon’s head as well, but even so advanced cautiously when they saw it hide again behind the houses.

“What is that… is it you, Jon?”, the girl with the bow murmured, while the man had completely lost his courage.

“I recently discovered what happened to the North. I feared for this farm, since it is not a castle. Now I see that the worst happened… I am sorry for everyone… For your parents and brothers… Mikaela. When did this happen?”, Jon asked, turning his gaze back to the graves.

“It was two moons ago. They came without warning, without anything. We managed to hide some of us. They looted everything, raped my mother and killed her, after killing my father and my older brother!”, the girl began to cry.

“We have been hiding ever since. This is Edrik Snow, my husband. He does not know you, but he certainly knows your stories. I ask forgiveness for his foolishness, but… what was that, Jon… It has been so long, 11 years…?”, she said, not knowing how to express herself, while she continued to cry.

“He is my dragon. I have a dragon, but that is a long story…”, Jon replied simply. At that moment, the other horses also stopped, and Jon saw a young man approach with a surprised look at Jon, almost trembling.

“It’s Jon,” he said to the others, who also came closer. This was Lorenzo, Dult’s second son.

“By the Gods… after so much time.” Another spoke. Mike, Dult’s third son.

“It has been a long time,” Jon replied, showing no emotion, staring at them.

“You have grown so much… look at that armor. What was that creature on our farm?”, another said, more childlike. It was Greg, the youngest son of Greg himself, not taking his eyes off the place where the dragon had been, with astonishment and even a glimmer of envy.

“Tell me: how many of you are there?”, Jon asked, cutting off any conversation. He did not want to waste time with reunions, not in that state of fury.

They looked at one another for a moment, until the oldest, Mike, stepped forward.

“It has been a long time. Most of us married. There are 6 adults and 3 children, one of them my son… camping at a spot in the forest for two moons, trying to survive. We were a large family, you know that. We had everything we could dream of… Now we have been reduced to only 6 adults and 3 children…”, he replied, looking at the five who were there, all armed with axes, swords, and bows. Even Mikaela carried a bow.

“And the rest? Dead or captured by the Ironborn?”, Jon asked.

“Yes. There are bodies we could not even recover to bury. I married Lara, but she was taken by the Ironborn!”, Lorenzo growled with pure hatred.

“My wife, Mari, Dult’s daughter, is with my son and Mikaela’s children at the camp taking care of them. We have 4 women taken by the Ironborn from the farm, and we were the only ones who managed to save ourselves… after hiding and fleeing the farm, while others did not have the same luck… We, peasants, cannot deal with the Ironborn horde,” pain began to surface in Mike’s voice.

“We had a prosperous life here, Jon. You helped us build this. Now our family has been destroyed. What will become of us?”, Lorenzo said.

Everyone lowered their heads immediately. There was hatred, sadness, frustration, and even despair in their eyes.

The North had been taken. Leaving there and seeking shelter through the center seemed like the only option, while the entire western part was being attacked by the Ironborn. Still, that also sounded almost suicidal, since the damned raiders were spread everywhere. They were only five fighters, incapable of facing even an equal number of Ironborn — men accustomed to battle.

Jon sighed. His eyes went to Eragon, then returned to the people in front of him and to all that remained of the farm: ruins and ashes.

“I cannot bring the dead back. Nor could I intervene, fighting my own war north of the Wall. I am sorry for what happened here. I am sorry for all of you.”

“It is not your fault, Jon. We would never blame you,” said the youngest, crying. “We blame the King in the North.”

That made Jon raise an eyebrow slightly. He had not expected to hear such aggression from common folk toward Robb, but with the losses caused by the Greyjoys even before Robb marched south, perhaps he should have devised a better strategy than simply raising all the banners to rescue his father and then remaining to avenge him.

Robb would lose the crown to the very people he needed to protect if he wanted to be King in the North. And he was failing miserably while waging a war bound to the riverlands, where they had also made him king of the Riverlands… a crown far heavier than a Stark could bear… After all, being King in the North is one thing, but King of the North and the Riverlands? He would have to relocate the Northern army south all the time, he could never truly hold the Riverlands for himself…

Jon should not have been surprised. All of this was doomed to fail. He wondered how long Robb would manage to hold out in the South, surrounded on all sides. If the Tyrells allied with the Lannisters, he would be crushed by an overwhelming army. Meanwhile, the North had been taken by the Ironborn, who had now even seized Moat Cailin.

The Northern army had only two choices: continue helping the Riverlands, leaving their own home vulnerable to protect the crown given to Robb, or advance north to try to reclaim their lands — which would also not be an easy battle, but would offer more chances of survival than facing a Tyrell–Lannister alliance. He would have to sacrifice the Riverlands.

Robb had made his choices, and everyone was paying for them. That was a fact. After all, Theon was no longer a hostage in Winterfell when he marched south.

“Now, I ask you to think about the future. At this moment, you need to survive,” Jon said after a moment of silence.

“Are you asking us to forget what happened here?”, Greg said, frustrated and hurt. “We have nothing left. Our family was destroyed, the farms burned. The only thing left to us is to pray that the Ironborn do not find us in the forest or see us on horseback while we look for food. We came here precisely because we heard something coming from the sky and then some structures breaking… and we went to check. We just did not imagine we would see… that and you…”

“My dragon,” Jon replied, pausing briefly. Then he continued.

“I do not ask you to forget the dead, nor the anger you feel toward the Ironborn. They deserve all the pain and all the death they have caused you. But I want to offer something. For that, we will have to fly beyond the Wall,” Jon said.

Eragon had enough space to carry those people, in addition to his cousins’ group. In fact, at that moment, Jon had already sent thousands of birds to search for them across the entire North even before leaving Winterfell.

And they found them.

The group was advancing through the mountains, almost reaching Umber territory.

———-

Here is just some information from the spreadsheets I have about the Icehill family, in case you do not want to get confused with the families.

IceHill Farm — Family Records

Dult’s Family

Head of one of the Families and General Head of IceHill

Category: Commoner, Farmer

Dult — Dead

Spouse: Andreza

Andreza (Wife of Dult) — Dead

Spouse: Dult

Andre (Son of Dult) — Dead

Spouse: —

Mike (Son of Dult) — Alive

Spouse: Mari (Daughter of Lucas)

Lorenzo (Son of Dult) — Alive

Spouse: Lara

Mikaela (Daughter of Dult) — Alive

Spouse: Edrik

Lucas’s Family

Head of one of the IceHill Families, younger brother of Dult

Category: Commoner, Farmer

Lucas — Dead

Spouse: Camila

Camila (Wife of Lucas) — Dead

Spouse: Lucas

Kal (Daughter of Lucas) — Unknown

Spouse: —

Mari (Daughter of Lucas) — Alive

Spouse: Mike

Greg’s Family

Head of one of the IceHill Families, Negotiator

Category: Commoner, Farmer

Greg — Dead

Spouse: Mari

Mari (Wife of Greg) — Unknown

Spouse: ???

Lara (Daughter of Greg) — Unknown

Spouse: Lorenzo

Lorizi (Daughter of Greg) — Unknown

Spouse: ???

Matheus (Daughter of Greg) — Dead

Spouse: —

Jairon (Son of Greg) — Dead

Spouse: —

Greg (Son of Greg) — Alive

Spouse: none

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