"You speak of the North as if it were a monolith," Daemon said, breaking the silence that had settled over the Godswood. "But surely, once you returned with a dragon, they welcomed you? Northerners respect strength above all else."
"They respect strength, yes. But they value loyalty more. And to them, I was the Bastard of Winterfell who rode south with Robb Stark, only to abandon him when the war turned against us."
"You went to find your true family," Daemon countered.
"They didn't know that. And even if they did, they wouldn't have cared." Aenar looked up at the weirwood face, its carved eyes weeping red sap. "When I landed in White Harbor with Rhaegal, I expected skepticism. What I got was ice."
' The wind off the Bite was sharp enough to cut glass, whipping Jon's cloak around his legs as he stood on the docks of White Harbor. Behind him, Rhaegal crouched on the stone jetty, his massive green and bronze bulk heaving with each breath, steam rising from his scales. The smallfolk had fled screaming when the dragon landed, but the City Watch stood their ground, spears trembling in their hands.
Jon waited. He had sent a raven from Dragonstone, announcing his arrival and his intent to liberate the North. He expected Lord Wyman Manderly. He expected questions.
He did not expect the silence.
When the gates of the Wolf's Den finally opened, it wasn't a welcoming party. It was a column of soldiers, their armor grey and silver, their expressions hard as flint. At their head rode not the jovial Lord Wyman, but a woman clad in mail and leather, a heavy mace resting easily on her shoulder.
Dacey Mormont.
Jon's heart gave a painful lurch. In the beginning, before he had fled to Essos, they had found comfort in each other during the long, cold nights of the war camps. She had been fierce and funny, a warrior woman who could drink the Greatjon under the table and then kiss Jon until he forgot he was a bastard.
She looked different now. Harder. A scar ran from her hairline to her jaw.
"Dacey," Jon called out, stepping forward. "I—"
"Stop," she said right away, her voice like steel. She swung down from her horse, landing heavily. She didn't sheathe her mace. "You don't get to speak to me, Snow. Not yet."
She marched toward him, ignoring the dragon that hissed a warning behind him. Jon raised a hand to quiet Rhaegal. Dacey stopped three paces away, looking him up and down with eyes cold enough to freeze the White Knife.
"You look well," she said, the words dripping with venom. "Better than King Robb looked when they sewed his wolf's head onto his shoulders. Better than my mother looked when they cut her throat."
"Dacey, I..." Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. "I am sorry for your loss. Lady Maege was a great woman."
"Don't say her name," Dacey snarled, taking a step closer. The head of her mace hovered dangerously close to his chest. "Where were you, Jon? When the Freys turned their crossbows on us? When the Boltons drove their daggers into our backs? Where was the White Wolf then?"
"I was... away," Jon said weakly. "I had to go to Essos."
"Away," she repeated, mocking him. "While we bled. While we died. You left us. You left him." Her voice broke on the last word, and for a moment, and for a moment, he could almost see the tears in her eyes. "We loved you, Jon. We accepted you. Robb... he planned to legitimize you. Did you know that? He wanted to make you a Stark."
Jon felt like someone had slapped him in the face. "No," he whispered. "I didn't know."
Jon wondered in that moment what happened to Robb after he left, it had been a difficult decision, but Robb had given him no choice; he had to leave; he could not stay there anymore, and he wondered, perhaps, after he left, maybe Robb had a change of heart, but it was too late now. A change of heart cannot bring back the dead.
"He died believing his brother had abandoned him," Dacey spat. "So don't come here with your dragon and your foreign queen's banners and expect us to kneel. To us, you're not a savior. You're a deserter."
"I didn't desert him because I was a coward," Jon said, his voice rising. "I left because... because I had to."
"Why?" she demanded, getting in his face. "Give me one reason, Jon. One reason that justifies leaving your King to die alone."
Jon looked at her, seeing the pain and betrayal in the eyes of the woman he had once held in the dark. He knew there was no point to it, what he had done, what Robb did. It mattered to him, but not to her. To a Northwoman, blood and loyalty were the only truths.
"We had a downfall," he said finally, the lie tasting like ash. "I lost my way."
Dacey stared at him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. Whatever she was looking for, she didn't find it. She spat on the ground at his feet.
"My mace fights for the North," she said, her voice dead. "It fights for the memory of the Young Wolf. And it fights for the last Stark blood. If you can help us kill Boltons, I will march with you. But do not think for one moment that I follow you, Jon Snow. I follow the dead."
She turned her back on him and walked away, and Jon felt the cold more deeply than he ever had felt at the Wall. He followed behind her, knowing he had to talk with Lord Manderly.'
"Why didn't you lie?" Daemon asked, his brow furrowed as he listened in the Godswood. "You could have told them you were on a secret mission for Robb. That he sent you away to find dragons. After all, they knew about your true parents when you returned North, and you could have said that you told Robb the truth before everyone else and Robb send you to Essos in hopes of making an alliance with Princess Daenerys to get her dragons to their side. They would have believed it, seeing Rhaegal."
Aenar shook his head. "You don't know the North, Father. Lies don't work there. If you lie, it freezes in your throat and chokes you. They knew I left. That was the only truth that mattered to them."
"So Dacey Mormont hated you."
"She despised me," Aenar confirmed. "But she hated the Boltons more. And she needed me to find the one thing that could unite the North."
"Rickon Stark."
"Yes. At the time we thought Bran was dead. Sansa decided to stick around with Littlefinger in the Vale. We thought Arya had married Ramsey Bolton. But Rickon..." Aenar shivered, and it wasn't from the night air. "I asked Lord Manderly where the boy was. He took me into the Wolf's Den, cleared the room, and whispered one word that made my blood run cold."
"Skagos."
''' The island rose from the shivering sea like a jagged tooth. Even Rhaegal seemed uneasy circling above it. Skagos. The Isle of Unicorns. The Isle of Cannibals.
Jon stood at the prow of the Manderly ship, his hand gripping the rail until his knuckles turned white. "Are you sure he's here?" he asked the captain, a grim man named Davos Seaworth whom Manderly had employed for his smuggling skills.
"That's what the mute girl indicated," Davos replied, eyeing the coastline warily. "Though why anyone would bring a child to this hell is beyond me."
They made landfall on a pebble beach that smelled of rot and old seaweed. Jon went ashore alone, telling Davos to keep the ship ready. He and Ghost climbed the treacherous goat paths, Rhaegal shadowing him from the clouds, until he found the cave system Davos had pointed out.
The entrance was littered with bones. Some were animals. Some... were not. After an hour more of searching and with Ghost's help, he finally found him.
"Rickon!" Jon called out, his voice echoing into the dark. "Rickon, it's Jon!"
A low growl answered him, vibrating through the stone floor. From the shadows emerged a beast that looked more like a nightmare than a wolf. Shaggydog had grown monstrous, his black fur matted with filth and dried blood, his eyes burning with green fire. He was the size of a warhorse, muscles bunching as he prepared to spring. He was even bigger than Ghost now.
And beside him stood a boy.
Rickon Stark was eight years old, but he looked like a wildling changeling. His hair was a tangled mane of auburn down to his shoulders, and he wore skins that had been crudely stitched together. He held a spear made of driftwood and sharpened bone, and his eyes—Tully blue, like Robb's—were completely devoid of recognition.
"Rickon," Jon stepped forward slowly, showing his empty hands. "It's me. Your brother."
The boy cocked his head, sniffing the air like an animal. "Brother?" His voice was a rasp, unused and guttural. "Jon gone. Robb gone. Mother gone."
"I'm back," Jon said gently. "I'm here to take you home. To Winterfell."
Rickon bared his teeth in a snarl that perfectly mimicked his wolf. "Home is here. We eat here." He gestured to a pile of carcasses in the corner. Jon tried not to look too closely at what kind of ribs were bleaching there.
Shaggydog lunged then, snapping his jaws inches from Jon's face. Jon didn't flinch, didn't draw his sword. Ghost appeared in front of Jon, and Shaggydog seemed like it wanted to kill Ghost until Rickon told him to come back.'''
"I stayed for a week," Aenar told Daemon, his voice hollow. "Seven days in that damp, reeking cave. I slept on the stone floor. I ate raw seal meat because Rickon refused to cook it. I let Shaggydog snap at me and test me."
Day by day, the boy watched him. Jon told him stories of Winterfell, of the crypts, of playing in the courtyard. He sang songs, though Rickon clamped his hands over his ears and screamed the first time he did.
It wasn't affection that won him over. It was the dragon.
When Rhaegal finally landed on the ledge outside the cave, carrying a dead elk, Rickon didn't hide. He walked right up to the snout of the beast, fearless in his madness. He touched the hot scales, and for the first time, he smiled. It was a terrifying smile, full of sharp teeth and bloodlust.
"Big wolf," Rickon whispered, looking at the dragon.
"A dragon," Jon corrected. "He can help us take back our home. He can help us kill the men who hurt our family."
That got through. The concept of killing. Rickon turned to Jon, his eyes clearing for a brief second.
"Kill them all?" he asked.
"Every last one," Jon promised.
The Manderly ship was waiting. When the Northern lords saw Rickon Stark descend the gangplank at White Harbor, holding a bone spear and flanked by a demon wolf, they didn't cheer. They gasped. They saw what Jon saw: A Wild Boy.
They rallied to him instantly. Not to Jon Snow, the oathbreaker. But to the Wild Wolf who promised to eat the hearts of their enemies. '''
"We marched on Winterfell within the month," Aenar said. "The snows were deep, but the fire in the North burned hotter. Houses Umber, Glover, Cerwyn, Mormont, Hornwood, many others... they all came. Not for me. For him."
"And the Boltons?" Daemon asked. "They held the castle."
"They held a tomb," Aenar corrected. "By the time we arrived, Ramsay Snow was already dead."
"How?"
"Roose," Aenar said. "The Leech Lord was cold, but he wasn't stupid. He knew Ramsay was a rabid dog. When Walda Frey gave him a trueborn son, Ramsay became a liability. The official story was a hunting accident. The whispers said Roose fed him to his own hounds to save the meat. Others said he flayed him just to see if Ramsay screamed as loud as his victims."
"Did he?"
"I hope so," Aenar said darkly. "But Ramsay's death didn't save Roose. He thought he could hold Winterfell against a siege. He didn't account for dragons."
'''The Battle of Winterfell wasn't a battle. It was an execution.
Jon flew Rhaegal high above the grey walls of his childhood home. He saw the Bolton banners flapping in the wind—the flayed man on pink. He felt no nostalgia, only a cold, focused rage. Below him, the Northern army was a dark stain on the white snow, chanting Rickon's name.
"Dracarys."
Rhaegal didn't need to melt the stone. He just needed to break the gate. A single blast of green-gold fire turned the ironwood heavy doors into kindling. The portcullis melted like wax.
The Northern army poured through the breach like a flood. The Bolton men, terrified by the dragon and demoralized by the sheer ferocity of the attack, broke almost immediately. Many threw down their swords. Others opened the inner gates, hoping for mercy.
There was no mercy.
Dacey Mormont led the vanguard, her mace rising and falling, smashing pink shields and the skulls behind them. Shaggydog tore through the courtyard, a black shadow that left severed limbs in his wake.
Jon landed Rhaegal in the Godswood, dismounting and rushing to the Great Keep. He found Roose Bolton in the Great Hall, sitting in the high seat that had belonged to Eddard Stark. He was drinking hippocras, calm as a frozen lake, while his wife, Fat Walda, sobbed in the corner clutching a bundle.
"The bastard returns," Roose said softly, setting down his cup. "I suppose you want my head."
"I don't want anything from you," Jon said, his sword in his hand. "But the Lord of Winterfell does."
They dragged them out to the courtyard. The snow was trampled into red slush. The Northern lords formed a circle, their breath misting in the air. In the center stood Rickon Stark.
He didn't look like a lord. He looked like a savage king from the Dawn Age. He poked at a dead Bolton soldier with his toe, then looked up as Jon and the guards brought Roose, Walda, and the baby forward.
Roose Bolton was forced to his knees. He looked at Rickon with mild curiosity.
"So," Roose said. " The little wolf survives."
Rickon stared at him. His eyes were flat, dead things. He looked at Walda, who was wailing, begging for the life of her child.
"Please!" she cried. "He's just a baby! Please, Lord Stark!"
Jon stepped forward. He felt sick. Roose had to die, yes. But the woman? The child?
"Rickon," Jon said urgently, keeping his voice low. "The man dies. He betrayed our family. But the woman and the child... they are innocent. We don't kill babes in arms. Your Father would never want this."
Rickon turned his head slowly to look at Jon. It was the look of a wolf interrupted at a kill.
"Bolton blood," Rickon rasped.
"He's a baby," Jon pleaded. "Send them to the Silent Sisters. But don't do this. Father wouldn't—"
"Father is dead," Rickon interrupted. His voice was stronger now, more assured. "Mother is dead. Robb is dead. Bran is dead. Who we thought to be Arya was just Jeyne Poole, so Arya is dead too. Because of him." He pointed a dirty finger at Roose.
This hurt Jon more than anything; he had been fighting like hell to make sure Arya was brought to them, but the spy they had inside Winterfell had been able to sneak out the girl who was supposed to be Arya, once she was brought to White Harbor. Instead of a happy reunion, it was a tragedy. She was not Arya. She was Jeyne Poole, Sansa's friend. Jon's heart had been crushed that day.
"The child is innocent," Jon tried again.
Rickon ignored him. He looked at Shaggydog, then at the Umber men holding the prisoners.
"Kill them," Rickon said. "All of them."
"Rickon, no!" Jon shouted, stepping between the executioners and Walda.
"Do it!" Rickon screamed, a child's tantrum with a king's authority. "I am Lord of Winterfell! Kill them! Feed them to the dogs!"
The Umber men didn't hesitate. They hated the Boltons more than they feared Jon's dragon, and Jon, despite his words, didn't want his little brother for this. One of them stepped forward and drove a spear through Roose Bolton's chest. The Leech Lord didn't make a sound.
Another man grabbed Walda. Her screams were cut short by the slash of a sword. The baby...
Jon looked away. He couldn't watch. He heard the wet thud, the silence that followed. He felt the bile rise in his throat.
When he looked back, the bodies were heaped in the snow. Shaggydog was sniffing at the blood. Rickon walked over to the corpse of Roose Bolton. He stood over the man who had orchestrated the destruction of their family.
Rickon looked up at Jon, his face splattered with the blood of his enemies. He didn't look horrified. He looked satisfied. '''
"You asked why," Aenar whispered in the Godswood, the memory making him tremble. "You asked why I let it happen. I tried to stop it. But the North... the North had been bleeding for too long. They wanted an end to it."
"He was eight years old," Daemon said, his voice quiet. "And he ordered the death of an infant?"
"He did." Aenar leaned his head back against the weirwood. "I asked him afterwards. I asked him how he could do it. How he could kill a baby."
"What did he say?"
Aenar turned to look at his father.
"He looked at me with those dead, blue eyes and said: 'A naked man has few secrets. A flayed man has none. But a dead man... a dead man betrays no one.'"