Dawn at Castle Black felt more like deep winter than anywhere else. Jon Snow tightened his Direwolf fur cloak, his knuckles white from gripping the icy ledges of the Wall—last night's patrol had found the remains of three wights at the edge of the Haunted Forest, their throats bearing deeper claw marks than usual, as if torn by something more ferocious. The wind whipped snow pellets against his helmet, making a faint crackling sound that reminded him of the popping embers in Winterfell's hearth.
"Lord Commander, a letter from Sam." Pypar's voice came from behind him, the boy's fingers red with cold as he handed over a scroll of parchment tied with twine. "The raven brought it from Oldtown. He said he found records about 'dragons' at The Citadel."
Jon took the letter, the parchment almost tearing in the cold wind. Sam's handwriting was still messy, yet it conveyed an irrepressible excitement: "...Rumors in the Free Cities say there's a woman in the East who rides dragons, liberating Slaver's Bay, called the 'Mother of Dragons,' seemingly a Targaryen descendant. Furthermore, travelers say they've seen a Northerner in her army, bearing the brand of House Bolton on his arm..."
"A Northerner?" Jon looked up sharply, snow melting into water on his eyelashes. The images of the Red Wedding suddenly crashed into his mind—Robb's blood-stained Direwolf banner as he fell, his mother Catelyn's throat slit, and the vague news from King's Landing that Sansa had become Ramsay Bolton's wife. He clenched the letter, his thumb brushing over the word "Targaryen," remembering Old Nan's stories: The Mad King's daughter had fled to the East, but no one had ever known her whereabouts.
"There's something else," Pypar added hesitantly. "This morning, a merchant arrived, fleeing from across the Narrow Sea. He said he saw a man wearing a dragon-sigil necklace in Yunkai, who helped the 'Mother of Dragons' win a battle, and he asked about the North, especially... news of House Stark."
Jon's heart sank. He turned and walked towards the command tower, his Direwolf, Ghost, following closely, its bushy tail sweeping the snow. The bonfire inside the tower had not yet died down, and a map of the North lay spread on the wooden table, House Bolton's red castle marked over Winterfell's location like a glaring scar. He took a small cloth pouch from a drawer, inside which was a handkerchief Sansa had embroidered for him when she was little; its edges were worn, but the Direwolf pattern was still visible.
"Targaryen..." Jon repeated the name softly. The Night's Watch oath echoed in his ears—"I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children"—but he was, after all, a Stark, even if only a bastard. If there truly was a Targaryen force in the East, if they were willing to fight Bolton and Lannister, perhaps... perhaps Sansa could still be saved, perhaps the North could return to Stark hands.
"Lord Commander!" came the shout from Maester Aemon's apprentice outside the door. "Bonfire signal from the Haunted Forest! It's three short, one long—Others are approaching!"
Jon immediately grabbed longclaw, the wolf's head pommel on its scabbard gleaming coldly in the firelight. Ghost was already letting out a low growl, its paws digging at the snow. He rushed out of the command tower; the Night's Watch brothers were hastily assembling, the iron tips of their spears glinting in the morning light.
"Split into three teams!" Jon's voice cut through the cold wind. "First team reinforce the breach in the Wall, second team take wildfire to the base of the ice wall, third team follow me on patrol—watch for wight movements, don't go alone!"
As the party trudged through the snow, Jon's thoughts drifted south. The "Mother of Dragons" Sam mentioned in his letter, the "man with the dragon-sigil necklace" Pypar spoke of, and the words of the fleeing merchant, pieced together like fragments in his mind. He remembered what Old Jon Arryn used to say: "Targaryen and Stark were once the Seven Kingdoms' staunchest allies." If these rumors were true, perhaps this connection across the Narrow Sea could be a glimmer of hope for the North.
"Lord Commander, look!" a Night's Watchman suddenly pointed into the distance. A plume of black smoke rose from the edge of the Haunted Forest, not the orange-red of wildfire, but an eerie grey-blue—the presence of an Other. Ghost suddenly charged out, barking furiously towards the black smoke, its fur standing on end.
Jon raised longclaw, its blade gleaming silver in the sunlight. "Prepare for battle!" There was no hesitation in his voice, but a question lay hidden in his heart: If the Targaryens in the East could truly bring the power of dragons, would it be enough to fight this winter that was about to engulf the world?
By the time the battle ended, the sun was already high in the sky. The bodies of three Others were incinerated by wildfire, the grey-blue smoke rising to the heavens. Jon stood in the snow, watching the burning remains, his fingers unconsciously reaching for his waist—where the House Stark sigil should have hung, but now he only had the black cloak of the Night's Watch.
"Lord Commander, that merchant is still waiting to see you," Pypar came over, handing him a warm piece of bread. "He says he has something important to give you, brought from Slaver's Bay."
When Jon returned to Castle Black, the merchant was sitting in a corner of the great hall, wrapped in a worn wool coat, a small wooden box in front of him. Seeing Jon enter, the merchant immediately stood up, reverence in his eyes: "Lord Commander, my name is Marko, and I fled from Astapor. This... was given to me by a gentleman wearing a dragon-sigil necklace, who said you would understand once you saw it."
Inside the wooden box was a blood-stained piece of cloth, embroidered with a faded Direwolf sigil, with traces of burning visible along the edges—exactly like the torn letter described in Sam's message! Beneath the cloth was a note, the handwriting unfamiliar but neat: "Bolton is not the Lord of the North. dragonflame may help the wolf pack rise again. If you need aid, the winds of Slaver's Bay are willing to blow towards the Wall."
Jon clutched the cloth, his thumb brushing over the blood-stained wolf sigil, suddenly remembering Robb teaching him to ride when they were children. He looked up towards the South; the outline of the Wall appeared exceptionally majestic in the sunlight, and in the distant East, perhaps a storm that could change the fate of the Seven Kingdoms was brewing.
"Marko," Jon's voice was deep but firm, "Are you willing to cross the Narrow Sea again? I have a letter to deliver to that gentleman with the dragon-sigil necklace."
The merchant paused, then nodded: "Yes, Lord Commander. As long as I can get away from Bolton and the Others, I'll go anywhere."
Jon walked to the desk and picked up a quill. He didn't write much, only drew a Direwolf on the paper, adding a small flame beside it—that was the symbol of Stark and Targaryen, an unspoken understanding across the Narrow Sea, and a hope against the winter.