Chapter Sixteen
The Dragon's Shadow
Winterfell had grown quiet after the feast, but quiet did not mean peace. Rumors traveled faster than snowflakes in a winter storm: the girl who could make crops bloom in frozen soil; the woman who healed with a single potion; the "Green Witch" who walked beside Jon Snow as if they were equals.
Elara felt the weight of countless eyes wherever she went — eyes that did not see her as a person, only as a phenomenon, a curiosity, a potential threat. Lords whispered in halls, smallfolk peeked through shuttered windows, soldiers measured her with wary glances. She moved through Winterfell with calculated calm, every step and gesture deliberate. Yet beneath the surface, her hands trembled slightly whenever she adjusted the warmth in her inventory, subtle shifts in her power that no one would notice — except perhaps Jon, who could always read her better than she anticipated.
The first sight of Daenerys Targaryen changed everything.
The dragons appeared high above the walls, circling with wings that blocked out the gray winter sky. Shadows fell across courtyards and towers, shifting and pooling like liquid night. The largest of them dwarfed even Winterfell's tallest spires, the beat of wings vibrating faintly through stone, echoing through every chamber and hall. Their presence was impossible to ignore, a living embodiment of fire and power that reminded Elara of just how fragile life was here.
Her stomach twisted. In her world, dragons had been stories, pixelated dangers that could not hurt, creatures confined to code and imagination. Here, they were flesh and fire, capable of ending lives in an instant, capable of incinerating everything she had come to care for.
"She watches everything," Jon whispered, stepping close, shadowed by Ghost's silent, watchful form. The direwolf's red eyes glinted in the dim winter light, muscles coiled, alert to every movement and sound.
Elara nodded, gaze fixed on the dragons and the queen riding beneath them. "And judges everything she sees," she said softly.
Daenerys' violet eyes met hers for a brief, piercing moment. There was danger in them, yes — the kind of sharpness that could slice through men and mountains alike — but there was also curiosity, recognition. Power sizing up power, calculating, testing. Elara felt her chest tighten, the familiar pulse of caution thrumming in her veins. She did not know what the queen would do if she challenged her. And she feared she might find out.
Jon's hand brushed hers, a grounding touch, fleeting but deliberate. The snow swirled around their boots, indifferent to kings, queens, or witches. The cold reminded her that the world was real — unresettable, finite, and unforgiving.
"You're unnerving her," Jon said quietly, voice low enough that only she could hear, calm yet threaded with tension.
"Perhaps," Elara admitted, holding the queen's gaze across the courtyard. "Or perhaps she's unnerving me."
Jon's expression darkened slightly, shadows flickering across his gray eyes. He studied her carefully, as though weighing what it meant to be tethered to someone like her. "You can hold your own," he said at last, a faint smile tugging at his lips. But the smile did not quite reach his eyes — there was concern there, protective instinct, and unspoken understanding.
The dragons shifted above them, casting momentary darkness across the snow-covered battlements. Their enormous wings beat in slow, deliberate rhythm, the vibrations rattling stone and sending loose snow into swirling eddies. Elara could feel the shadow of power pressing down, a reminder that she was small in the presence of true destruction, and yet strangely, her own power felt tethered to theirs — a quiet, stubborn counterpoint.
Ghost growled softly, stepping closer to her, a silent promise of loyalty. Jon's hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, brushing hers again, a tether in the storm of expectation and fear. The wind whipped around them, driving snowflakes into their hair and coats, yet they remained unmoving, grounded in a shared understanding.
Elara felt her inventory pulse faintly in her mind, the Return Scepter humming, the Life Elixirs shimmering with potential. She could flee, leave this storm behind, retreat to a world that did not demand consequences, did not test her limits. Yet something rooted her here — the stakes, the people, the fragile shoots of life she had coaxed into being, and the growing tether between her and Jon.
"You will have to prove yourself," Jon murmured, his voice almost lost in the wind. "Not just to her… but to them. To the North. To Winterfell."
Elara's lips curved slightly, not in fear, but in acknowledgment. "I know. And I will. But I won't let her — or anyone — dictate how I live."
Jon exhaled, tension threading through his posture, and finally, a trace of humor flickered in his gaze. "Then at least I know you're dangerous in more than one way."
The dragons wheeled above, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the courtyard and beyond, yet below, two humans stood side by side, tethered by trust, choice, and something neither fire nor frost could touch. And in that moment, for all the danger above, the frost below, and the whispers of Winterfell's lords, Elara felt something new: that she might not only survive this world — she might begin to belong in it.
The snow fell heavier, flakes catching on eyelashes and cloaks. And in the shadow of dragons, amidst whispers and awe, the witch and the man who never wanted a crown stood together, ready for whatever fire might come.