Chapter Text
Jon wondered for the first time since he was young what exactly his purpose was. As a bastard of Lord Stark, it had been one of self-pity and honor. He would join the Night’s Watch and serve the realm, earning his honor, which had been stripped from him upon conception. When his brothers had elected him Lord Commander and the threat in the North was laid plain, he had thought he was born to do what the Starks before him had done. Be the vanguard and drive back The Others.
After learning his heritage and letting Melisandre’s traitorous tongue convince him, he had even briefly thought himself to be the Promised Prince. That was over now. Melisandre was dead. Daenerys was dead. His sisters all dead. Whatever Bran had become may have escaped to hide in some other shriveled-up sanctuary of man or perhaps not. Perhaps his entire family was dead, both the Starks and the Targaryens.
Jon did not care to find out. He had stayed in King's Landing when so many fled further south. He was determined to make a last stand and turn the tide. Daenerys had been too. He angrily thought of the poor, stupid, beautiful girl. But she, like so many others, had proved themselves in the end. He led the defense from the ground, held the city, and managed the men and mobs. She rained dragon fire down on the armies of the dead.
What did it matter in the end? A crazed servant had slit her neck while she rested, believing the Drowned One had told her that The Others were a punishment against the Targaryens.
The stupid girl had not even been strong enough to give Daenerys a quick death, having not cut her neck deep enough. Daenerys had stumbled into his room, her hand holding her neck as blood sprayed everywhere in the middle of the night. He knew she was dead the moment he saw her. But she stumbled and met him halfway. Daenerys had tears in her eyes as she bled out and refused to look anywhere but him.
After Daenerys had died and Drogon had fled to only the gods knew where, it was over. They had held out for another day but no longer.
Jon had tried to escape through Maegor’s tunnels and out onto the shore below, but two white walkers had come upon him quickly enough.
Jon fought with everything he had. Had he not already been so tired and injured, he may well have won. But the inhuman creatures made few mistakes under normal circumstances and fewer when he fought at half strength.
“Fuck you.” He cursed as one stabbed him in the back of his knee and he collapsed on the leg.
In his last moments, he could not help but wonder where everything went wrong. Daenerys' death had been the final nail, but it was only a matter of time before one of them was killed on the battlefield. The Others had simply gathered too much strength.
He thought mayhaps the loss of Moat Calin was their final chance. It held something strange, something from a long-gone era, mayhaps even stranger than Winterfell. He had never figured the fortress out… He knew Daenerys not coming to their aid earlier was a major cause of their defeat. She had her reasons, of course. Nobody could understand the threat, not until they saw it with their own eyes, and she had been too distracted to look.
The two Others did not toy with him. He had managed to deflect their first strike from the ground, but a second came immediately after. It pierced him in the heart and Jon had a fit of familiarity. This had already happened. The White Walker kicked him back and he felt the cold sea encompass him like a warm blanket.
Where had everything gone wrong?
…
Jon slowly opened his eyes and was taken aback by how clear the sky was. It was cloudy and foggy, but clear. No snow or ice was falling like an endless torment.
Jon stared absently for a long time as he took in his sensations. The air smelt salty with strong hints of brimstone. He was pleasantly surprised by how warm it was, chilly, but not the cold he had grown used to. The wind was gentle and he lay with his legs submerged and unsubmerged by the rolling waves.
Where was he? He wondered before wondering how he had wondered that. Jon’s brows furrowed as he held up his hand to look. After a moment, he sat up and looked around. He was still alive, he realized. How could that be? It was not his first brush with death but who had revived him this time? Nobody was around. Jon forced himself onto his feet and his still-aching thigh. He leaned down to where the wound had been and felt nothing but a healed wound. Taking his hand away and looking at his fingers, he found no blood.
Jon looked around. He had been here before. Not King’s Landing. Where could it be so warm in Westeros? It had to be an island. Dragonstone, he realized immediately, feeling stupid for it having taken so long.
The Dragonmont jutted out in front of him with nothing but the rocky shore surrounding him. He must be on the far side of the island closest to the volcano, as there were no smoke plumes or signs of activity from what he could see.
Had he truly washed up hundreds of miles away? How did he survive? Truly, how had the currents even taken him that far away from shore?
Jon began walking inland as the shore was too rocky to follow the coast. He had never been to this part of the island and knew none of the paths. He would have to be careful to avoid snapping his ankle in some crevice.
Essos. He would head to Essos. There was nothing left to fight for. The Starks were dead. Daenerys was dead. All his old friends on The Watch were dead. Yet for some unknown reason, the gods had seen to that he continued to survive. Perhaps that was his purpose: to survive. To hold on, no matter what. Like a tick or a cockroach.
He had been walking for about two hours when he finally found some evidence of activity. Melted rock left behind by one of the Targaryen dragons. It might have been the effect of one of Daenerys’ dragons.
The rocks had burned and fused to create a flat surface about two hundred and fifty feet in diameter. The flat surface led into an even larger cave opening. Jon briefly wondered which dragon this lair had belonged to as he passed through. It was too big for one of Daenery's dragons. Perhaps it was Balerion’s.
Jon was at the halfway mark when he heard a low guttural growl echo off the cave entrance walls. He stiffened and glanced over. He had not considered that another beast would take over a dragon’s home. What beasts even lived on Dragonstone?
He felt his chest tighten as he heard rocks fall loose and hit the ground as something large moved from within the cave. He reached for Longclaw before cursing himself. The sword was gone, lost at sea most likely. Jon considered whether to run or stay as the beast came closer. Some animals attacked when their prey fled, yet wouldn’t if they held their ground.
But if this was its lair…
He had made up his mind to run when he saw a large black snout stick out from underneath the shadows. It sniffed loudly before lifting up to about 40 feet in the air. “Drogon?” Jon asked.
The familiar sight was comforting yet not. Had Daenerys still breathed, even without her, he may have had some confidence in survival. With her dead, why would the dragon spare him?
Jon thought about making a break for it; perhaps he could duck behind or under some rocks. It was a stupid idea, but stupider than just standing there?
Then another idea occurred to him, worse than any others and like a plague, it spread and consumed him quickly. Why even fight it? Why struggle? He may be resilient but there was no way he would survive Drogon’s jaw strength or his flame.
As suddenly as his fear and adrenaline had come, they fled him and he was left standing there calmly, accepting of whatever was to come. The snout poked out further and Jon could tell it was him the beast was smelling. Perhaps he still smelled of Daenerys. He wondered if that would make Drogon want to eat him more.
Jon dropped his hands to his sides and stood up straight. He had fought, he had lost, he had fought again. He was tired. He had no one left to fight for.
“Well?” He demanded after the seconds continued to tick by. “Your mother is dead, Drogon! You are alone now! Just as I am.” He muttered.
The snout disappeared back into the shadows and Jon’s eyes widened. Drogon was letting him live? Hatred coursed through him. Why had it let him live? If Jon were strong enough, he would kill Drogon right then and there. Didn’t the stupid beast realize that?
What right did it have to spare his life? Didn’t it realize that it had been him to convince Daenerys to make their final stand in King’s Landing?
Jon grabbed a nearby stone and chucked it into the cave entrance. “Where are you going, beast! I killed your mother! Kill me!” He called.
The dragon’s snout reappeared a moment later before growing ever larger as more of its skull came under the sunlight. “Kill me!” He shouted again, throwing an even larger stone and hitting Drogon right on his snout.
Green eyes, Jon realized quickly. Drogon did not have green eyes but red ones…
It did not matter. This other dragon could kill him just as easily as Drogon could. Easier. The dragon must have been as large as Drogon plus half. It breathed loudly, its breath becoming steam in the cool surrounding air. Now that he could see more of it, there were major differences in shape and size between it and Drogon.
It did not stop until its full front half was outside of the cave facing Jon. Yet, he did not feel afraid. There was some morbid curiosity as to whether the dragon could kill him. It was a black thing, a monstrous thing. This was the dragon of horror that he remembered in stories, the wild, vicious beasts. Not the children of Daenerys.
It opened its mouth, and Jon could see steam rising through the back of its throat. The forewarning of a fire. He had always heard that fire was a painful way to go, but it was as good as any. Jon looked into the beast's bright green eyes, and he saw his reflection there. He suddenly felt a sense of kinship with the mystery dragon. He knew that it also was alone in the world, that its siblings were also dead.
The dragon's jaw closed sharply after a moment, and it turned away, looking into the distance.
“Kill me… Please.” Jon said quietly, his sense of survival winning out. He could only beg to die for so long.
The dragon looked at him once more before twisting away and reaching up with its neck. Its wings spread around him and covered Jon with shadows. Slowly, it began to push up off the ground. It was an unnatural sight. To see something so slow and so large be able to achieve flight. Its wingspan was even greater than Drogan’s and louder too.
Yet as slowly as it had taken off, like the payload of a trebuchet, it quickened into a frightening speed and left him standing alone once more.
Jon’s heart was beating fast again as he realized how close he had come to death. There was some bitterness within him as well; once again he had been left alive.
It took Jon another five hours of slowly and carefully moving his way around the Dragonmont. He had had to backtrack a few times. But he finally found one of the towns on the small island. It was not the port he had once arrived in, nor could he see it in sight.
Jon found a small, rundown tavern easily and went inside. “What happened to you?“ a skinny woman asked from behind the bar.
Jon staggered to a seat, his thigh livid with him now. “I fought at Kings Landing; we lost. I washed up on the shore here.“ He explained to her truthfully.
She looked at him doubtfully as she wiped off her mouth for him and poured something inside. He drank it eagerly, realizing just how dry his throat had become. “Didn’t know there was fighting going on in Kings Landing, ‘less you mean the tournament,” she said, looking him up and down once more. “But you’re no knight, are you?“
Jon snorted and shook his head; he was no knight. Was it possible for the smallfolk of Dragonstone to be oblivious to the invasion? He did not know.
“Essos. Are there any ships for Essos?” he asked after a moment.
A man nearby spoke up then. “Now why would you want to go to a place like that? Dangerous waters, these days.“
“Everywhere is dangerous, these days.“ he replied
“Well, we wouldn’t know a thing like that anyway. You would have to check at Port. But you have no belongings; where are you staying tonight?“ The woman asked.
Jon finished off the mug and pushed it away. “I do not need any belongings and I am leaving tonight.“
The woman snorted at that and shook her head. “I would not recommend that; the black beast was seen hunting earlier.“
Jon looked up at that. “Drogon?” He asked and the woman looked at him oddly. “Is that a new hatchling? No, I am talking about the beast, the Cannibal.”
The Cannibal, he repeated to himself. He was sure he knew the name from somewhere, but how? Could Daenerys have mentioned it? He supposed he had taken the news of the dragon not being Drogon too casually at the time. He knew Daenerys’ three dragons and only Drogon had been black.
The woman busied herself with the other man as he thought.
So where did it come from? The Cannibal seemed familiar, but he was sure he would have remembered it directly if it had always been on Dragonstone… and wouldn't he have heard about attempted dragon slayers and hunts led by Stannis? No, he knew it was daft to even think about. Daenerys was the mother of dragons; before her, there had not been any in two centuries. Yet, he had seen it with his own eyes.
“You do have coin, right?” She asked, and Jon nodded distractedly. He pulled out a few copper pennies and set them on the bar. The woman pocketed them quickly and refilled his mug. “I’ll bring you some beef from dinner, lad.“ She said before disappearing.
The other man who had spoken up earlier moved closer, he was clumsy and smelled of drink. “What do you want to go to Essos for anyway? Nothing but heathens and slaves over there, forgetting the dangerous crossing.“ he asked.
Jon considered ignoring the man, but figured he at least had a right to know. “I do not know how you have managed to avoid the invasion thus far. But it will come here too, eventually. The mother of dragons is dead. The king in the north is as well. The fight for Westeros is lost.“ Jon finally answered. He hated southerners, for their games and their weakness. Though Roose Bolton had been a man of the north, he reminded himself.
The drunk man stared at Jon with wide eyes, and a long moment of silence passed between them. The man broke into a fit of laughter. “That was good. That was good, believable. Is that why you want to go to Essos? Are you some sort of mummer?” The man asked.
Jon elbowed the man as he grabbed him and pushed him away. “Piss off, drunkard, and hold on to that mug of yours. When They come, it will be your last possession.“
The man laughed even harder as he put some distance between them before clapping loudly. “Good, good! If I had any coin, I would tip ya!” The man exclaimed before leaning in close to his ear. “Word of advice, lad. Don’t go ‘round talking about no death of no mother of dragons. Even I, a humble drunkard, know this much.“
The skinny woman from earlier returned and set a bowl of dark meat in front of him. “Off to your corner, you drunk!“ She exclaimed, grabbing his mug and leading the man away.
Jon quickly swallowed his meal before leaning back. His eyelids were heavy, he noted. What was the rush anyway?
…
The port at Dragonstone was much nicer and busier than he remembered. It had been some time since he was first on the island, but could there be so much development? It was as if new life had been breathed into the rock.
Jon heaved the crate of supplies onto his shoulder before walking onto the ship. He had found one to take him east, he had had enough coin for the voyage, but in times like these, there was no sense in waste. So he had been enlisted to help as a laborer until they reached Pentos.
He hated how nice it felt to simply labor again. Take a crate from here and place it over there. To listen to orders and to order no one else. He had been a king once, and a bastard before that, but the bastard was dead now. So was the king.
The ship would leave on the morrow and him with it. He watched the rest of the crew, curiously; none seemed to have any haste about them whatsoever. It was strange. He considered that the entire island may be under some kind of magic or illusion. A small inland village was one thing, but the main port? Daenerys’ men would have spread the news, let alone any other visitors to the island. There was no other explanation for the general lack of knowledge and busy commerce. Nor had word reached the island that King’s Landing had fallen.
Jon forced himself not to care. It was not his problem anymore. Perhaps whatever magic that was misleading Dragonstone could keep it protected, perhaps not. Jon helped load the rest of the supplies before being given time to sleep for the night.
…
Jon slept peacefully on the ship with sweet dreams of pale hair and purple eyes. He awoke in the early morning with orders to assist on the deck. He knew very little about sailing, but there were always jobs to be done.
He watched Dragonstone grow smaller as they sailed in the direction of the sun. He let himself relax. He did not know if The Others could or would invade Essos. If they did, then nowhere was safe, but at least he would have a few more years. A few more years of what? A traitorous voice asked from within him.
The sea was calm and the wind was in their sails. Each man did their work efficiently and there was no fighting or arguments. One of the older, experienced men announced that they had left Blackwater Bay and entered the Narrow Sea. Almost immediately, the wind kicked up and dark clouds were spotted in the distance. Jon did not know what to expect but could gauge based on the other men’s expressions.
It started slowly with worsening waves until the storm had caught up. Then each wave was fifty feet tall, with some reaching even higher. The wind was the worst part, causing the rain to shoot horizontally so fast it felt like hail. Nor was it possible to see anything under the cover.
He had thought they might make it; that was until he heard a loud cracking sound when they slammed into the bottom of a wave. He could not hear anything over the shouting and the wind and rain in his ears, but he saw the men running around, panicked.
Lightning struck nearby, sending a burst of fresh horror and fear down his spine. And then he just did not care anymore, like with the black dragon from days earlier. He started laughing, quietly at first before turning guttural. “This is how I die? This was the plan?” He asked nobody in particular. “Bring it on!” He demanded to the applause of another horrifyingly loud lightning strike.
He laughed until his foot slipped from underneath him and he fell onto his side. He groaned in pain but could not hear even his own voice over the thunder and rain. The swaying of the ship worsened as he tried to help the rest of the sailors. He grabbed a rope from a sail that had come undone and it ripped him up violently. He had let go quick enough but it had pulled him onto the side of the ship. It swayed a moment later and he fell face-first down the side of the ship. When his head slammed into the side, everything went back and he did not feel his body fall into the sea beneath him.
…
Jon was back at the cave. He looked around, not completely sure how he had gotten there. The night was black and even the stars were dim. The moon unnaturally lit the cave entrance, yet none of the surroundings. He heard the waves from below continue to crash into the rocky shore. It was broken by the low growl he had heard before. He turned to look, not expecting Drogon, but perhaps the Cannibal.
He heard as its hard skin ground against the walls of the cave and it came closer. Something felt different this time. “Kill me.” He demanded the dark cave entrance once more. The grinding sound quickened as he began to see large shadows shift and move in place.
A figure came toward him and he felt afraid. He opened his mouth to demand it kill him only to find out that he could not. The shadows grew larger, the echoing sound louder and Jon swallowed deeply.
He saw it, the black beast. It was looking at him.
When it finally emerged from the shadows of the cave and was illuminated by the moon, Jon felt his heart stop. “Daenerys?” He asked, confused.
She walked out in a black dress, her hair just as pale as he remembered it to be, her eyes like amethyst. She was so beautiful, unnaturally so. Yet it was not Daenerys he realized as she came closer. Daenerys had wide, circular eyes. The type that was impossible not to want to stare at. This girl’s eyes were hooded. The nose and cheeks were different too.
“Who are you?” He asked. She was Daenerys’ age, but he could not place her. He had seen plenty of the “dragonseed” on the island already. Pale gold and platinum blonde servants and shopkeepers who had eyes like gemstones. But she seemed different somehow, separated from the dragonseed by something he could not consciously place.
“I am what once was but can never be again. I am the hinge, the fulcrum. Find me, Jon Snow, and I can be again. Find me and Valyria can live again. I am your future, Jon Snow, if it is not already too late.” She spoke and as she spoke she aged. Her silver hair, which had shined in the moonlight, lost its luster and length and became white and stiff. She gained weight, not obscenely, but the type of weight put on by years of stress and regret. Her skin wrinkled and her eyes dimmed.
“Who are you?” Jon asked once more, taking a step back as he looked at a completely different person from before.
The older woman smiled and for a moment he saw the young girl. “I am you, Jon Snow; we are what could have been, by blood, but taken by man.” When she finished speaking, her dress erupted in flames and engulfed her. She did not scream or run around in a panic. As if she were not truly human, she stood in the flames and burned. And then she fell to her knees and collapsed onto the hard, rocky ground.
Jon breathed deeply, not sure what to do next. He hesitantly reached down to touch the woman’s limp arm. All he felt was ash, and as soon as he made contact, the world disappeared.
…
Jon woke with a start, his lungs and throat burning. Before he could even realize what he was doing, he sat up and hunched over. Murky black liquid shot out of his nose and mouth and landed nearby, smelling of salt and brimstone. It had been a dream, he realized. It was stupid of him to have thought otherwise, even in the moment. Still, the dream felt real. She looked real.
He coughed up what rest he could before glancing around. He snorted lightly at the sight of the rocky shore and the rough waves crashing against it. The snort worsened his condition and he began furiously coughing up more seawater. As he heaved, his left abdomen burned with pain and he looked down to see his tunic saturated with blood. He felt his side and the pain flared up, causing him to scream out.
He cursed and pulled his hand away, his head feeling light and delirious from the pain.
“Down here!” He heard another voice call out from above him, but he did not turn to look. He slipped off the tunic and pressed it firmly against the wound. It hurt, but he knew the blood loss would kill him in time. He survived the shipwreck just to be gashed as he washed ashore… A voice whispered within him to remove the pressure and throw the fabric to the side, but before he could act any further, he felt arms slide underneath his shoulders and suddenly heave him up.
The other man grunted loudly as he pulled, then let him go. Jon relaxed as he lay against a far softer, flatter surface. The face of an older man appeared before him, who looked quickly between Jon’s abdomen and his eyes. “Do not die yet, lad; I will get you to a maester.” He was an overweight man with shoulder-length pale hair.
Jon felt his excitement fade and his heart calm as the man took what once was his tunic and held it against the wound for him. “Ryam!” The man exclaimed and Jon heard the footsteps of several men running over.
Everything hurt and his eyelids felt heavy. He just wanted to sleep, but he knew he could not. The man spoke like a Westerosi and was likely a native of Dragonstone, but anything was possible. He needed to stay awake.
Jon saw two heavily armored men wearing white cloaks run to the man’s side, one taking over for the pale-haired man and the other standing guard, looking up and down the shore. The last thing he heard was two more men approaching quickly before his eyes closed and he just could not force them open again.