"When the savage Cregan Stark of Winterfell marched South with his Great Host, he and his men were deemed the 'Winter Wolves' for good reason. Indeed, with his loyal Butcher of a bannerman, Roderick Dustin riding by his side, the Northmen were alike a pack of starving wolves in the dead of Winter, tearing into the weakened yet Brave men of the South, broken and tired from the Fires of a Dragon's war.

These Ferals from beyond the Wildspine fell upon a burning Riverlands and starving Crownlands as a tide of crude iron swords, stone mauls and ancient rusted axes, fighting like Animals and not Honorable Men. Truly, it must have seemed a vision from the Dawn Age to witness such a barbaric force in action.

And then, when they rode through the hallowed Gate of the Gods into King's Landing, this cold and frozen Brute, mockery and grotesquerie of a Great Lord, demanded to be made Hand of the King!

Our mighty and wise King Aegon III Targaryen was then yet a boy, and could not refuse such a demand, as ridiculous as it was, for fear of his life and the lives of his loyal lords and family, destroyed and scattered by Civil War as they already were. And so, a Northman ruled the Realm for full cycle of the Moon - the dreaded Moon of the Wolf - and a full score of men lost their heads on the edge of his Blade during it.

And when the Gods finally saw fit to grant us Clemency from the beastly Lord Stark, he absconded with not one, but four Royal Princesses, and a full clutch of Dragon eggs - the greatest theft in history done in the name of some Farcical Pact."

- Grand Maester Munkun, "The Dance of Dragons, A True Telling", written in 143 AC

"When I first laid eyes upon the visage of Lord Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I was struck by the honor and veracity I could nearly see emanating off the man. 'Now here', I had thought, 'was a man who could finally bring an end to this madness.'

Lord Cregan put order back into place in the capitol, and he was firm but just regent, although admittedly heavy handed with the carrying out of the death sentence. A queer and rather shocking custom, that northern lords took upon themselves to be both judge and headsman during executions.

When the Wolf's Moon had ended, and a tentative but viable peace had been established, Lord Cregan fulfilled the terms of the now legendary Pact of Ice and Fire, the treaty written between he and the late Prince Jacaerys, who had stood as representative to his own mother Queen Rhaenyra. He took to wife both the Lady Rhaena Targaryen, and her sister Lady Baela Targaryen, in a rather grand double wedding at the godswood of the Red Keep. Lord Stark also brought the young Princess Visenya, daughter of the late Queen Rhaenyra, and the young Princess Jaehaera - despite rumours of her simple-mindedness - back to Winterfell with him as future spouses to his own young sons. And thus, Lord Cregan had done what no other House had dared and wedded the lines of both the blacks and the greens into House Stark.

And yet, it must be said that four noble ladies of the Royal House Targaryen was in fact, not Lord Stark's greatest prize - for he also left King's Landing with a trunk of a dozen dragon's eggs, and none could deny him this prize while he sat upon the Throne and while his army camped outside the walls of King's Landing. What lord left standing even had the men left to throw into such massacre?

And even now, rumours are abound that soon, the shadow of great winged beasts will be cast upon the wintry lands beyond the Trident and the Wildspine, and that the Great House in the North shall one day have dragonriders of their own."

- the personal account of Grand Maester Orwyle, written 131 AC, in the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons

"Munkun was a pompous old fool with no eye for true historical accuracy, a burning itch in his loins to please the rather embarrassed southern lords, and an Unnecessary Overfondness for Capitalization. I prefer Orwyle myself, when reading about the Dance, but he too was rather biased, this time towards Cregan Stark rather than against - understandable, seeing as it was the Lord Stark himself who freed Orwyle from the black cells where he'd been rotting."

- From the notes of Marwyn the Mage, Archmaester of the Citadel

Daenerys

King's Landing bustled with activity, a hive of people scurrying about, half a million beating hearts living their lives in the most populous city in Westeros, and the seat of the Targaryen dynasty.

There was a hum of energy in the air, the city practically buzzed with it. Merchants, farmers, noblemen, beggars, sellswords, gold cloaks, street urchins and a thousand more bustled and shoved and shouted and moved about their business, all filled with some form of purpose, whether honest or nefarious. Daenerys was one such soul, moving quickly along the Street of Steel, stepping around and often through the foot traffic with brisk fervor. King's Landing often reflected the state of the Realm, as if the spirit of the Seven Kingdoms could be viewed in miniature through her capitol. Under her brother's reign, Westeros had blossomed with renewed life, culture, full harvests, and of course, coin.

Even the perpetual stink of sewage in the city was much more muted these days, no doubt lessened by Rhaegar's most recent project of installing sluices that carried waste and excrement out of the city and into the river. Similarly the reek was combated by the Queen's newest fashion, encouraging the nobility and richer residents to grow gardens of magnolias and freesias and all manner of sweet-smelling flowers from their balconies. The thought of her Lannister step-sister brought a frown unto Daenerys' face, and she pulled the rough woolen hood down further on her head, making sure that none of her distinctively royal silver locks were showing. If anyone spotted and recognized her, it would be a disaster, and all that extra time she had spent taking a circular route to avoid her guards would be wasted.

Besides, Ser Oswell would already be so upset, there was no need to anger him further. She giggled at the thought of her surly Kingsguard and his reaction to finding out that she had slipped away from the veritable contingent of gold cloaks that had been assigned to guard her.

The cool fresh scent of the ocean hit her, mixed with the sickly stench of rotted seafood, and Daenerys found herself arrived at her destination, the Fishmonger's Square. The Square was a frenetic open market for fishermen, peddlers, blacksmiths who overflowed from the Street of Steel and thieves who overflowed from the Muddy Way, as well Daenerys' chosen target - foreign merchants. This close to the Blackwater Rush, Fishmonger's Square also functioned as the city's primary port district, and there were always rare and unique wares flowing to and fro.

With a pouch heavy with gold dragons clutched under her peasant's cloak, Daenerys was aiming to get something particularly unique and shiny for her little niece's twelfth name-day gift. She was quite determined to outshine young Visenya's siblings and her own, who would no doubt simply shower her with some garish baubles, or worse, have a song composed in her honor.

"Silks! Silks! The finest Myrish lace and lavish cloths from distant Asshai-by-the-Shadow! Ah, beautiful young maiden, come hither!"

Daenerys startled.

"Yes! Yes, you, my lady, come and peruse my silks, the finest in all the world, wear one of these and any young lover of yours will find you irresistible, I guarantee it!" The peddler approached her, a large and fat man sweating in the rolls of silk he had hanging off his arms and in the basket strapped to his swelling belly, along with his own layers of clothings.

"I'm afraid I'm not interested, I bid you good day!" she managed to squeak, blushing with embarrassment. She hurried rushed around the large merchant, ignoring his pleas to come back and, please, examine the high quality of the weaving. Once Daenerys was sure she had lost the silk peddler, she slowed her pace and began to wander around, taking in all the sights, the sounds, the smells, the experience of being out in the city. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been out alone and able really be a member of the populous, to see the city without a screen of armed and wary guardsmen or within a closed off palanquin.

Eventually, her aimless meandering brought her within sight of a richly decorated stall, with an open wooden trestle table slanted towards the passing pedestrians, straining under the weight of all the jewelry and curios heaped upon it. Daenerys recognized the man sitting behind the stall as a Tyroshi, by his motley apparel and riotous beard colors, the same style of dress shared by the two burly guards sitting nearby playing dice.

She approached the stall, drawn in by a particular piece that she could not stop staring at. It was a small silver ring, but connected by a thin golden chain to a larger silver bracelet, covered in beautiful etchings of some long-necked species of bird she had never seen before, captured with their wings outspread in flight. Set in the bracelet was a single smooth stone that shined a soft shade of green, swirled with milky white.

The merchant grinned at her, he was young for a merchant, Daenerys placed him somewhere close to twenty. His beard was distinctively forked in the Tyroshi style, one side dyed green and the other blue.

"You have a good eye, girl. That piece is from beyond the Jade Sea, crafted in Yi Ti." he tapped on the fascinating green stone set in the bracelet. "This is jade, the precious stone which gives that sea it's name." He picked it up and with a flourish, offered it to Daenerys for her inspection.

"It is beautiful." she agreed, taking the jewelry and running her fingers down the cool metal. "Why is attached to the ring like so?"

"Ah, the people of the distant land where it had come from keep to strange customs. You slip the bracelet on first, and then wear the smaller ring on your middle finger. The chain connects them like so. They call such pieces 'finger bracelets'."

"And these? The etchings, what are they of? I've never seen nor heard of animals that look like these."

The Tyroshi laughed.

"Cranes, my lady, they are called cranes. Long necked and graceful birds from the Far East."

Daenerys pulled out her pouch of gold, the distinct clink of coin hitting coin had the merchant and both of his guards snap up to stare at it like hunting hounds on a piece of juicy meat. "How much will you charge, good ser?" she asked.

The Tyroshi bowed before responding. "For you, my good lady, a mere fifty silver stags will do, the rest we shall say is already paid by having such a beauty grace my stall."

Daenerys blushed again, and clutched nervously at her pouch. "I apologize, but I do not have any silver stags."

The merchant frowned, and both guards stood up from their dice game.

"I do however, have golden dragons. Would one suffice to cover the fee for this finger bracelet?" She pulled out the single, heavy coin.

The Tyroshi grinned from ear to ear, snatching the coin out of her hand, giving it a quick bite to test before leering at the bright gold dragon. "More than enough, more than enough! You are generous, my lovely little princess."

"You have mistaken me. I am not a princess." Daenerys pulled down on her hood again for good measure.

The young merchant turned to her with a patient smile. "My dear, with the coloring of your eyes, what else could you be?"

She gasped at that, quickly thanking the man before scurrying away from the stall. Finding nowhere else to store it besides on her hand, she tucked her newly purchased gift into the one pocket sewn onto the inside of her woolen cloak, where it rested atop her heavy pouch of coins.

Stepping quickly deeper into the hubbub of the portside market, she found herself suddenly pressed into the throng of the crowd, hemmed in on all sides by people rushing every which way, many of them taller than her. Daenerys quickly realized that without being able to see any landmarks in the distance, she was hopelessly lost. A small and fatal worm of a fear began to grow in her gut, as she tried desperately to find her way back out of the Square.

Suddenly, something bumped into her side, and a hand pawed at her from underneath her cloak. Daenerys shrieked in surprise and swung her arms to slap and push the aggressor away. A rag-covered figure was already twisting away through the crowds, heading off in an unknown direction.

The young princess felt under her cloak and thankfully found her coin pouch right where she left it. But there was nothing resting on top of it.

Her gift!

The thief had stolen the jade finger bracelet she was going to give to Visenya!

"Stop! Thief! A thief!" She yelled, pushing her way through the crowd in the direction she had last seen that ragged figure. The bustling mob of people barely paid her any attention, beyond a few affronted passerby that she had to shove out of her way. Daenerys managed to somehow claw her way out of the thickest part of the congregation, and she frantically scanned around to try and find her assailant.

There! A brief flash of muddy brown rags, the same lean and skinny figure that had bumped into her in the crowd. She dashed after it, one hand holding onto the edge of her hood lest it fly off her head and expose her identity even further. Not that it helped that much in the end. Who else in this city would have purple eyes and carry bags of gold? Idiot!

Daenerys was lithe and athletic for her age, and she ran quite fast, but she barely gained on the thief by the time the left the Fishmonger's Square for the heavily shadowed Muddy Way.

"Stop running!" she yelled out. "Give me back that bracelet!"

Her quarry raced down the dirt path and fled into an alleyway, and Daenerys, headstrong as she was, did not hesitate to follow right after.

As soon as she turned the corner something struck her on the back of head, a crack of noise and the splintering of wood ringing in her ears as she stumbled to the ground. Daenerys examined the broken piece of wood that had landed next to her hands as bright stars lighted up in her vision.

A plank. I have been bested by a rotted plank.

She looked forward into the alley from her kneeling position, and saw what looked to be a young boy in filthy rags clutching the silver finger bracelet tight to his chest. A voice above her, presumably belonging to the plank-swinging villain who had just hit her, hissed out in urgency.

"Jerv you idiot, you led 'er right back to us!"

The boy sniffled. "M' sorry! She was yellin' and I had ta' run!"

Daenerys turned, her head still spinning, to see that an older boy had been hiding right around the bend of the entrance to the alleyway, a broken half of a wooden plank clutched tight in his hand. He dropped it and clutched at the hilt of a thin and rusted shiv that hung from the belt loops of his patched breeches.

"We need to gut 'er now. 'Fore she rats us out to the goldies."

The younger boy straightened in panic. "Pat wait! Put th' knife down!"

Pat sneered at first, but then suddenly straightened up, this time out of not only surprise but fear, his eyes crossed as they stared down a length of razor sharp steel.

"Yes Pat, put the knife down."

Daenerys had never in her life been more happy to see the dour face of Ser Stannis Baratheon, the Kingsguard knight moving further into the alley whilst still keeping the tip of his longsword aimed at the urchin Pat's face. Pat dropped the shiv and raised both his arms, palms facing out in the universal sign of surrender.

Ser Stannis glanced over at Daenerys, scanning her for any wounds before looking back at the boy on the other end of his sword.

"It would seem, boy, that you have also struck the princess. By the King's Law that means I'll have to take both those hands."

Pat's knees knocked together in fear, and he seemed to melt until he too was kneeling upon the ground. "P-please m-m'lord. I dinnit know m-m'lord. Please."

Stannis frowned, and took another step closer. His pure white armor still shone even in the darkened alley, seeming to capture any light left available.

"Regardless, you have committed a grave crime," his voice was a low grumble.

Daenerys immediately stood upright, the pain in the back of her head momentarily forgotten as she threw back her hood and strode up between the Stag Knight and the quivering street urchin.

Stannis Baratheon took his vows very severely, she knew, and he would see any law obeyed to the very letter, punishment included. If she did not act now than the poor boy would soon be a cripple.

"Ser Stannis, I bid you to stand down. I am not hurt by his accident."

Stannis' cold blue eyes bored into her. "Truly, you are unhurt? Even with that great lump forming on your head?"

Daenerys clenched her jaw and set her stance, refusing to drop her eyes away from his glare. "I am a Dragon, Ser, and not so easily wounded."

Stannis held her gaze a moment longer before nodding and sheathing his sword. He looked at the terrified boy kneeling on the ground and scowled.

"You're quite a lucky boy, Pat. You should thank the Seven for the princess Daenerys' kindness, which is only matched by the resilience of her skull."

Daenerys did not respond. Stannis looked at her and grunted, whether in annoyance or approval she could not determine.

"I'll await you on the street, my lady." he muttered, before bowing and walking out of the alley. Daenerys turned to follow, but felt a small tug on the sleeve of her stitched cotton dress.

She turned and saw the younger boy, Jerv, holding out her jade finger bracelet.

"Thank you." he whispered, eyes welling up with tears. "Sorry I stole' from you m'lady. And Pat hit you."

Daenerys smiled at him. "It is fine. Truly, I am unhurt. And thank you, this gift will make my niece a very happy girl. And now you have provided me an adventurous story to tell her of it's origin - the time I chased Jerv the Fleet-footed through the alleyways of King's Landing to earn it!"

The child smiled back at her, blinking away his tears.

"Here," she continued. "Take these." Daenerys reached into her pouch and took out a handful of golden dragons, placing them in the young boy's palm. "Use one to feed you and your brother, and then one more each to buy an apprenticeship with one of those blacksmiths. The rest is yours to use as you see fit."

The boy's eyes widened at the sight of so much glittering gold.

"Keep it well hidden." She laughed and then smiled at him again before turning around and striding out onto the dirt street of the Muddy Way. Ser Stannis and his dour face greeted her on the streetside. His white Kingsguard cloak remained immaculate, the alabaster cloth seeming to scorn and repulse the dirt and filth that he was standing in.

"Princess Daenerys, you have caused no end of worry for my brother knights, Ser Oswell in particular. Slipping away by your lonesome like you have done is dangerous."

"Ser Stannis," she rebuked, "you have no right to say such of myself nor my sworn shield, not when you yourself should be at the side of my brother Viserys."

"The prince Viserys is safe in the royal apartments, within Maegor's Holdfast, where the King has ordered his entire family to be gathered hours ago. The entirety of the Red Keep was in uproar when you were found to be missing, and all of the Kingsguard save for the Lord Commander are out in the city searching for you."

Daenerys felt the blood drain from her face.

"What happened. Tell me."

The Stag Knight's grim visage grew even darker.

"Sunfyre the Golden is dead. Your great-uncle Aemon was struck down by stroke the same moment the dragon succumbed. He lies now unconscious with the King and the royal family beside him."

Horror and shock vied for control of her body. Sunfyre, the greatest dragon alive, the strongest symbol of Targaryen power in her age, was gone. Uncle Aemon struck down.

"No." she whispered.

Stannis grabbed her arm, not painfully but firmly, and began to march her up the hill towards the Red Keep.

"We must return now, and ready ourselves for trouble, my lady. For now, House Targaryen has only one dragonlord left."

Jon

Skagos, the Isle of Stone and Scale, was always good to Jon. The island was not only his childhood home, but the home of his spirit. Nowhere else was the sea air as clean and sharp than it's shores, nowhere else could he find the calm and solitude that he often starved for than it's mountainous crags. And nowhere else were there dragons.

Jon glowered. He supposed that last line was not wholly true. The very reason for his black mood was because there were dragons elsewhere, dragons of the south. The Targaryen Dragonking and his brood, who had sent ominous commands on raven-wing to Winterfell, the center of power in the North and the seat of House Stark.

He ran one of his hands over his head, brushing back the thick white hair that was a rare and legendary trait of his bloodline. His grey eyes, inherited from the Winter Kings of old, scanned over the thick evergreen forests and frothing green seas surrounding the Isle.

Even the harsh beauty of Skagos could not calm his unease at the letter that his uncle Lord Eddard had sent to him. Jon pulled the offending piece of parchment out from his thick furs, reading it over once again to confirm that his eyes did not lie to him, though he knew that there could be no mistake.

Lord Stark had commanded him to go south to King's Landing.

Jon cursed and stuffed the damned letter back into the pocket of his leather jerkin, bundling the fur cloak up to ward against the cold. Even during the long summers, Skagos, much like the rest of the North, never really felt the touch of warmth.

The young man strode up the hillside towards Kingshouse, the small stone fort that was barely the size of Winterfell's inner keep. Yet, Skagos didn't need any large castle or sturdy walls to keep out invaders. The Isle's true defense was the great beasts that nested in her mountains and soared above her skies.

As Jon made his way closer to Kingshouse, a large white wolf silently bounded over, deftly leaping up the slope of patchy brush and scree.

"Ghost." Jon greeted his longtime companion.

The white fur around the direwolf's muzzle was drenched red with blood, for Ghost had just returned from stalking a nearby pack of wild unicorn, and the great wolf had obviously seen success from his hunt.

Ghost greeted Jon back by snuffling at his sleeve, and Jon made a noise of distaste as some of the unicorn blood rubbed onto his furs. He scratched behind the direwolf's ears, needing to lift his arm to do so, and then slapped at the wolf's flank as it dashed past him up the hill into the stone fort. Their third brother however, was nowhere to be seen.

Probably knows that I am itching to fly. The lazy beast is avoiding me.

He reached the top of the hill and walked through the small brass gate into Kingshouse. There were no guards, for not many people lived on Skagos and everyone knew of each other, and any strangers fearless enough, or stupid enough, to land on the island would have been noticed immediately. As if to punctuate the point of his thought, a dragon far above him roared, a long and keening screech that the great animals often did to greet one another.

The main hall of the fort held much of the old design, when it was once home to House Magnar of the Skagossons who had first lived here. Long oaken feasting tables lined the room, enough to seat half a thousand men, although at this time of day it was empty. Large open windows let in the sunlight, and rows of bronze braziers that would be set alight during the dark were placed between the tables.

Kingshouse had a rich and rather bloody history before the time of Cregan Stark and his dragons, and remnants of it's past glories still hung from the ceiling - old and tattered banners of houses long crushed into dust and forgotten, symbols of people who had been trampled beneath the feet of the old stoneborn and the passing of time alike.

At the other end of the feasting hall, an elaborately carved and ancient longship had been repurposed into a raised platform, in which the lord and his party could sit above all others in the Great Hall and host great gatherings. On a row of iron spikes jutting out from the wall above the lord's table hung a score of dusty and twisted circlets, barely recognizable as crowns. Many were rusted and pitted iron, some crafted of stone, a few of bronze or dragonglass, and one or two of unknown and unrecognizable materials. Ancient crowns of long-dead kings, stolen by the original inhabitants of Kingshouse in the days where they were feared raiders and pirates all along the eastern coast of Westeros - and even across the Narrow Sea.

Jon made his way around the tables, noting that one of the bronze braziers still smoldered with a few leftover coals. He stepped up onto the makeshift wooden ramp that cut into the belly of the old stoneborn longship, and found Ghost curled up next to the feet of the large man seated and snoring behind the lord's table, reams of parchments scattered around him.

Jon picked up the half-full cup of mead that laid forgotten on the table and upended the contents onto the man across the table. Tormund Giantsbane awoke with a sputtering roar, his large fists swinging about and missing Jon completely. Eventually his flailing stopped and he blinked mead away from his bloodshot eyes, remnants of the drink dripping from his bushy gray beard.

"That was a waste of good mead, boy." The chieftain's voice sounded out like a storm breaking on rocks.

"You were sleeping on the table again, Tormund." Jon snatched up the papers that lay around them, ignoring the older man's noise of indignation.

Jon perused the documents, most written in the common tongue and others covered with the runic etchings of written Old Tongue. "You were working through the night again, too. You've been pushing yourself too hard, old friend."

"Oh-ho! So it's 'old friend' now, aye? Bah! You're still a few decades too young to call me 'old friend' boy, not when you're still dripping wet behind your ears. And no friend of mine spills mead on sleeping men." Tormund grumbled, whilst reaching out and pulling a plate of what must be day old and cold chicken's legs closer to him, biting into one while tossing a few more under the table for Ghost.

"Don't you go fattening him up even more, he's just eaten."

"Beast could always use summore' meat on him, with any luck he'll be as big as my son someday. Har!"

Jon was no longer paying as much attention to the conversation, as something among the many reports that graced Tormund's table had distracted him.

"Stolen sheep? What's this one about?" He slid it over the table to the large man, finger tapping on the specific line that caught his eye. Any disappearance of animals near Skagos was always a concern for them, as more often than not it was wayward dragons that were the culprits, those that were either too young to understand they were to avoid human settlements or too hungry to care. The Isle of Stone and Scale was responsible for every dragon that hatched within it's mountains, which was nearly every dragon north of the Wildspine. That responsibility extended to making sure none of their dragons, wild or otherwise, burned any towns or stole any livestock. Or ate any people.

It was best to nip these matter at the bud, which was why a constant flow of dragon sightings and similar reports were always headed to Kingshouse - and the table of the Lord of Skagos.

Tormund looked over at the page, and hummed, a low and grumbling noise from deep within his throat. "I remember this one, sort-of. Some fucking goatherd from the Grey Cliffs. Karstark land. Been complainin' about his flock being 'disturbed'- " Tormund scoffed, "for a good while now. Says here that this time when he had took his livestock out to graze at dawn, three o' em got burned and eaten, another two carried off." The big chieftain frowned. "Well, definitely a dragon, and this close to us, definitely one o' ours." Tormund looked up at him with a puzzled expression. "Strange, eh? We don't have any younglings flying about right now, the newest beast is yer little cousin's, and that one's still a wee hatchling."

Jon had a thoughtful look on his face, his head held at a slight tilt as he ran through some unseen list within his mind. He paced around in front of the table as he thought. "Happened right at dawn, you say? And on the Grey Cliffs right by the sea…"

The young man turned back to Tormund. "Seasinger."

"The old she-dragon? I know of her, with the grey and green patterns. Why d'you say? That one's never been much an issue before."

"We call her Seasinger for a reason." Jon grinned. "She likes to fly out every day at dawn to catch the morning tide, and roars at the ocean. 'Sings to the sea' was how grandfather put it."

Tormund chuckled. "I'll have a few men deliver coin 'nough to buy new sheep to the herder. And warn the poor fucker off from going near the cliffs at dawn. For all the headaches you bring me lad, I wouldn't know what to do without you here."

He noticed the immediate frown that graced Jon's features.

"What's got your balls, Jon?"

"I won't be here anymore, soon." He pulled out Lord Eddard's letter and gave it to Tormund. He read it over, one hand stroking the bristly gray hairs of his long beard.

"Aye, this is shite news. Going south, with the little lord and lady no less." Tormund turned and spat. "Can't imagine heading down where the lands are warmer and the air stinks even more of pig shit than here."

Jon took affront to that. "Skagos and Winterfell both are as clean as they are cold."

"See, lad, that's exactly my point. I forget that you haven't spent enough time in the True North." Tormund heaved himself up from the table, letting out a loud belch that startled even Ghost. "Well, good luck then, my boy. Come back and visit when ye can."

"What, that's it? What about you? How are you going to handle all of, all of this!" Jon guestered to all the reports and various issues scattered about them on parchment. "You're barely managing as is with me here, helping you!"

"Watch yourself, boy." Tormund growled.

Jon sighed. "I didn't mean that. I am just - worried. It would be hard for you to take care of the whole Isle by yourself. You do all of the work here, you command all of the men on the island, you protect all of the dragons." He looked the taller man in the eye. "You should be the Lord of Skagos, you practically carry out all of the duties already."

The Giantsbane's face seemed to softened ever so slightly, if it were possible for stone to soften. "Broad as my shoulders are, lad, they are not so strong as to carry the weight of the dragons. That burden falls upon those who share their blood - your family." He smiled and then laughed. "Besides, I've too much Free Folk blood running in my veins to ever take a kneeler title. Lord Tormund," he spoke in a high falsetto. "Har!"

Jon looked away. "Suppose I don't want to go. This is the only place I've ever felt to be a home for me. I too am a dragon of Skagos, I belong here."

Tormund walked around the high table, the old oak of the longship creaking beneath each step. He rested one massive hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You should talk to your grandfather, Jon. He's up on High Rock fishing again."

"Aye, I suppose I might as well squeeze one last piece of wisdom out of him before I go."

Jon whistled at Ghost, who's ears perked up at the sound as he quietly padded over.

"I'll see you again back here for evening feast, lad."

Jon looked back and nodded at Tormund, before leaving. It was time to meet with the Lord of Stone and Scale, his grandfather Rickard Stark.

And the only way to reach him was by air.

A/N: Looking for beta readers, for both this work and for King Snow until it's completion. Please send me a PM if interested!