The Red Dragon
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17. Dragon King of the North
🕑 Added 2025-02-19 05:31:17 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow POV*
Howland Reed stood before the High Table, bowing before he spoke. "I thought Lord Eddard never told you about your parentage, Your Grace."
Though framed as a question, his tone held no curiosity—only a need for confirmation, not an answer.
"He promised to tell me when we met again." I met his gaze, letting my words settle. "But that day never came. I only learned the truth after being given another chance to live."
I deliberately mentioned my resurrection. Lord Reed nodded in understanding, but his clenched fists betrayed his true emotions.
"I came here in Winterfell before King Robert Baratheon rode north to name Eddard Stark as Hand," Howland continued. "I knew you wished to take the black and urged him to tell you the truth before you did. But it seems he chose otherwise—for the realm’s stability."
A hush fell over the hall. Lords and ladies exchanged glances, their expressions darkening at the implications of Howland’s words. Maege Mormont and several other northern lords frowned, realizing what it meant.
"It matters little now," he continued. "The realm that Ned Stark tried to protect returned his efforts with betrayal and treachery. They disrespected his honor, slaughtered his family, and turned against one another—never realizing that he had sent his own nephew to the Wall, believing it would prevent the realm from descending into war."
"Ned, you fool," Maege muttered under her breath, loud enough for all to hear.
I couldn’t help but smile, remembering Jeor Mormont’s words about her sister—short-tempered and willful, indeed.
Then Lord Howland turned to the gathered lords and recounted the truth of the Tower of Joy. How Varys had provided them with information. How he, Eddard, and a handful of men had ridden south, only to find a lone tower standing amidst the desert—where Rhaegar Targaryen had kept Lyanna Stark, guarded by three Kingsguard: Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull; Ser Oswell Whent; and Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.
Howland spoke of the battle that followed—the clash of steel, the blood spilled. And how he and Eddard Stark had taken down Arthur Dayne.
Murmurs filled the hall. Faces darkened at the mention of stabbing the legendary knight in the back. Accusatory stares turned to Howland Reed, but he remained unmoved, continuing his tale.
How, after the battle, he had gone into the tower when Eddard did not return. How he found Ned Stark grieving, his sister lying lifeless upon blood-soaked sheets, her eyes vacant. How a wet nurse stood nearby, holding a wailing babe in her arms.
How, when Eddard came back to himself, he took the child and named him Jon Snow—to hide his true name, to shield him from Robert’s wrath.
"But I demanded to know what Lyanna had named her son," Howland said, voice steady. "She was my friend, and I had the right to know."
The hall was silent, every eye fixed on him.
"And when Eddard spoke the name, I could not breathe a word of it. Not until we had left that accursed tower."
Howland took a breath before uttering the name that changed everything.
"Daeron Targaryen. Trueborn son of Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—the Last Dragon—and Lady Lyanna Stark. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne, with his siblings butchered in the Red Keep. Those three Kingsguard did not hold Lyanna captive; they were there to protect the last hope of House Targaryen."
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.
All eyes turned to me. I met their stares evenly.
Lady Barbrey Dustin rose abruptly, her voice ringing with fury. "So you mean to tell me the rebellion was built on a lie? That thousands died because a married prince and a girl of sixteen ran off without telling anyone?" She and Lord Ryswell arrived at Winterfell without prior notice. They claimed that the raven might have been lost as an excuse for their sudden appearance and then secluded themselves in their chambers for a day, avoiding us like the plague. However, their secret meeting with other northern lords did not go unnoticed by Sansa and me. Sansa persuaded me to give them one chance to bend the knee, and so here we are.
"You would do well to hold your tongue, my lady. In fact, Lady Lyanna sent a raven to Riverrun for her brother and father after she married Prince Rhaegar before the Old Gods."
The voice was unfamiliar. A man with graying hair and dark indigo eyes stepped forward. I studied him closely—nothing about him reminded me of any character from the show, as I couldn't identify any distinctive facial features. The only thing I could say is that he belonged to noble birth, as his features were too sharp and refined for anything but aristocracy.
"Who are you?" Lady Barbrey snapped. "And how do you know if they did or not?"
Howland Reed answered for him. "He is Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."
Gasps rippled through the hall.
I, too, stared in shock.
"You said you killed him," Galbart Glover said slowly, eyes narrowed at Howland.
Howland let out a humorless chuckle. "Aye, I struck him down. But there was still life in him. I begged my liege to spare him. And he agreed—on the condition that we tell House Dayne he was dead until he swore to keep Daeron’s identity secret."
He exhaled. "But Ser Arthur never woke. He lingered on the edge of life, trapped in a sleep he could not escape." His gaze darkened. "Until King Robert came to Winterfell."
Ser Arthur stepped forward with a noticeable limp. He knelt, using his sword for support. "Forgive me, my king." His voice was steady despite the strain on his body. "If only I had woken sooner, I might have convinced you to not take the black by revealing the truth. But when I finally opened my eyes, I found myself broken. I could not even walk. I was ashamed to stand before you, knowing I would never serve you as I once served your father."
I studied him for a moment before smiling. "Rise, Ser Arthur."
His head lifted, surprise flickering in his expression before he slowly stood.
"You have nothing to seek pardon for, Ser. And you will not be retiring from your duties just yet."
He blinked.
"The gods have seen fit to grant me certain… gifts," I continued, letting my words sink in. "With one of them, I can restore your strength—if you will honor me with your service." The gifts I’m referring to are potions that I was attempting to create for Bran. After many trials and errors, and with assistance from Aether, I have successfully developed one potion: a healing potion. This potion heals nearly all physical injuries for anyone who drinks it. However, it is not a miraculous potion that heals a person instantly. Instead, taking regular doses over the course of a moon will restore your health significantly.
A long silence stretched between us.
Then Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, nodded. And when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of solemn devotion.
"It would be my utmost honor, Your Grace."
I smiled. "Then take your seat, Ser Arthur. We will have much to discuss after this."
Lord Ryswell’s voice rang through the Great Hall, pointed and sharp. "So, do you want to go for the Iron Throne, King Daeron?"
Every pair of eyes turned toward me—some judging, some hopeful, and others unreadable. The weight of their gazes pressed upon me, yet I straightened my posture, meeting them with unwavering resolve.
"Aye! I will go for the Iron Throne," I declared. The silence that followed was not welcoming, so I continued, my voice steady but fierce. "Not for myself. But for the North! For men! For the whole of humanity! I have seen what is coming, and the realm must stand united if we are to have any hope of survival. It is for this battle that I have been given a second chance. And so, I will unite the realm—alone if I must. But hear me well: I will fight for the living!"
My voice rose with each word until I was nearly shouting. The hall, once tense with uncertainty, now rippled with murmurs.
"House Reed will stand with you, Your Grace," Howland Reed spoke first, bowing his head in solemn respect.
Lady Flint, however, remained skeptical. "But surely an untied North could face them? And there is still the Wall, miles long, between us and them."
I let out a mirthless chuckle. "Do you truly understand what we are up against, Lady Flint? More than a hundred thousand dead men, not counting their monstrous beasts. Hundreds of giants like the ones you saw outside. Spiders the size of hounds, their riders more skilled than even the finest knights of the Seven Kingdoms. And the cold they bring—it drains the strength from living men, leaving them weak before they’re torn apart. The Freefolk and I saw only a fraction of their might at Hardhome. Gods only know how much stronger they have grown since then."
The reaction was instant. Horror and fear flickered across the faces of the gathered lords.
"King Jon, you must be exaggerating—" Lord Cerwyn began, but Tormund cut him off with a snort. "He is not! I was there! Every Free Folk survivor that stands among us was there. You could ask any one of them, and they would tell you the same tale King Crow speaks of now."
"How are we to survive this?"
"Only the gods can help us now."
"They have helped us, you fools—that’s why they brought the Stark back!"
"But even he is only one man. How could he save us alone?"
Murmurs of uncertainty and disbelief spread like wildfire, but then Lord Ryswell stood, his tone defiant. "How do we know you speak the truth? What proof do we have that you are not merely using the wildlings to further your own ambitions? That you are not using us to seize the Iron Throne for yourself?"
His words drew scoffs from several lords, for he was denying what more than thousands had already witnessed with their own eyes. But I had expected such doubt, and I was prepared.
"I knew there would be those who would refuse to believe my word—or that of the Free Folk. That is why I have invited guests whom you may find harder to dismiss."
I nodded toward the Free Folk standing by the doors. A moment later, the great wooden doors swung open, and in walked a figure so unexpected that gasps filled the hall.
River, a child of the forest, moved with graceful steps toward the high table, her presence an echo of an age long past. Many lords stood in shock, and some even bowed, instinctively recognizing her from tales they had heard when they were children.
She inclined her head toward me respectfully before turning to address the gathered lords.
"Greetings, children of men. I am River. The son of Ice and Fire has called me here to warn you of the threat that stirs beyond the Wall. I am surprised that you still doubt him. Have you forgotten the words of the Starks, passed down through the generations? Winter is coming. And with it, death. The Others. If you do not unite now, there will be no realm left to rule. Prepare to fight for survival, as your ancestors once did in the Age of Heroes."
Her voice, melodic yet firm, carried a weight that no man could dismiss. The Great Hall fell into hushed contemplation, and then—
"We named Robb Stark King in the North, because the South has never cared for us except when they need us to fight their petty conflicts," Maege Mormont said, stepping forward. "But now, we have an heir to the Iron Throne who was raised in the North. He grew up in Winterfell among the Starks. He prays to the Old Gods, just as we do. He adheres to the Old Ways, as we do. I propose we place him on the Iron Throne and allow a man of the North to rule the Seven Kingdoms!"
With that, she slammed her spiked mace onto the ground, knelt, and bellowed, "Daeron Targaryen! Our King from the North!"
A roar of voices followed:
"King from the North!"
"Our King from the North!"
"The Targaryen King from the North!"
"Dragon King of the North!"
As the chants echoed through the hall, I knew it was time. Time to reveal the final gift the gods had given me.
The chorus of voices began to die down, and then, piercing the silence, a high-pitched roar split the air. A sound so alien, so powerful, that every lord and lady stiffened in shock.
I turned and walked toward the Great Hall's doors. "Follow me," I commanded in a quiet but firm voice.
Though confusion and shock flickered across their faces, they obeyed.
Outside, the midday sun shone high in the sky, but its light was soon swallowed by an immense shadow.
I spread my arms wide and proclaimed, "Lords of the North! Let me introduce you to one of the gifts the Old Gods have given us to fight the coming darkness. You may have read of him in the histories of the Seven Kingdoms—a beast so ferocious, his name alone struck fear into the hearts of men. Behold, Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm!"
From the clouds above, a monstrous figure dived, his crimson scales glinting in the sunlight. With a deafening roar, Caraxes folded his wings, plummeting toward the ground before unfurling them at the last moment. This sent a gust of cold wind rippling through the gathered crowd. Another thunderous roar shook the land beneath us, and as the mighty dragon soared overhead, his vast shadow engulfed the Great Hall and all who stood before it.
The lords of the North stared up at him, awe and wonder written upon their faces.
The North had chosen its king. And the world would soon know of the northern dragon who would fight for the living.
