Game of Thrones: Kill The Boy

A/N: I wonder what comes :o Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)

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Year 300 AC

Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, The Wall

The chamber beneath Eastwatch was cold enough to see breath, but Jon barely noticed. He sat cross-legged on the stone floor, eyes closed, focusing on the heat that coiled in his chest like a living thing. Jon saw the torch that lit inside him, but the colors were wrong. Like staring at the sun through ice.

Breathe in. Hold. Release.

The fire surged with each heartbeat, wanting to burst free. Jon pressed his palms against the cold stone, grounding himself. He thought of Ghost's eyes watching him from the kennels. Arya hiding his practice sword, laughing when caught red handed. Father cleaning Ice beneath the heart tree.

The heat settled, still present but controlled. Like banking a hearth fire for the night.

Jon flexed his fingers, watching the tendons shift beneath skin that looked unchanged yet felt fundamentally different. The violet flames still coiled in his chest, but something else had changed during his meditation. His body thrummed with a strength that went beyond muscle and bone.

He drew his belt knife, the castle-forged steel catching the torchlight. Just a test. He pressed the edge against his thumb, applying pressure that should have drawn blood. The blade skittered across his skin like it was trying to cut stone. He pressed harder, sawing back and forth. Nothing. Not even a white line where the steel had passed.

"Seven hells," he muttered, examining his unmarked thumb. The knife was sharp—he'd honed it himself yesterday. Yet his skin had turned it aside as easily as mail turns a dull blade.

The door banged open without warning. Cotter Pyke filled the doorway, his pox-scarred face twisted in its perpetual scowl. "Done playing with yourself, Snow?"

Jon sheathed the knife smoothly. "Commander Pyke."

"That Braavosi banker's here. Tycho Nestoris. Getting his ship ready for the crossing to Braavos, but he wants words with you first." Pyke stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His small eyes darted to the scorch marks on the stone floor, evidence of Jon's earlier practice with his newfound... abilities. "My men been telling me things. Dead things walking. White Walkers. And you..." He spat to the side. "They say you turned into a bloody dragon."

"All true." Jon stood, noting how Pyke's hand drifted toward his sword hilt. "The dead walk. The Others command them. And yes, I can take a dragon's form."

Pyke's scarred face went pale beneath its weathering. "Bugger me with a spear." He slumped against the wall. "I should've gone to Hardhome myself. Kept telling myself the Watch here needed me more, what with half the men ready to slit each other's throats. Least Grenn and Pyp got the job done."

"They saved many lives." Jon thought of Grenn's steady courage, Pyp's quick thinking during the evacuation. "But we saved perhaps one in five. The rest..." He let the silence speak for the thousands of Free Folk who'd never see the sun again.

"This war that's coming," Pyke said slowly, "it's not like anything we've faced before, is it?"

"The Long Night comes again. The Wall weakens. The dead multiply with each battle." Jon met Pyke's eyes. "And the lords of Westeros feast and plot and play their games, thinking us liars or madmen."

"Fucking southron cunts." Pyke's scarred face twisted further. "Wouldn't know real danger if it froze their cocks off. Too busy fighting over who gets to sit their arses on an iron chair."

"The northern lords are little better. They'll balk at letting the Free Folk through."

"Wildlings," Pyke corrected automatically.

"Free Folk," Jon said firmly. "They're people, not savages. They have names, families, stories—"

Pyke rolled his eyes. "Spare me the sermon. Call them dancing bears for all I care. The northern lords won't have them south of the Wall, whatever you name them."

"Then I'll have to make them understand." Jon let his hand rest on the knife hilt, remembering how the steel had failed to cut his transformed skin. "The northern lords. The southern lords. All of them."

Pyke's eyes sharpened, catching the weight behind Jon's words. A slow, ugly smile spread across his scarred face. "Aye, I take your meaning. Sometimes men need more than words to see sense." He pushed off from the wall. "The banker's waiting for you. Try not to burn down my castle while you're at it."

"I've learned control."

"Have you now?" Pyke paused at the door. "Control will be difficult with those pompous southerners."

"It will but the Long Night waits for no man. I could have flown away, forgetting all these troubles yet I remain."

"Aye, you do. But will you when the south will inevitably defy you." Pyke's small eyes studied him. "Though, one look at your face now will scare them enough. You've got the look of a man who's seen his own death and decided he didn't much care for it."

Jon thought of the ice dragon's teeth piercing his scales, of the cold that had tried to claim him. Of the burning sword in his dreams. "Death and I have met several times now. We're old acquaintances."

"Just remember—acquaintances have a way of becoming enemies." Pyke yanked the door open. "Best not keep the banker waiting."

Jon followed Pyke through Eastwatch's narrow corridors, noting how men pressed themselves against the walls to let them pass. Fear flickered in their eyes when they looked at him. Not the wary respect they'd shown their Lord Commander, but something deeper.

They see the dragon, he realized. Even in this form, they see what I've become.

The thought should have troubled him more than it did.

Cotter Pyke's solar was cramped and cold, smelling of salt-soaked timber and old smoke. Maps covered every surface—the Wall, the narrow sea, trade routes scratched in fading ink. Tycho Nestoris sat rigid in the room's only decent chair, his black-and-gold robes pristine despite weeks of northern travel. Ser Glendon Hewett leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Jon with the wariness of a man who'd seen too much.

Jon settled into the commander's chair, the worn leather creaking beneath his weight. His fingers found the armrests' familiar grooves—decades of commanders had worn the oak smooth, their anxieties carved into the grain.

Cotter dragged a stool from the corner, its legs scraping against stone with a sound like fingernails on ice. He positioned it close, adjacent to Jon. The gesture spoke louder than any oath—here sat Eastwatch's commander, throwing his lot in with whatever Jon had become.

The stool groaned under Cotter's weight as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. Salt crystals clung to his sparse beard, catching the lamplight like fragments of broken glass. His small eyes, usually hard as frozen mud, held something else now. Not quite fear. Not quite awe. Something between.

"Right then," Cotter said, his voice rough as barnacles. The smell of pickled herring clung to his breath, mixing with the solar's perpetual reek of damp wood and old seal fat. "Let's hear what you need from us, dragon-boy."

"Ser Glendon." Jon turned to the grizzled knight first. "I need you to take charge of those heading south. The men who'll march on Winterfell."

Glendon pushed off the wall, boots scraping stone as he began to pace. "You want me to abandon Eastwatch? Now?" His scarred hands clenched. "The dead are coming, Snow. You saw them yourself. Every sword here—"

"Look at me." Jon's voice carried that strange resonance now, deeper than before. Glendon stopped mid-stride. Their eyes met, the knight's weathered brown against Jon's grey. "The dead are coming, yes. But we need the North united when they do. We need the Reach, the Riverlands, all of them. The Boltons hold Winterfell. While they rule, the North bleeds and divides. Would you have us face the Others with enemies at our backs?"

Glendon's jaw worked, but he held Jon's gaze. The purple fire coiled in Jon's chest, patient and ready. Not a threat—just there, like a hand resting on a sword hilt.

"The realm needs every castle manned," Glendon said finally. "Every stronghold ready."

"The realm needs to believe." Jon let the words hang. "They'll believe when a Stark holds Winterfell again. When the North speaks with one voice about what comes from beyond the Wall."

Silence stretched between them. Cotter Pyke shifted in his chair, wood creaking. Tycho Nestoris watched it all, dark eyes cataloguing every word, every gesture.

Good. Let him see.

Glendon's shoulders dropped a fraction. "How many men?"

"Those who volunteer. Free Folk and sworn brothers both." Jon turned to Tycho, noting how the banker's posture straightened. "Master Nestoris. You'll have difficulty convincing the other keyholders."

"Indeed." Tycho's voice was dry as parchment. "Tales of dead men walking and a Lord Commander transforming into a dragon rarely open purse strings in Braavos."

"When you return with supplies—grain, steel, whatever the North needs—bring witnesses. Either the keyholders themselves, or men they trust. Men whose word carries weight in the Iron Bank."

Tycho's thin lips curved slightly. "You would have me bring skeptics to your door?"

"I would have you bring men who value truth over comfort." Jon met the banker's calculating gaze. "The Iron Bank's power rests on accurate information. Let them see for themselves what threatens their investments."

"A reasonable proposal." Tycho rose, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "I shall present it to my colleagues. The Bank does not make decisions lightly, Lord Snow, but neither do we ignore credible threats to our interests." He bowed, precise and shallow. "I take my leave."

After the door closed behind the Braavosi, Jon sent runners to gather the leaders. They assembled in the main hall within the hour—Free Folk chieftains with their wild beards and suspicious eyes, Night's Watch officers in worn black wool, Queen's men in Baratheon colors looking distinctly uncomfortable. Val stood near the fire, white furs making her look like winter given form. Toregg lurked behind her, hand never far from his axe.

Jon stood before them all, feeling the weight of their expectations. "I leave for Castle Black within the hour. From there, south to Winterfell."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A Free Folk woman with iron-grey braids asked in concern, "And what of the cold ones, then?"

"The wall holds… for now. We need the support of the North if we are to face the coming darkness." Jon's voice cut through the noise. "Any who wish to join me, may, but I will not force you. But remember why you fight. You fight for the chance to settle south of the Wall, to raise your children where the dead can't reach. Those who stay will help defend Eastwatch. Tycho Nestoris will return with food enough to last until Winterfell is ours."

"What if the kneeler lords don't like us here?" Another clansmen asked.

"Then we'll convince them." The purple fire pulsed in Jon's chest, eager. "One way or another."

More murmurs, but different now. Calculating. Hopeful.

A young Free Folk warrior stepped forward. "I'll come. Better swing steel at men than freeze from shadows."

Others followed. A few grizzled rangers. A few dozen clansmen. Soon hundreds had declared for the march south.

"Toregg." Jon found the wildling in the crowd. "You'll help Ser Glendon lead them to Last Hearth. The Umbers are hard men, but they remember their oaths."

Toregg's wild grin showed too many teeth. "Aye, I'll keep your southron knight from getting a spear in his back."

"And you?" Jon turned to Val. "Will you come?"

Her blue-grey eyes held his. "Someone's got to stop you torchin' the bloody Wall, Snow."

Grenn pushed through the crowd, still favoring his left leg from Hardhome. "I couldn't help you during the mutiny as you kept Pyp and I far away. I won't let that happen again." Jon's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath wind-chapped skin.

"We should've been there." The words scraped past his throat.

The purple fire coiled tighter in his chest, feeding on the guilt. Jon forced his hand away from the sword, let it hang loose at his side. A muscle in his cheek twitched as he gave a single, sharp nod—acknowledgment and apology wrapped in one economical gesture.

"Then it's settled." Jon moved toward the door, the crowd parting before him. "Gather what you need. We leave soon."

Outside, the wind screamed across Eastwatch's battlements, driving ice crystals that stung exposed skin like wasps. Jon's boots crunched through fresh powder as he led them to the eastern edge where stone gave way to a sheer drop. The Shivering Sea churned black beneath them, waves crashing against the Wall's base in endless assault.

The assembled group hung back a hundred paces, their breath forming a fog bank in the frigid air. Someone's teeth chattered—a sharp, rapid clicking that cut through the wind's howl.

Jon's fingers worked the clasp of his cloak. The heavy wool dropped into the snow with a soft whump. Cold air bit through his tunic, not affecting him in the least. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the strange looseness in his joints, the way his bones seemed to hum with anticipation.

The purple flame writhed in his chest like a living thing, pressing against his ribs. He drew in a lungful of arctic air, tasting salt and snow. His eyes drifted shut.

Not yet. Control first.

Heat bloomed from his core, spreading through arteries and veins like molten metal. His skin prickled, then burned. Purple fire erupted along his arms, licking up his neck, wreathing his body in violet light. The snow at his feet hissed into steam.

His bones groaned. Lengthened. The crack of reshaping cartilage echoed off the Wall. Darkness spread across his skin—not like paint but like the night itself seeping through his pores. His spine arched, vertebrae popping like knuckles as they multiplied and stretched.

Wings tore from his shoulder blades in a wet rip of flesh and sinew. They unfurled with a leathery snap, casting shadows that swallowed the entire courtyard… and beyond.

A woman's scream pierced the air—high and sharp as breaking glass. Bodies scrambled backward, boots slipping on ice. Someone ran.

The transformation rippled through him in waves. His neck elongated, skull reshaping with grinding sounds that made grown men cover their ears. Scales erupted across his flesh like black ice forming on still water. His hands became talons, fingers fusing and extending into curved obsidian blades.

When he opened his eyes, the world had shifted. Colors bled differently through draconic vision—the Wall glowed with an inner light, each man's heat signature a crimson bloom against the cold. He towered hundreds of feet above them now, his massive head swaying on a serpentine neck. Each breath sent purple sparks dancing between teeth like swords.

His tail lashed once, sending a spray of snow high into the air. The membrane of his wings caught the wind with a sound like thunder.

Val stepped forward first, as he'd known she would. No fear in her movements, just that wildling practicality. Grenn followed, limping but determined.

Jon lowered his hand, letting them climb onto on. Val's hands found purchase between his scales, Grenn settling behind her. Their weight was nothing. He could have carried dozens more.

"Hold fast," he rumbled, voice like distant thunder.

Val's laugh was wild and free. "Try not to drop us, dragon-lord."

Jon launched himself skyward with a roar that shook ice from Eastwatch's towers. Below, men scattered like ants. Above, clouds parted before his wings. The Wall stretched endlessly east and west, a ribbon of ice dividing the world.

He turned south, toward Castle Black. Toward duty and destiny and whatever came next.

The purple fire sang in his veins, and for this moment at least, Jon Snow flew free.

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Gates of the Moon, The Vale

The morning sun slanted through the high windows of Sweetrobin's solar, painting golden squares across the rushes. Sansa smoothed her skirts—plain brown wool today, nothing to draw attention—and knocked softly on the heavy oak door.

"Enter," came the reedy voice from within.

Robert Arryn sat propped against embroidered cushions in his chair by the hearth, but the change in him brought Sansa to attention. Color had returned to his cheeks, no longer the sickly grey-white of parchment. His eyes, though still overlarge in his thin face, held a clarity she'd never seen before. The tremors that usually wracked his small frame had stilled.

"Cousin Sansa." He set aside the book he'd been reading—actually reading, not merely staring at the pages while his mind wandered. "You were right."

She crossed to him, kneeling beside his chair to bring their eyes level. The scent of burning applewood filled the solar, clean and sweet, nothing like the cloying incense Petyr favored. "How do you feel?"

"Strong." His voice held wonder. "The kitchen staff you suggested—they've been bringing me proper food. Roasted fowl, fresh bread, clear broths. No honeycakes. No sweetwine." His mouth twisted. "No sweets."

"And the trembling?"

"Gone three days now." He caught her hand in his, still thin, but steady. "The maester says it's remarkable. But we know better, don't we?"

Sansa squeezed his fingers gently. He believes me. Truly believes. The relief nearly made her dizzy. "What will you do?"

Robert's jaw set with surprising determination. For the first time, she glimpsed the lord he might have been, had Petyr not kept him weak and pliant. "Lord Royce!"

The summons rang clear through the solar. Within moments, Bronze Yohn entered, mail clinking beneath his surcoat. His weathered face showed no surprise at finding Sansa there, seems the man missed nothing.

"My lord." He inclined his head to Robert, then deeper to Sansa. "My lady."

"Arrest Lord Baelish." Robert's voice didn't waver. "Charge him with treason. With poisoning the Lord of the Eyrie."

Bronze Yohn's eyes glinted with satisfaction. "At once, my lord. I'll take twenty men."

"Thirty," Robert corrected. "He's clever. And Ser Lyn Corbray—"

"Is already in custody," Bronze Yohn finished. "Even though Ser Corbary made a mistake in the heat of the tilt by killing Lord Harrold, he is still in Littlefingers employ."

Robert nodded, looking older than his years. "Go then. Bring me my mother's husband."

Bronze Yohn departed with purposeful strides. Sansa remained kneeling, watching Robert's face as the lordly mask slipped, revealing the frightened boy beneath.

"He killed my mother too, didn't he?" His voice cracked. "Not directly, but... he brought her to King's Landing. He whispered poison in her ear about the Lannisters."

"I believe so." Sansa wouldn't lie to him now. "Your mother loved you very much, Sweetrobin. Everything she did, however misguided, was to protect you."

"And he used that love." Tears tracked down his cheeks, but his voice stayed steady. "Used her. Used me. Used you."

"Not anymore."

They sat in companionable silence, the fire crackling between them. Sansa thought of another solar, another lord paramount who'd trusted the wrong man. Father's honor killed him. Perhaps Robert's weakness saved him—Petyr never saw him as a true threat.

Bronze Yohn returned within the hour, his face grim. "Gone. His chambers are empty, his coffers too. The guards say he left before dawn with a small escort."

"Let him run." Robert's voice held steel. "Send ravens to every port. Every holdfast. Petyr Baelish is attainted, stripped of all titles and holdings. Any man who aids him shares his fate."

"It will be done." Bronze Yohn paused. "There's more, my lord. We found correspondence in his chambers. Letters to the Crown, to the Boltons, to the Iron Bank. He was playing every side."

"Keep them." Robert stood, swaying slightly before finding his balance. "The Vale stands with House Stark now. With my cousin."

Sansa rose gracefully, though her heart hammered. "Robert, can we…"

"You're Sansa Stark." He said it simply, as if it had always been true. "Daughter of my aunt Catelyn. And the Boltons hold your home."

"They murdered my mother and brother." The words tasted of ash. "They flaunt their treachery, wedding that monster to a false Arya."

"Then we'll pull them down." Robert moved to the great map of Westeros mounted on the wall, his finger tracing the route from the Eyrie to Winterfell. "The Knights of the Vale haven't ridden to war yet. They must be eager."

Bronze Yohn cleared his throat. "Winter is coming, my lord. The mountain passes are getting harder to pass."

"They will hold long enough." Robert turned to face them, and Sansa saw her father in his jutting chin, her mother in his auburn hair. "House Tully and House Stark bound our parents. That bond remains. The North remembers, they say. Well, so does the Vale."

"The Freys," Sansa said softly. "They violated guest right. Murdered my mother at her brother's wedding."

"Them too." Robert's smile was sharp as winter wind. "Lord Royce, summon my banners. Every sword, every lance. My cousin needs an army, and she'll have one."

"My lord." Bronze Yohn bowed deep and departed.

Robert swayed again, and Sansa caught his elbow. "You're still recovering. Don't push too hard."

"I've been weak all my life." He leaned into her support without shame. "Scared of everything. Of loud noises, of strangers, of my own shadow. But not anymore. You saved me, Sansa. Let me save you in return."

She helped him back to his chair, struck by how light he still was. Recovery would take time. But his eyes—those were a lord's eyes now. A lord who understood betrayal, who'd survived it.

"We'll need supplies," she said, shifting to practicalities. "The granaries need attention."

"They are full. Petyr was many things, but not wasteful. And Lord Royce has been quietly preparing ever since Harry died." Robert's mouth quirked. "He knew Littlefinger would overreach eventually."

"The Lords Declarant?"

"Will follow Bronze Yohn. And you." He caught her hand again. "They remember your father. How he died for truth. They'll fight for Ned Stark's daughter."

For Ned Stark's daughter. Not for Alayne Stone, not for Littlefinger's pawn. For herself.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Family." Robert squeezed her fingers. "Duty. Honor. Those are Tully words, aren't they? Mother used to say them when she thought I was sleeping. She'd cry and whisper them like a prayer."

"They are."

"Then we'll make them mean something again." His voice grew distant, thoughtful. "I dream sometimes, you know. Of flying. Of seeing the world spread below me like this map. Maybe when you have Winterfell back, you'll let me visit. I'd like to see snow that doesn't try to kill you."

Sansa kissed his forehead, tasting fever-sweat and determination. "You'll always be welcome in Winterfell, cousin. Always."

Outside, she heard the clarion call of trumpets, the clatter of armor as Bronze Yohn mustered his men. The game had changed. Littlefinger had fled, but he'd left his greatest weapon behind—a lord who'd learned to see clearly, and a lady who'd learned to play the game.