( Daeron POV )
Jon Stark sat in front of the massive table that was once his father's and his father's before him. Winterfell had been burned by the Ironborn, sure, but as Sam said, they could not have burnt everything. And the reavers were hardly interested in a couple of books and paper. His father's solar had barely been touched and not much had been put to the torch.
He trailed his hands on the table, carefully picking up another letter and removing the seal. This had been his life since the Manderlys had welcomed him into Winterfell, Stark banners adorning the walls.
Winterfell…Jon could hardly believe it. He had dreamed of being the lord of Winterfell as a child when he didn't understand how bastards worked. He dreamt of being the lord of all of the Northern lands, and ruling them as wisely and justly as his father had.
Oh, how he had been ashamed to have even had those dreams as he grew up to know what being a Snow was. Winterfell would never be his and he would never go against his brothers and sisters to take it.
Yet, here he was, in the middle of the once imposing fortress of the North, and not only its lord but its king. At least, that is, until he could rescue his sisters…or find out what had happened to his brothers.
Jon winced at that. One of the first things that he had done when arriving at Winterfell was to confront the turncloak, Theon Greyjoy. The Manderlys had captured him at the same time as the castle, though, unlike the other Ironborn, his head was not on a spike adorning the castle walls.
When he met him, he thought that he'd see the cocky, arrogant, man from Winterfell. Instead, he only found half of a corpse, looking at him weakly, not even being able to open his mouth and defend his actions.
This did not stop Jon from beating him bloody until Theon confessed that he had never found Bran and Rickon. He had searched the castle from the crypts to the tall towers but never found a trace of the boys, and instead had some peasant's sons executed instead.
This sparked a fire of hope in Jon. Perhaps…perhaps his brothers were alive somewhere. Though, it did little to earn any mercy. Theon had killed Robb, his brother…his blood. He had burned Winterfell to the ground, spat on their father's name…he couldn't be left alive. He deserved a slow and brutal death. He deserved to burn.
However, feeding him to Winter wouldn't have been fair. It wouldn't have been just to the companion closest to Robb during these last few years. Instead, he just ushered in Grey Wind. The direwolf had grown to a massive size since he had last seen him, and he had somehow found Ghost, who had snuck his way towards this side of the wall.
Watching silently, Jon stood emotionless as Grey Wind tore into Theon, brutally ending Greyjoy's life, and thus ending Balon Greyjoy's line. No sentence, no need to swing the sword. His head wouldn't even adorn the castle walls, considering what was left of the traitor once all was said and done.
This brought him back to the question at hand. Where were his brothers? Did Theon lie in the hope of getting Jon's mercy? If his brothers lived…they couldn't have gone very far…but where?
Jon sighed deeply.
In truth, there had been no word of them for days now, and little by little, Jon's hopes had diminished. Not to mention there was a multitude of other problems to deal with.
A small part of him regretted the Watch. A black cloak was a lot lighter than the crown atop his head, and his burdens as king were much more numerous than those of the Watch.
First of all, there was Winter.
Winter had grown at an incredible rate ever since he had landed on his shoulder after Maester Aemon's funeral. The blue-scaled dragon had quickly outgrown Ghost and Grey Wind, becoming so massive he could hardly fit in Winterfell's courtyard.
Jon had no idea how to train a dragon, either. He wasn't a damn Targaryen; how could he know how these creatures even worked? It had taken him days for Winter to understand that Ghost and Grey Wind were not food, and even longer for Jon to instill in him that the horses of his army were not food either.
Jon felt somewhat relieved that he wasn't alone in this task. Both Maester Luwin and Sam tried their best to help him, even finding works in Valyrian in the Winterfell library which Sam tried his best to translate despite not being close to mastering the tongue.
Of course, these books yielded little results, but Winter grew anyways, and still…Jon could feel a connection with the legendary creature. Just like Ghost, he would dream of flying over the Wolfswood, hunting stags or wild boars, burning them with a burst of green and blue flame, before taking large chunks out of their remains.
He could see himself fly over the North, seeing the keeps of Cerwyn, Deepwood Motte or White Harbor like no person would ever see, flying over the bay of Seals and over Skagos, seeing the large stretches of sea, ice, forest, and snow stretch far into the horizon. It was a liberating feeling, one that lifted the burden of rule for a brief moment.
Then there was the day when Sam told him that Winter was ready to be ridden. He and maester Luwin had made a saddle based on various books they'd found, and to say Jon was terrified of even trying to ride Winter was an understatement.
Even looking at Winter, he could tell that the dragon wasn't enchanted by this perspective, and he already dreaded what the dragon's teeth, as large as a grown man's forearm, would do to anyone approaching him.
Yet, Winter accepted the saddle with a big huff, and Jon had slowly mounted the dragon. The first bout was nothing extraordinary. Two short rounds above Winterfell before Jon came back down, his face white as he could barely control the beast, thinking that at any moment he would be dropped from the saddle and onto the cold snow below him.
The following days were slightly better, but not exceptional either. Jon knew he couldn't stylize himself as a legendary dragonrider in a moon. However, his bond with Winter did help to soothe both the dragon and himself.
The flights became smoother, and Jon's fears slowly dissipated. He had yet to hunt with his newly found companion, but he would certainly aim to do so in a couple of days.
His fear wasn't for him to suddenly drop from his dragon or for Winter to decide to snack on him anymore, it was more to hide Winter from the world.
Indeed, such an asset would be precious when it would be time to go South and finally liberate his sisters. But he needed it to be hidden, and how do you hide a dragon of this size to the outside world?
Admittedly, the North was large and isolated, but surely rumours would have already spread south at the very least. How would he be able to hide Winter's very existence to the world?
He sighed again. Another problem added to the pile.
He instead brought out a large map of the North, sprawling his fingers along the dotted lines along the North. He had resettled thousands of wildlings in his own lands as well as the former Bolton lands, who went to house Stark after Roose's death.
He had also resettled some in the Gift and New Gift and managed to man three more castles on the Wall: The Nightfort, Stonedoor, and Sable Hall.
However, he was running out of space to put the free folk. He had received help from unexpected places, to be sure. After the Greyjoys' rampage through the Stony Shore, many places needed rebuilding, and some fields needed workers.
The Glovers and Tallharts were actually somewhat eager to have the free folk's help to put their castles back into shape and to collect the last harvests before winter would settle and the fields would freeze over.
But more than a hundred thousand wildlings wouldn't exactly be a pleasure to deal with. There was of course the matter of their behaviour, especially with some free folk that continued to fight despite Mance's orders and who the Northmen were already very keen to brutally slaughter.
Well, at least this did mean less mouths to feed.
How could he feed all those men, women, and children? Not to mention the horses, mammoths, and Giants that had also been brought past the Wall. The dead didn't need to feed themselves, but the living certainly did…and that posed a massive problem.
The North could only sustain so much…and with the Greyjoys burning down many food stores, the North was desperately short on grain.
He could import from Braavos, but the North would spend decades repaying that debt, and he had had enough lessons about the Iron Bank of Braavos to know such a deal would probably weaken the North for generations to come.
And then there were the Riverlands. They were supposedly a breadbasket, and their allies to boot…but had been ravaged by war, and he didn't think they had much to give him. They would likely keep the little they had to feed themselves.
Jon scratched his head and brought forth a map of the Seven Kingdoms instead. He trailed his fingers from North to South, down towards the Neck, past the Twins to Riverrun, southwards, and then…the Reach.
The Reach was known as the most fertile place in Westeros, and Highgarden was one of the richest places on the continent.
He tapped his fingers around the landmarks: Goldengrove, Cider Hall, Horn Hill, Oldtown, Highgarden…if only he could lay his hands on their harvests, he could probably feed the North for fifty years, along with the hundred thousand wildlings and possibly the Riverlands too.
He could feed an army worthy of the name to stand up against the dead.
He almost cracked a smile before reminding himself that he had other matters to attend to. Certainly, he was constituting another host to help the Northmen and Riverlanders still fighting south, but he could not leave the North at the moment.
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, his father had said.
And in this case, the Stark in Winterfell was the only link between the wildlings and the Northmen, and if he left, how long would it take before the two camps started to slaughter each other?
He nervously tapped his fingers on the map as flashes of his fights against the wights came back to mind. He thought of the hundreds of wildling women and children passing through the Wall, thought about these girls who the clans had disguised as men in order for them to be accepted as hostages in the hopes they could be safer…
His choice was impossible to make. For now, he needed to stay here and at least make sure the situation was stable enough. But in a few months … he and Winter could probably lay waste to the southern armies and take as much food as they could carry from the Reach and come back North…
A few knocks interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter." He beckoned.
It was Lord Umber.
"Lord Umber." Jon nodded. "You come at the perfect moment."
"Oh?" the large man seemed surprised. "What is it?"
"Do you remember when I told you our host would start moving in six months to go South and relieve the Riverlanders?"
"Aye."
"Make it four."
The Greatjon raised his eyebrows, but said nothing more, and just nodded.
"It will be done."
It is true that although his lords had been…discontent at the thought of wildlings entering Northern territory, it was also true that the Northmen also didn't exactly contest the orders of the man with the rapidly growing dragon, which certainly helped.
Although Jon knew he couldn't exactly shove many unpopular decisions down his lords' throats, it certainly helped him gain the upper hand when it came to compromise. Which was why he also needed to stabilise the northern situation before even considering helping the Tullys.
"Erm, your grace?" the Greatjon cleared his throat.
"Yes?"
"You might want to come to the courtyard."
Jon pushed the maps of Westeros aside, frowning. What had Winter done? Burnt a couple of horses again? There had been no incident for some weeks now, shouldn't his dragon as learned his lesson?
Jon followed the Greatjon down the stairs of Winterfell's tower and towards the courtyard, where there was a great agitation. Seeing him, the crowd slowly parted, revealing a small party of men and women…and in the centre…
Jon's heart nearly stopped.
In the centre was a small child with auburn hair and a small grin, flanked by a much, much larger direwolf.
Jon rushed forwards and immediately sank to his knees, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder. A mixture of emotions invaded his heart.
A part of him immediately wanted to cry out in anger. He had had everything … Winterfell … the North … all of it ripped away from him in an instant.
However, this lasted only for a few seconds as relief ran through him. His brother was alive…and surely Bran was too?
"Rickon…is it you?"
"Hey, Jon!" he shouted, almost with glee. "They say you've got a dragon, that's awesome! Is it true?"
"Uh…yes."
"Great! Can you take me for a ride?"
Jon shifted uncomfortably.
"If you behave and follow your lessons, yes…" he breathed a sigh of relief. "Rickon…where's Bran…?"
Rickon didn't budge and instead looked around and petted Shaggydog's head.
"Can we eat, Jon?" he asked. "I'm starving and so is Shaggydog!"
Jon's lips curved into a small smile.
"Halys, please have a hot meal prepared for his grace. And don't forget the wolf too."
The men around him hassled out, while Rickon was slowly shown to Winterfell's dining hall. Jon would soon join him, after having concerted with a few of his lords on what to do now.
Clearly, it wouldn't be long till they would claim for him to step down, Winter be damned. He needed to call a council as soon as possible. If Rickon was alive and well, he was the rightful king, and Jon would only act as his regent.
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