Winterfell buzzed with the preparations of war. Outside the walls, blacksmiths hammered steel into weapons, and soldiers trained in the snow-covered fields. The air was thick with urgency, every breath a reminder of the cold and the looming threat to the north. But Jon's mind was elsewhere, already far from Winterfell, as he prepared for his departure.
Standing in the armory, Jon inspected his gear for the journey. He had decided—after consulting with Sansa and Davos—that he would sail south to Dragonstone, where Daenerys Targaryen had established her seat. The Dragon Queen was their best hope against the Night King, her dragons the only force capable of challenging the dead. But convincing her to align with the North would be no easy task.
Sansa entered the armory, her expression troubled. She had not spoken much since Jon had announced his decision to leave, and Jon knew she was struggling with it.
"You don't have to do this," Sansa said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You're the King in the North. The lords need you here."
Jon sighed, turning to face her. "If we're going to survive the Night King, we need every advantage. Daenerys and her dragons might be the only thing that can stop the dead. I can't stay here and hope for the best. I have to do this."
Sansa's lips tightened into a thin line. "And what if she doesn't agree? What if she sees you as a threat instead of an ally? The Targaryens have never cared for the North."
Jon met her gaze, his heart heavy. He knew the risks—Daenerys could refuse to help, or worse, view him as a rival to her claim. But they had no other choice. The army of the dead was too powerful, and they needed allies, even ones as dangerous as the Targaryens.
"I'll make her understand," Jon said, his voice firm. "I'll explain what we're facing. She's not like her father. She wants to rule, yes, but she also wants to protect the people. That's what Tyrion told me."
Sansa frowned. "You're placing a lot of faith in a woman you've never met."
"I'm placing faith in what's left of humanity," Jon replied. "This isn't about crowns or thrones anymore. It's about survival."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The tension between them was thick, a silent argument of wills. Sansa had always been more cautious, more pragmatic than Jon. She saw danger where he saw opportunity, but Jon had always trusted his instincts. And his instincts told him that this was the only path forward.
At last, Sansa spoke again, her voice softer this time. "Just… be careful. She's powerful, Jon, and power changes people. Don't trust her too quickly."
Jon nodded, understanding her concern. "I'll be careful."
Sansa studied him for a moment longer before stepping forward and embracing him tightly. Jon was momentarily taken aback by the gesture, but he wrapped his arms around her, feeling the warmth of her embrace through the cold armor.
"Come back," she whispered, her voice tight with emotion. "The North needs you. I need you."
Jon swallowed the lump in his throat. He wasn't used to being needed, not like this. But Sansa's words struck deep. She had already lost so much—Robb, their father, their mother. Jon couldn't bear the thought of her losing him too.
"I'll come back," Jon promised, his voice low.
They parted, and Sansa gave him a final nod before turning to leave. As she walked away, Jon felt the weight of his decision settle over him again. The King in the North was leaving his people to seek help from the south—a risky gamble, but one he had to take.
---
Later, Jon stood with Davos in the courtyard as they prepared to depart. The weather was harsh, even for the North, with biting winds and snow that fell in thick, heavy flakes. Their horses were saddled, and their small party of guards—chosen carefully by Davos—were ready for the journey to White Harbor, where they would set sail for Dragonstone.
Jon adjusted the thick cloak around his shoulders, bracing himself against the cold. He glanced over at Davos, who was checking the provisions.
"You still think this is the best course of action?" Jon asked, needing to hear the reassurance.
Davos, ever the pragmatist, nodded. "It's the only course. We can't beat the dead with swords alone. Those dragons… they could turn the tide. And if you can win Daenerys to our side, we'll have a real chance."
Jon exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air. "And if she doesn't want to help?"
Davos shrugged. "Then we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. But from what I've heard, she's not unreasonable. Tyrion will be there. He'll speak for us."
Jon appreciated Davos's calm, measured tone. The Onion Knight had been through more than most men, and his experience had made him wise in ways Jon could never hope to be. If Davos thought this was the right course, then Jon would trust him.
"Let's hope it's enough," Jon muttered, adjusting the grip on the reins of his horse.
Just as they were about to mount, a voice called out from behind them.
"Jon!"
Jon turned to see Tormund Giantsbane striding across the courtyard, his wild red hair and beard a stark contrast to the snow that clung to his clothes. The Free Folk leader grinned broadly, despite the bitter cold.
"You're really going south?" Tormund asked, stopping in front of Jon. "Never thought I'd see the day you'd leave the North behind."
"I'm not leaving it behind," Jon replied, meeting Tormund's amused gaze. "I'm trying to save it."
Tormund's grin widened. "I know, I know. Still, a Stark of Winterfell riding to meet a dragon queen… sounds like a song they'll sing for generations."
Jon shook his head, smiling faintly. "I'm no Stark."
Tormund let out a bark of laughter. "You keep saying that, but you're more Stark than any of those lords inside."
Jon wasn't sure what to say to that, so he simply gave Tormund a nod. He had always felt a kinship with the Free Folk—men who lived outside the bounds of noble titles and traditions. Tormund's respect meant something to him, even if Jon struggled to accept his own place in the world.
"Good luck, Snow," Tormund said, clapping Jon on the shoulder with a rough hand. "If the dragon queen gives you any trouble, tell her I'll come south and put her in her place."
Jon smiled at that. "I'll keep that in mind."
With that, Tormund turned and walked back toward the gates, his laughter still echoing through the courtyard. Jon watched him go, feeling a strange sense of comfort. The Free Folk had chosen to fight for the North, for a cause greater than themselves. They believed in him, and that gave Jon the strength to believe in himself.
Davos mounted his horse, gesturing for Jon to follow. "We should get moving if we want to reach White Harbor before the next storm hits."
Jon nodded and swung into the saddle. He cast one last glance at Winterfell—the home he had fought so hard to reclaim, the place where so many of his family had died. It felt strange to be leaving now, with winter tightening its grip on the land, but he knew it was necessary.
He tightened his grip on the reins, his mind already on the road ahead.
"Let's go," Jon said, his voice firm.
Their small party rode out of the gates, the cold wind biting at their faces as they began the journey south. The snow fell heavier now, and the road ahead was treacherous, but Jon pressed on, determined. He would find Daenerys Targaryen, and he would bring her dragons north.
He had to.
For the North, for the living—for the future.
---
The days on the road were harsh, the snow falling relentlessly and the cold cutting through even the thickest of furs. The journey to White Harbor was slow, with the icy winds making travel difficult. Jon's thoughts were a constant swirl of uncertainty, worry, and hope. As they neared the coast, he found himself staring out at the frozen landscape, wondering what Daenerys Targaryen would be like—whether she would listen to him, whether she would understand the threat they faced.
By the time they reached White Harbor, the city was buzzing with activity. Lord Manderly had made the preparations for their ship, and soon Jon and his party boarded the vessel that would take them to Dragonstone. The sea was rough, the journey long and cold, but Jon's resolve never wavered.
As the distant outline of Dragonstone appeared on the horizon, Jon stood at the bow of the ship, the cold wind whipping through his hair. The ancient Targaryen stronghold loomed ahead, its dark towers shrouded in mist.
This was it.
The moment that could change everything.
Jon tightened his grip on the railing, his eyes fixed on the island fortress.
Winter was coming, and he needed dragons to meet it.