20-Soaring through the sky

Webnovel took the mobile app wall for now, so I'm back. Though I hold little doubt that they will put it up again in time. I'll continue uploading regularly as long as fanfiction is not behind a wall.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki and Mirxae. I also want to thank my beta-reader nicknm for helping me bounce ideas around.

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Shireen

Ever since her greyscale was gone, her appetite had become quite voracious, especially for all things meat. She ate bacon, cheese, and eggs with relish, ignoring her surroundings.

As usual, her morning was spent breaking her fast in the Great Hall together with all the lords and ladies. The rest of the day would be filled with embroidery with Sansa and all the other newly arrived northern ladies. In the late afternoon, she would tend to the small flower section in the glass garden. It had been completely abandoned when the Boltons were in control of Winterfell, and Shireen had taken it upon herself to tend to the flowers. The blue winter roses were her favourite.

All of a sudden, the Great Hall quieted down completely. Shireen looked up and saw everyone looking in the same direction. A somewhat familiar golden-haired girl with bright green eyes that looked her age was uncertainly walking towards the high table, flanked by a pair of burly guards. She had a pale scar on her left cheek, starting from the chin itself and ending where her left ear would usually be. Across the hall, people were looking at her with interest, caution, pity, or even with outright hatred.

Jon Stark stood up, and a servant quickly brought a tray.

"Welcome to Winterfell, Princess Myrcella Baratheon. I offer you bread and salt," the king's voice boomed with power.

Oh...that's why the girl looked familiar. This was her cousin...or maybe not? Her father never said how he knew that Cersei Lannister's children had been bastards. While Stannis was not someone to tell a lie, he also said that she, Shireen, had been the most important, yet he tried to sacrifice her to R'hllor. Maybe the Red Priestess had addled her father's mind from the very beginning. Thankfully the damned essosi woman had left Winterfell, to, hopefully, never return.

Myrcella looked relieved and quickly took a piece of bread, dipped it in salt and ate it. The chatter in the surrounding hall slowly returned, albeit more subdued compared to before. Myrcella was quickly guided to the head table and was seated right next to Shireen.

"Hello Cella, how did you end up in here?" Shireen asked curiously. "Last I heard you were in Dorne."

"Err...who are you, My Lady?" the golden-haired girl blinked in surprise.

"It's me, Shireen! We played together as children in the Red Keep a few times," the former Baratheon princes said. Stannis rarely brought her to King's Landing and when he did, the Cersei Lannister did her very best to keep Shireen away from her children, lest they caught greyscale, regardless of any assurances from the Grandmaester. But Cersei had little power while uncle Robert was still alive.

"Shireen...?" Myrcella's gaze slid towards her left cheek, "I... remember you looking differently," she finished diplomatically.

"Oh, the greyscale is gone! But it did leave some scarring behind," Shireen happily explained.

"Wasn't it incurable though?" the blonde princess scrunched her dainty nose in confusion.

"So they say, but one morning I woke up without it. They say it was a miracle from the old gods. It still left a mark though," she explained carefully while rubbing her scarred cheek. Shireen wanted to ask how Myrcella had gotten her scar but that would be very impolite so she held her tongue and focused on her meal, letting the awkward conversation die down.

After finishing the last piece of bacon, Shireen decided to head towards the glass garden to check up on the flowers, as she could always join the other ladies sewing later on. It was on the other end of Winterfell, at the northernmost part of the godswood so she donned a heavy fur cloak. It had snowed last night, and a serene white blanket covered everything outside.

After about fifteen minutes of walking Shireen finally arrived. The green and yellow glass panes on top were now covered in snow. The only light inside the garden came in from the sides, making the insides rather dim. She stopped outside in amazement as at that moment the sun peaked in between the clouds and a ray of light illuminated the godswood, giving the surroundings a surreal beauty.

After a few seconds of admiration, she entered the warm glasshouse. Amidst the godswood, from an unnaturally large snowy mound, two huge purple eyes were following her with interest.

***

Jon Stark

"Lady Alys, rise" he helped up the kneeling girl after she finished swearing fealty to him. She was tall, skinny, and coltish, with pale blue eyes and a small bosom.

Only the lords of Flint Fingers and Widow's watch had not arrived to pay homage to him. Considering they were the keeps furthest away from Winterfell, he'd have to wait a few days more.

His mind wandered to the conversation he had yesterday. According to Howland Reed, his mother... Lyanna was like a mix of the best and worst of Arya and Sansa. Wild, with a strong sense of Justice, yet also a lady enjoying songs, flowers, and pretty things. The crannoglord too had little idea as to what had made Rhaegar spirit away Lyanna, and in the end, Jon let the man go after extracting an oath of silence.

"King Stark, I have a request of you," Alys spoke softly and broke him out of his musing

"Speak, my lady," he urged.

"My brother Harrion, who fought valiantly for King Robb, is still held captive by the Lannisters in Maidenpool, My King. I fear that he'll be a head shorter once word of my fealty to House Stark reaches the south," she worriedly explained, while gently pulling on her long braid.

"I will see what I can do. But be sure that your brother will not be executed, with Princess Myrcella's being a guest in Winterfell," Jon reassured her. Not that he'd do anything to Myrcella under guest right. He was not a Frey. "The servants will show you your quarters."

She curtsied and trailed after a handmaid towards the Guest House.

"Ser Brynden, call the Lord Hand to my Solar," Jon ordered and the Blackfish quickly sent a man to fetch the Lord Hand and headed for the Great Keep. Ever since he had appointed the Lord of White Harbour as Hand, he had more free time.

"Your Grace, are you going to consider forming your own Kingsguard?" Brynden asked quietly.

"I scarcely need protection," Jon replied with a sigh. This was the second the Blackfish brought this topic up.

"Maybe so, Your Grace, but even the King needs to sleep," his master-at-arms insisted. "And yes, your direwolf is a worthy...guard, but as far as I know Ghost usually goes hunting at night or wanders freely around Winterfell. And your future wife and children would need the best to look after their safety."

Brynden seemed a lot more persistent this time and brought better arguments. The truth was… the Blackfish was right. But Jon had little desire to be followed around by a bunch of men constantly.

"I will consider it," he quietly replied. "But even if I appoint a Kingsguard, it will be different than the one in the South. Keep an eye out for possible candidates and know this- if I have to have men trailing me around, I'll only take the very best."

The Blackfish bowed and left, likely to drill the new Winterfell guardsmen to the bone.

Jon reached his solar and in about five minutes, Lord Manderly joined him. A hand-shaped badge made of iron and bronze proudly adorned his chest along with the golden trident pinning his mantle.

"You called for me, Your Grace?"

"Aye, Lord Hand. What can you tell me of Maidenpool?" Jon asked.

"It's a port town in the Bay of Crabs and is the seat of House Mooton, Your Grace. During the last war it has been sacked at least three times, I think," Manderly replied and his meaty hand rubbed his chin. "Last I heard, Lord Willam Mooton had started to rebuild it with help of Lord Randyll Tarly, but the marcher lord headed to King's Landing to attend the trial of Queen Margaery."

And Sam's father probably perished in the wildfire in the capital. This meant that Maidenpool was still half a ruin, and the forces of House Mooton were either spent or already dragged in the war between Aegon and Tommen.

"Lady Alys Karstark told me something extremely interesting. Her brother Harrion is still alive and held hostage at Maidenpool," Jon said and absentmindedly fiddled with the handle of his sword. His hands were aching for some action and he missed sparring and fighting. If he knew that swinging a sword was so darn fun, he would have probably done it more often in his previous life. Maybe now that some more of his time was freed up, he could join the men in the yard.

"We must free him, your Grace," the old Lord exclaimed indignantly.

"Aye, but the question is how," he opened the compartment under the desk, grabbed a long scroll and unfurled it on top of the empty table, showing a map of Westeros. "The distance from Winterfell to Maidenpool is about fifteen hundred miles both by land and sea."

"Maybe we can exchange Lord Karstark for Princess Myrcella, Your Grace? The Queen Regent is said to love her children dearly," Manderly proposed carefully.

"No, this would compromise our position. The south must stay ignorant of the fact that I've retaken the North as long as possible," Jon quickly declined.

He'd rather keep Cersei's daughter in Winterfell, in case Tommen won the war in the South. If she was trueborn, Myrcella could even be used to lay claim on Casterly Rock. And if the rumours were true and she wasn't… it didn't matter now, did it? The only person that could say for certain was Cersei Lannister and he doubted the former Queen would shout it out for the world to hear.

"We could try to break him out, Your Grace?" the old Lord asked hesitantly.

"How?" Jon asked curiously. At that moment the door to the solar was opened and Ghost shamelessly entered and sat right next to Jon, tail wagging.

He had ordered the guards to always let his direwolf go everywhere unimpeded. Not that closed doors could stop Ghost- he was smart enough to open the doors by himself if they were not barred on the inside.

"House Mooton scarcely has any men-at-arms left to call upon. I could send a few cogs to Maidenpool with some trade goods as a pretence. During the night, my men would then break out Lord Harrion and sail away," Manderly said slowly.

"A good plan, but if we're sending ships to the Bay of Crabs, we might as well go all the way. Add at least three Galleys, manned by your best. The cogs would still go ahead and scout during the day, and during the night the Galleys would sail in. The men inside Maidenpool could take down any guards and open the gates and the town would easily fall. If there are no banners displayed, Harrion Karstark could be rescued and the south would be none the wiser."

"It will be done, Your Grace," the old Lord replied with a bow of his head. "I have some thoughts on the future small council. After reviewing carefully, I believe I have a good candidate for the position of Justiciar- Lord Galbart Glover."

"And why do you think he would be a good candidate, Lord Hand?" Jon asked curiously and rang the servant bell on the table, and Ghost lazily lay down next to his feet.

"Lord Galbart is a good, loyal, and steadfast man, if a bit unexceptional, Your Grace. He is a man of little to no ambition and would serve truly to his best ability," Manderly explained.

The man was loyal, true. Even nearly two years after Robb's death he was still following his orders. The man would indeed be well suited for the role of Justiciar.

A servant quickly came, carrying a cask for dornish red and filled two goblets on the table. Jon thought he really should consider getting a cupbearer or even better, a squire.

"Good. Lord Glover will become the new Justiciar of the North. Do you have any candidates for the position of spymaster?" Jon sipped some of the wine and barely resisted the urge to scrunch his face in distaste. The dornish red was so sour it was bordering on bitter. He really should get a cupbearer or a squire and stick to northern ale and water.

"Not just yet, Your Grace," Manderly said before taking a very small sip himself. "Your Grace, have you come to a decision about the Lordships?"

"Aye, Willem Dustin's father had a brother whose line still lives in the Barrowlands. You can write down a royal decree proclaiming their ascendance to the Lordship of Barrowton. I have written a legitimisation order for Larence Snow and he will become the next Lord Hornwood," Jon explained and combed a hand through his head tiredly.

"Wouldn't Brandon Tallhart have a better claim, Your Grace? He is trueborn and his mother was the sister of the late Halys Hornwood," the Hand asked slowly while taking another small sip of his goblet.

"You'd be right if these were peaceful times, but the last few years have scarcely been peaceful, and the next few will probably not be much different. Brandon was a captive and carries the name Tallhart, not Hornwood. And the boy is twenty name-days old, yet has not a single battle under his name. He did not fight for my brother, nor against the ironborn or the Boltons. Larence Snow is two years his junior and had no obligation to me or House Stark at all. Yet he resisted and fought against the Boltons on his own and when I called, he came and fought valiantly and loyally by my side, even with the odds against us. Even most of his father's men chose to follow him regardless of bastardry. I cannot in good faith reward those who did not fight, over those who fought in House Stark's hour of greatest need." he said grimly and a glint of shame flashed through the blue eyes of the old lord across him.

"What about the Dreadfort, Your Grace?" Manderly inquired carefully.

"House Bolton is declared extinct and anyone who carries the Bolton name is declared an outlaw in the North. A seventh of their land to the west will go to House Stark, another seventh to the south will go to Hornwood, and the Dreadfort and the rest of the lands left would go to one of Maege's daughters, creating a new branch of House Mormont. She is to rename the keep and to marry matrilineally."

***

Daenerys Targaryen

Hope and dread warred within her as she stood waiting for the archmaester to arrive.

The short but stout man with greying hairs entered the chamber, accompanied by two Unsullied.

"My Queen, you called for me?" the man asked.

"Archmaester Marwyn, I have a... query for you," she began speaking slowly. "During the council meeting, you said that everything was possible with magic if one knew how to pay the right price. Is it true?"

"Not everything, but most things, My Queen. But yes, it is possible. However, the bigger the feat, the greater the cost and the chance of failure would be," Marwyn replied thoughtfully.

"The Lhazareen witch Mirri Maz Duur cursed my womb to be barren, Archmaester. Is it possible to undo the curse somehow?"

"I cannot tell for sure before examining you, My Queen," he said slowly.

How could he even check her? Oh... as realisation set in, she resigned herself and nodded numbly. The old man would not dare do anything improper with the presence of her guards or she would simply order Dogkiller and Red Flea to skewer the archmaester with their spears. Ten minutes and a lot of embarrassment later, the archmaester was done.

"Could you tell me what happened when the witch cursed you, Your Grace?"

It was hard to open her mouth, but once she did, words started flowing out like a bursting dam. Daenerys told him everything. Of Drogo's wound and how it festered. The attempt to trade his life for the one of a horse, how she was about to give birth and they brought her to the tent where the dark magic was worked when she passed out. Of the malformed babe that had been born rotten with leathery wings as if it were a part dragon, of Mirri Maz Duur's words before she burned on the pyre.

"I have good news and bad news for you, Your Grace," Marwyn stated delicately.

"There is no need to mince your words, archmaester. Get on with it," she commanded.

"The good news is that you are not cursed- "

"What do you mean not cursed?!" Daenerys angrily fumed. "I have lain with men oft to no result. Ever since Drogo died my moonblood has been irregular!"

The old man was patiently looking at her while she raged and she eventually deflated.

"What I meant to say is that your entrance into the tent caused your… babe's deformity, but it did not curse your womb, Your Grace," he evenly explained. "The bad news is that the magic, pregnancy at such an early age, and the early birth took a great toll on you. Carrying and birthing a babe at one and four is extremely damaging to your ability to bear living children on its own."

"What do you mean archmaester? Speak plainly, your Queen commands it!"

"Your mother Rhaella had your brother Rhaegar at fourteen, Your Grace. Of the next ten pregnancies, only two were successful with living and healthy babes. The other were stillbirths, miscarriages or simply born sickly or early, unable to live past a year. The Queen had the best care and maesters in the Seven Kingdoms at her beck and call. Yours would have been a similar case, should you have had the time to recover and nourish your body back to health. But instead..." instead she was in the Red Waste, half hungry and tired for months.

She felt something within her crack. Daenerys had already accepted the fact that she could have no more children, but when hope unexpectedly blossomed, she could not bring herself to stamp it out.

"What do you think would be my chances to bear a living child?"

"Living one, Your Grace? Probably two in ten. But a healthy and living babe? Less than one in ten," he said and looked at her with a hint of pity.

"But...but could it be possible with magic?" she asked hopefully.

"Mayhaps with blood magic, but it would be very dangerous. All magic has a cost and the cost of blood magic is the heaviest, and its results are twisted and unpredictable. You might have to kill thousands of innocent souls and have nothing to show for it, or even make the problem worse," Marwyn carefully said.

Many flowery words for a simple no. Daenerys felt betrayed. Foolish and betrayed by allowing herself to feel hope for having children once again. She felt angry at Viserys for making her wed so young. Furious at Drogo for getting wounded foolishly. Why was the world so unfair to her?!

As that tiny ember of hope was snuffed out again, fury quickly rose within her chest seeing Marwyn's eyes looking upon her with poorly concealed pity. How dare he look at her with pity. None of them knew what she went through! Her hands grabbed the nearest thing and threw it at the archmaester with all her strength, making him duck hurriedly. The chalice flew way off the mark, hitting the stoic Red Flea on the arm instead.

"I DO NOT NEED YOUR PITY!" she shrieked and grabbed a sharp candle stand nearby and tossed it, only to miss wildly off the mark again. "OUT! GET OUT! ALL OF YOU GET FUCKING OUT OF MY SIGHT!"

Archmaester Marwyn quickly scurried away, followed by her two unsullied. In fury, Daenerys continued throwing anything she could get her hands on towards the wall and the closed door. Eventually, her hands found nothing else to grab, and she stopped, gasping for breath.

She stood there heaving angrily. She did not need their pity, nor did she need any more sons. So what if she could not bear any more living children?! She already had three. Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal! She was Daenerys Stormborn, the Mother of Dragons, not some simpering pitiful girl.

***

Jon Stark

"Yer Grace, here is the crown you ordered," Artos said and eyed the big white direwolf sitting next to Jon warily. He was Winterfell's new blacksmith and was...adequate at his job. He was one of Mikken's first apprentices and had gone off to marry a girl in the northern mountains. Now, he was back in Winterfell and had taken his master's place in the forge.

If it was not for Sansa's reminder he'd probably have completely forgotten about it. Jon looked at the crown in his hands carefully- it was a thin, small circlet made purely out of bronze. At the front, a snarling direwolf head was facing one of a roaring dragon. Along the rest of the length, crossing swords were engraved, with first men runes meaning "Winter is coming" inscribed in the rest of the free space.

The southern crowns were gaudy and aimed to show off as much wealth as possible. The northern ones were never so extravagant and were usually a mix of bronze and iron and this one was no different.

"Thank you, Artos. A work well done," Jon praised and placed the crown atop his head, making the blacksmith beam with pride.

He could have tried making it from the chunk of spellforged bronze that he had left from the rituals, but it felt like a great waste to use it for something as simple as a crown. And he was not sure he could even overcome the invulnerability enchantment anchored by the lives of thirteen men just yet, so he had simply gone to the blacksmith and placed an order.

Finding himself left with no more duties for the rest of the day, Jon headed for the godswood, trailed by Ghost. His boots confidently crunched as he strode through the frozen grove, and his faithful companion joyfully ran through the trees with no abandon. Jon stopped at one of the ponds deep into the godswood.

He quickly undressed until the only thing on his body were his smallclothes and dipped in the cold water, letting the pleasant sensation of coolness wash over him. He usually came here to practise magic, lest he risked setting anything important on fire in his solar or the King's chambers. And because the godswood was incredibly secluded, the chances of being spied upon or interrupted were close to zero.

Purple flames began dancing above the water, as he practised diligently. His control had greatly increased and his magic reserves had grown vastly and he could probably practice for nearly an hour with a normal fire before he got tired.

He simply started pouring more magic into the flames, greatly increasing the intensity and turning them into a brighter shade of purple. The otherwise cold water around him quickly heated up and began to boil. Jon began sweating from the exertion as the hotter the flames, the more difficult they became to control, yet still within his capabilities. He could probably summon fiendfyre at this point but dared not to do so in the middle of the forest and without a wand to help his focus and control.

In a couple of minutes, a few moments before he had spent all of his magic, he extinguished the flames. His body felt the slight sluggishness that accompanied the near complete depletion of magic. Just as he turned around to exit the boiling pool, he saw Winter sitting at the nearby clearing, looking at him expectantly. Jon scowled to himself as he had not even heard his giant companion approach. He quickly exited the boiling pool and clothed himself.

The dark blue dragon had grown quite a lot in the last twenty days, now easily towering over Jon. Winter was even taking almost all of the space in the small clearing around the pond. His scaly familiar then came closer and nudged Jon with his head. Jon rubbed his snout with one hand and scratched under his chin with another, eliciting a rumbling purr. As soon as he stopped, the dragon still nudged him and Jon reached out through the link only to be blasted by a strong desire to fly. Why was Winter still here and not in the skies if he wanted to fly?

As he was wondering, his dragon lowered himself as if it was bowing down, neck to the ground. But the desire to soar felt through the connection only strengthened. Then it dawned on him. He carefully walked over to his familiar and mounted the base of his neck, between the razor-sharp spikes. As soon as he did so, Winter shot up straight in the air, forcing Jon to grab the nearest thing to hold on to. Namely- the spikes themselves. He kept feeling a mental pull through the connection with his familiar and cautiously touched it with his mind.

Suddenly the whole world shifted and Jon found himself both in control of his own body and that of the dragon. Rider and dragon were united as one. Exhilaration filled both his body and that of Winter. The feeling of the wind brushing across his face and caressing his wings and scales as they streaked through the air was incomparable to anything else. In his previous life, broomsticks were one of the main ways of flying for wizards, and the more advanced models were faster than a dragon, but the experience was simply lacking in comparison.

Seeing the wolfswood in all of its snowy glory from above felt incredible. Soaring through the skies made Jon forget all the worldly troubles below.

***

Omake: Alternative ending If Jon was a xianxia protagonist and had all of his magic from the start.

With a twitch of his hand, Jon healed his sister. He grabbed her with one arm and hauled her over his shoulder and the Elder Wand materialised in his hand. He quickly apparated north of the Wall and scoured everything to cinders with Fiendfyre.

The red keep was next.

With a final twist he was above Winterfell and killed all the Boltons inside, but not before slapping their faces first. Thankfully Rickon was alive in the dungeons and, well, if he hadn't been Jon would have resurrected him. Now, that all his enemies were defeated and his brother was alive, nothing was stopping him.

He went on a tour around the world, bedding every pair of tits that caught his fancy. Jon did not forget his fat friend Sam, whom he spirited away from the citadel to join him in the tour.

Sadly, while he was away, Daenerys came to Westeros and burned Winterfell to the ground when Rickon refused to kneel.

Needless to say, things got ugly when Jon heard about it.