24-The Flying Storm

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognizable characters, plots, and settings are exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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

***

Jon Stark

His fury abated as he felt the cursed flames fully consume their target and he stopped channelling his magic. Jon turned around to look at the young doe looking at him in wonder with familiar blue eyes. She had a scar on the left side of her face. He carefully petted her and looked around. He spread his senses-

Jon opened his eyes abruptly only to see the dark ceiling of his room. If he had not taken control of the wards, he would have probably slept through whatever the dark sorcerer wanted to do. The foolish sod thought he was invincible because he was powered by the deaths of a few thousand souls.

Now that he thought about it, the young doe was most certainly Shireen Baratheon. Her eyes were unnaturally intelligent for an animal and her magical presence was uncannily similar to the former Princess but more powerful. The alternate dimension where his mind got pulled in was very weird, unlike anything he had ever encountered before. It was somewhat similar to diving into a pensive but not quite. Jon could feel the dwindling stench of death and dark magic around him even now. The mirror dimension could affect the real world in some form, though the rules that it followed were unclear. From his short stay, he sensed that both time and space seemed very chaotic.

This was something to explore once he got even stronger. The dark magic practitioner he had encountered could have been very dangerous if he was properly trained. Who knew what powers and horrors existed there? Though all of this was in vain, as currently, he had no idea how to even enter said dimension. This time he managed to enter because of his control of the wards that notified him about the dark presence in Winterfell and he managed to pinpoint the disturbance and follow it. Now, no matter how he stretched his senses, he found nothing out of the ordinary other than a quickly fading echo of foulness.

As a last resort, Jon lulled himself asleep. Alas, that also proved ineffective as he had a dreamless sleep as usual. Though, it wasn't in vain - when he woke up a few hours later, he felt fully rested.

He got out of bed, walked to the alcove, opened his shutter, and looked outside. In the east, the first rays of the morning sun just peeked over the snowy horizon, slowly colouring the sky in fiery orange. He had a whole day to spend before the so-called Grand Northern Council began. It had nothing to do with the Grand Council of the Seven Kingdoms, but that's what people had called it after he officially called for the meeting yesterday, after the Skagosi Lords arrived and paid homage to him. It had been decades since the last time every single Stark bannerman, big or small, was here in Winterfell at the same time. Jon had men hunting in the wolfswood to compensate for the strain on the larders.

After dressing in a simple doublet and breeches, throwing the cloak that Sansa made for him over his shoulders, Jon left his room.

"King Stark, I am here as you requested," a deep yet childish voice grabbed his attention as soon as he entered the hallway. Near the guardsman, a young Torrhen Flint stood.

The boy was three and ten and barely taller than Arya, but his shoulders were thrice as wide. He had brown hair and dark eyes. Jon furrowed his brow trying to remember when he had asked for the boy. After a moment of shuffling through his memories, he finally remembered. Yesterday, he had officially taken the boy as his squire with the blessing of his father, Donnel, who was the new Flint chieftain and his first order was for Torrhen to wait for him outside his quarters every day at dawn. Another surprise, but a welcome one, was that Torrhen's great-grandfather was the brother of his maternal great-grandmother, Arya Flint.

"Good lad, now follow me," Jon said and headed outside.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his new squire follow him hurriedly. The relationship between a squire and his master went two ways. The squire would clean the armour, tend to the horses, act as a cupbearer and run errands, while the master would pass on his martial skills as well as many other talents the master deems the squire worthy of. Since he was going to teach the boy, Jon was going to make sure he would be capable. No student, or squire of his, in this case, would be anything short of exceptional.

"What do you think is the most essential quality in a fighter?" he asked as they strode purposefully through the snowy courtyard.

"Speed?" Torrhen hesitantly replied before quickly adding, "My King."

"You can drop the titles when it's just the two of us. I didn't take you as my squire because I wanted my arse kissed," Jon said after looking around the nearly empty yard. A scant few servants and guardsmen were all that could be seen. Hearing My King or Your Grace constantly was quickly getting annoying, "And are you asking me or are you telling me?"

"Speed is the most important quality in a fighter," his square stated with some confidence in his voice.

"It is indeed important. But stamina and strength are the most essential," seeing the confused face of his squire, he elaborated further. "When you're mounted your stamina matters little, but on the ground it's the most important, together with strength. Good armour negates a big part of the advantage of speed. And if you have more endurance, you could spend more time practising and polishing your skill at arms. Feel free to ask me any questions."

After a short moment of hesitation, Torrhen spoke up "But didn't you only take mere seconds to defeat Roose Ryswell in single combat?"

Jon snorted. Of course, the kid would ask him about the trial by battle.

"Aye, I did. But I had a superior weapon and was faster, stronger, and more skilled than my opponent by a large margin. I used all of my strengths to the fullest. Remember this, always give your all when dealing with your enemy," he quietly said and his squire nodded along.

He could see that the boy didn't fully understand what he was talking about, but it was fine.

"My father said that you have the Valyrian Steel sword, Longclaw. Can it truly cut through normal steel?" his squire asked hesitantly.

"Lord Commander Jeor Mormont gifted it to me when I saved his life on the Wall. And Longclaw is indeed lighter than usual, impossibly sharp, does not rust or lose its edge, and cannot be destroyed," Jon explained and enjoyed the look of wonder on the boy's face. "But it's not the sword that I am using."

"Why? Aren't Valyrian Steel swords the best?" Torrhen asked in confusion.

Jon simply unsheathed his nameless bronze sword and swung at a rather large rock nearby, cutting it in two.

"Maybe, but mine is just as good and it fits me better. Valyrian steel weapons are so rare that most people live their lives without even seeing one, let alone wielding it so you don't have to worry about that anytime soon."

His squire was deep in thought when they finally reached Winterfell's inner walls. They were gigantic - a hundred feet high and twenty five feet wide made of granite.

After quickly climbing the stairs, they reached the top. A part of the guard duty was to keep the whole parapet completely clear of snow, to prevent people from slipping so the top of the wall was like a flat, wide and even road made of stone. Jon looked behind at Torrhen, who was a bit out of breath from the ascent.

"We're going to start building your stamina up, and one of the best ways to do this is to run." His squire blinked in incomprehension at his words. The concept of exercise in Westeros usually revolved around practising with weapons. Torrhen would learn with time. Jon felt a tinge of pity, but banished it quickly- the boy in front of him would one day lead the Flints of the Mountains and his task was to make a competent man, warrior, and leader out of the boy. "Follow me closely and don't stop,"

He pumped his magic directly into his runic bracers, making it even hard for him to move and started in a slow jog. He had not gone for a run ever since he arrived in this world. After the body refining, his stamina was simply inhuman so he did not need to truly push it further. But since he was going to run now, might as well squeeze out some improvement, no matter how small.

Though, to the credit of his squire, the boy followed after him almost immediately. The circumference of the inner wall of Winterfell was bigger than a mile, with snow-capped towers dotted along the length of the wall. All the towers along the inner wall were left with open doors unless Winterfell was under siege, thus making the wide top of the wall the ideal place for jogging. There was no mud, and nobody would gawk at you as you ran.

Sensing that his squire had warmed up, he gradually increased the pace. Even with the runic restrictions ramped up to the limit, Jon only started sweating after five minutes or so. His body was simply too inhuman in almost every aspect. On the second lap around the wall, Torrhen was puffing and sweating heavily. His squire could not keep up with this pace for much longer.

"One last sprint, run as fast as you can," Jon shouted and pushed his legs to the limit. His muscles, joints and ligaments screamed, but he ignored them and kept going. It had been a while since he pushed himself to the physical limit, but it felt liberating. He lost track of time for a few moments and stopped to turn around. But Torrhen was nearly seventy yards behind him and could barely move his limbs. Steam was quickly rising in the frosty morning air from his sweaty body. The boy had perseverance at least, so he'd get far.

"Enough," Jon said after quickly jogging back and his squire stopped moving and looked ready to keel over and lay down on the cold granite. "Never stop moving after a run, take deep breaths and walk around slowly until your heart has calmed down."

As they headed slowly towards the training yard, Torrhen's stomach grumbled and the boy blushed. His squire however did not say a word and Jon nodded inwardly. The North was harsh and one would often have to push himself further when tired or hungry or both. At the yard, Brynden Tully was already drilling the guardsmen and a still half-asleep Arya in the morning chill.

"Your Grace!" his master-at-arms quickly bowed when he saw him in the yard. The training guards stopped and bowed as they saw him.

"No need to stop on my behalf. We are here to join you," Jon said with a small smile and Torrhen groaned silently next to him. The Flint heir was not made of flint after all. "Very rarely will you get to fight for your life when you're fully rested. What are your best weapons?"

"The axe and bludgeon, My King," his squire replied. It was not a big surprise with the boy's stout build and wide shoulders. Jon had little experience with using either of those weapons compared to the sword, though Ser Rodrik Cassel made sure he was competent with every weapon.

"Later today, you will go to Artos, Winterfell's blacksmith and tell him I sent you for a complete set of plate. Once the armour is ready, you're to wear it at all times unless you bathe or sleep. Ser Brynden Tully will instruct you in the use of arms from now on. You will spend at least two hours every day in the training yard and will shadow me afterwards," Jon stated bluntly and received a tired nod from his squire. He might not always be free to instruct his squire directly, so it would be better for Torrhen to train under the Blackfish and Jon would pitch in his training when he had the time and desire.

His squire joined the guards in the yard and soon enough the master-at-arms was instructing him.

Jon watched Torrhen's performance attentively. The boy seemed hopeless with a sword but indeed did well with a battle axe. He then switched his attention to his sister- Arya was not doing too well. The Blackfish had her equipped with an arming doublet and mail shirt and was running her ragged with constant drills and sparring against the youngest guards. She was swift, but not swift enough to avoid every swing of her opponent and her arms seemed too weak to trade blows continuously against even young adults.

It should not have been a big surprise. After all, it was logical that assassins were mainly trained in subterfuge, acting, and poison, to get the target when they are vulnerable and not alert and covered in armour. It was way easier to kill a skilled fighter when he was unarmed and least expecting it than in the field of battle.

Jon got bored of watching and quickly equipped some training gear, grabbed a blunted tourney sword and the next hour was spent sparring with two or three guards at the same time while keeping an eye on Torrhen. Once his squire neared the point of absolute exhaustion, he halted his training. The boy could barely stand and was covered in mud and bruises.

He ushered the tired boy towards the nearest hot springs in the godswood while signalling a servant to bring new clothes and food to him. The hot springs in question were behind the Guest House, and there were a few buckets of water ready nearby. They discarded their clothes and quicked washed themselves before dipping into the hot waters. At some point, Jon realised Torrhen had gone pale and was staring at his chest. No, not his chest, but the scars that marked the betrayal that took his life during his tenure in the Night's Watch.

A servant came, carrying a large tray and a change of clothes for both of them.

"Leave it over there," Jon nodded towards a rather large rock on the ground near him and dismissed the servant. The tray was filled to the brim with all sorts of roasted meat and some vegetables.

They ate in silence and Jon looked at his squire carefully. It was only morning, but the boy was already quite tired.

"From now on, you're to go to Maester Wolkan every day and take lessons from him," Jon spoke thoughtfully. The Mountain Clansmen rarely employed maesters and did not have a structured education. Spending an hour or two every day learning everything Wolkan could teach him would benefit the boy. "You will attend me in the evening when the Grand Northern Council gathers," he dismissed Torrhen and headed deeper into the godswood.

He had scratched his daily itch of hitting people with a sword and now it was time to practice his fire magic in the cold pools of the godswood. After he neared magical exhaustion, he called upon Winter. The last evening, the dragon saddle was finally completed and he itched to try it out.

His dragon rumbled and shuffled uneasily in protest as soon as he was saddled. However once Jon mounted Winter, he quickly took off in the sky without any dallying. The exhilaration of merging his mind with the one of his familiar was just as strong as the first time. The snowy trees of the wolfswood extended to the west as far as the eye could see. There was just something joyful about the view of an endless expanse of trees stretching to the horizon. In his previous world, he had seen nature slowly getting choked by the strangling grasp of civilization. Towards the end, before total war erupted there were scarcely any large forests left.

He shook his head, banishing the bitter memories of his previous life and looked around him. The North always held a raw beauty, even more so now that it was covered by a blanket of snow, although most of the people could not truly appreciate it. But they did not get to see the magnificence from above, nor were they indifferent to the cold like he was.

At that moment, he felt his connection to Stormstrider snap.

***

Earlier that morning, Shireen Baratheon

She dreamt of monsters and dragons again, but for some reason, it wasn't as scary as before and Shireen woke up feeling very rested.

Breakfast in the great hall was even rowdier than usual. Greatjon Umber was arguing loudly with a similarly large yet unfamiliar man who was wearing a leather surcoat emblazoned with a green lobster holding a harpoon. The king was absent from his seat at the head of the high table for some reason.

Myrcella was sitting next to her and nudged her gently.

"Do you know what has everyone so excited?" The golden-haired girl leaned in and whispered. Most of the northerners avoided Myrcella on principle so Cersei's daughter stuck close to her as the only familiar and friendly face.

"I heard the king has announced a gathering of all the Lords here, in the Great Hall, tonight. Even heard some calling it the Grand Northern Council," Shireen explained quietly. "But nobody seems to know what the gathering would be about. Or, well, if they do know, they keep quiet about it."

Myrcella daintily bit from the venison pie and looked towards the head of the high table.

"I wonder why Princess Arya no longer breaks her fast with us here," Cella absentmindedly said.

"His Grace allowed his younger sister to join the training in the yard, and Ser Brynden Tully drills her hard from dawn with the other guardsmen," she explained.

"Really? She got to train under the Blackfish?" Myrcella exclaimed with disbelief. "Wouldn't the king struggle to find her a husband later?"

"The Mormonts of Bear Island have their daughters trained in arms, and three of them even fought for Robb Stark during the war, so it's not that uncommon in the North" Shireen replied after a short pause. "And I don't think Princess Arya is going to ever get married. According to the rumours she snuck into the Crossing and poisoned every living man, woman, and child in retaliation for the Red Wedding."

Cersei's daughter paled and stopped eating, looking a tinge green. Shireen however continued gobbling the tasty venison pie happily. She couldn't decide if the cook here was that good or if her appetite had increased ever since she came to Winterfell. Though all the eating paid out and in a single moon's turn she had already grown an inch and was always feeling full of energy.

Myrcella had grown silent and was thoughtfully looking around. "Do you think His Grace would let me join his sister in the yard if I ask him to?" Shireen sharply turned around in surprise and the golden-haired girl hastily added with a bit of defiance. "I've always wanted to try, but mother would never let me!"

For a short moment, Shireen imagined herself with a sword in her hand, fighting against the men. But the image looked comical even in her mind and she quickly banished it. She disliked fighting, and the thought of hitting someone made her feel queasy. Her father had raised her as his heir and Shireen knew her duty well, it was not to swing a weapon. Even with Stannis Baratheon gone and his lands lost, she knew that she had to marry eventually, as all women did, instead of endlessly leeching off the King's hospitality. Maybe she would become a lady-in-waiting to the next Northern Queen and she would find her a good match.

"Why don't you try asking him?" Shireen proposed.

"The king is scary!" was the immediate reply which made her blink.

"Scary? His Grace is one of the kindest men I've ever met!" she returned with outrage. Jon Stark looked for her when even her father's men did not care about her. He had cured her greyscale and asked for nothing in return, and had let her stay under his roof as a ward when she had nothing left but a name which had countless enemies. Shireen would never forget his generosity.

When a few of the people near her started looking at her with interest, Shireen realised that she had raised her voice. Her ears and cheeks felt hot and she ducked her head while looking down.

"Of course, he's scary! He personally executed two hundred men for following their liege lord's orders! Their heads were spiked along Winterfell's walls for weeks," Myrcella heatedly whispered. "And his direwolf is unnaturally huge and looks like it could tear your head off in a single bite!"

"Ghost is harmless and nice!" Shireen protested quietly. The quiet direwolf was like a very large hunting dog, but without any of their ferocity. His white fur was incredibly fluffy too! Cella was being unreasonable. "And the king cannot be seen showing any mercy to the traitors and turncloaks that butchered his brother! I'm sure if you ask him nicely, he'll let you train too."

They both grew silent as her companion pouted and uneasily resumed eating her food. Soon, both of them were done and Shireen put on her fur cloak and headed outside. Myrcella uneasily did the same and followed her. The two burly guardsmen followed them in the distance.

"How can you stand the cold outside?" the golden-haired girl shivered despite the heavy furs covering her. "The northerners may have ice in their blood, but we have none of it."

"It was even colder at the Wall," Shireen said with a shrug. "At some point, the chill simply does not sting anymore."

As they were passing through the yard, they could see the guardsmen training relentlessly in the cold outside. The king's younger sister was there too, getting knocked in the muddy snow more often than not.

"I don't think I want to train with Princess Arya anymore," Myrcella had paled looking at the princess in question and shivered again, making Shireen snort inwardly.

They quickly trudged through the snow and were nearing the glass gardens. It had turned out that both of them have a love for flowers and gardening. In the Red Keep, Myrcella took care of a small plot of flowers near the godswood with the help of servants, and Shireen did the same in Aegon's Garden in Dragonstone. Here and now though, they had to do things all by themselves. Not that they truly minded, as the glasshouse was warm, courtesy of the underground hot spring that ran underneath.

"I heard some servants saying that the purple dragon has made his nest near the glasshouse," her cousin said with some worry as they neared the godswood. "Do you think it's safe?"

"Cella, you worry too much. Winterfell is safe and nothing bad is going to happen here," Shireen said with a soothing voice. Though, the idea that the purple dragon was nearby made her feel excited for some reason.

The glass gardens were finally in sight. Though a large mound of snow stood right at the entrance.

"By the Seven, this was not here last time! How does a small hill simply appear in a single day?" Myrcella exclaimed as her eyes were roaming over the mound with suspicion. "I think we should go back to the Great Keep."

"Come on, don't be so craven! Are you afraid of some snow? We'll just go around it!" Shireen sighed and turned to stare at her friend. Myrcella was such a scaredy cat sometimes. "The servants probably cleared the surroundings and gathered the snow here."

"If it was the servants, wouldn't it make more sense for them to gather the supposed mound on the side and not at the very entrance of the glass house," her companion pointed out, making her frown. She was not wrong.

A moment later, a shriek tore from Myrcella's lips and the golden-haired girl went completely pale and started shaking like a leaf in the wind. Shireen slowly turned around only to freeze. The large mound of snow was gone, and in its place, a purple dragon was stretching like a gigantic cat covered in snow. Stormstrider, her mind supplied the name of the dragon. His body was as big as a horse, but his wings made him look far bigger. The dragon's purple eyes were looking at them with great interest. He shook off all the snow and his scaly head cautiously approached them.

Myrcella looked like she wanted to disappear into the ground as the dragon was half an arm away from them. Stormstrider sniffed deeply and smoke wafted out of his nostrils. Suddenly the dragon pushed the golden-haired girl with his snout, making her fall with a scream in the snow. Just as Myrcella was about to cry, Stormstrider closed his eyes and a rumbling huff came from his maw as his head shook. Shireen's eyes widened as she realised that the dragon was laughing.

As the former princess was looking at the purple dragon, she felt an irresistible pull. Shireen found herself stepping closer to the dragon, ignoring Myrcella's warning shouts. Shireen raised her hand and Stormstrider lowered his head and sniffed it carefully. His scales shimmered like amethyst in the winter sun and she found herself running her hand with fascination over them. They felt smooth and warm under her palm. The dragon purred and preened in pleasure at her touch.

After a few moments, the dragon nudged her gently with his head and lowered himself. As Shireen was looking bewildered, Stormstrider huffed, and smoke wafted out of his maw. He then impatiently nudged her again and laid his head down on the ground, looking at her expectantly. She did not know what came over her, but it felt like her hands and feet moved on her own, and soon, Shireen mounted the base of the scaly neck. The dragon rose abruptly, making her cling to the neck, grabbing on some of the small round spikes on the side. Stormstrider jumped and flapped his wings, taking to the skies. Shireen barely registered Myrcella's worried scream in the distance.

The realisation that she was high above the ground, riding a dragon finally set in. Shireen was equally excited and terrified, as the cold wind blew in her face. Thankfully, the dragon beneath her was radiating warmth. The scales underneath her felt slippery and she clung with all her strength to the neck with both her arms and legs. She twisted her head to look behind her, where Winterfell's walls were quickly getting smaller in the distance. Soon they were flying above a wide expanse of forest that could only be the wolfswood and Shireen panicked.

"Ah...could you land please?" she yelled out in the wind, hoping that the dragon heard and understood her. Shireen wasn't sure if Stormstrider heard her or simply decided to fly down to a large clearing nearby.

She dismounted but quickly fell to her knees on the snowy ground. Now that she was back on the ground, excitement quickly gave way to exhaustion. Her hips and hands felt tired and pained from clinging to the hard and pointy scales. Shireen weakly tried to stand up, but her legs simply didn't listen. She looked down and saw that reddening patches were slowly growing on her gown, which was torn in some places. Did she cut herself on the scales?

Shireen didn't think she could get up and mount Stormstrider for some time, even if he let her. She was stuck here, in the middle of a snowy forest, bleeding and too bruised to stand up and walk and with no food or water whatsoever. The seriousness of the situation finally started catching up to her, when a monstrous roar tore through the skies.

The purple dragon coiled around her and covered her with his leathery wing and screeched towards the sky in defiance. The loud flapping of a bigger set of wings was heard and something landed on the ground with a heavy thud.

"Stormstrider, what happened to you, boy?" a familiar voice was heard and relief flooded her. "Come now, you know we would never harm you!"

The dragon slowly uncoiled from around her and she was faced with Jon Stark who was looking at her with surprise and exasperation. Next to him, Winter, the largest of all the three dragons towered over all of them and was looking at Stormstrider with unimpressed dark blue eyes.

"Blood of the dragon indeed," she heard the king murmuring. "Come, Princess, we have to go back."

She suddenly remembered that dragons only had a single rider. Once a dragon let you on her back, you were its rider until one of you died. Shireen realised that she practically stole one of the king's dragons and guilt started welling up within her. Gods, she was going to be in a lot of trouble now.

"I don't think I can get up yet," Shireen responded quietly and lowered her head in shame and guilt.

Jon Stark picked her up effortlessly in his arms and she felt her cheeks redden.