44 43-Trophies of Fire, Trophies of Blood

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

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta-reader Bub3loka, for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to read three chapters ahead of discord.

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Jaime Lannister

THUNK!

The cracking sound that followed was like thunder in the surrounding silence.

He gulped heavily. If Jaime had any lingering doubt that the Northern Dragonlord was a monster in human skin capable of unthinkable sorcery, it was completely gone now. It was as if the man at the glassed field below had come out straight from the mythical Age of Heroes, where the great men of legend still walked the land.

His gaze moved to his left, and he reeled. Large spiderweb cracks spread across the granite wall where the arrow had embedded itself deeply in the tower, not two steps from him. The Ironwood shaft of the arrow was also heavily cracked.

Jaime wiped his sweaty brow and reached with a trembling hand towards the stringed scroll that was barely hanging on a thread on the arrow shaft. No matter how he tried, he couldn't pull out the arrow, and his left hand was not dextrous enough to untie the string.

Thankfully Addam finally came out of his stupor, stepped over, and untied the scroll. His friend unfurled it and quickly paled.

"What does it say?" Jaime asked hoarsely.

"Here," Addam responded weakly and handed him over the message.

Kingslayer,

'I want to talk with you now.

You can either come down here to me, or I can come up to you.

In the second case, I will be very displeased if I have to make my way up the hill. Displeased enough to make Harrenhal look like a small candle in comparison to what I will do to the Golden Tooth.

You will not be harmed if you cooperate.

Jon Stark, King of Winter and Defender of the North'

"Fuck," he let out a heavy breath and tossed the letter in the brazier to the side.

He did not doubt the Dragonlord's ability to make good on his threat after what had happened below. Memories of another king setting people on fire flashed in his mind uninvited. Jaime had long known that dying by flames was a gruesome, ugly way to go. Jon Stark had walked into an enemy camp surrounded by tens of thousands of men fearlessly; he had no reason to be afraid of a pile of rocks and a few giant crossbows. Jaime had no idea what the Northern Dragonlord wanted with him. Did he finally find out that it was he who pushed Bran? At the thought, his heart started racing madly. He never truly thought he would get away with all he had done. Now, it seemed that the hour of reckoning had come.

"This could be a trap, Jaime," Addam cautioned.

"What trap? It's only one man and his dragon... and I don't think I have much of a choice," he sighed quietly and ran his good hand through his hair. "I'll go."

"Jaim-"

"It's me he asks for," he grimly spat and headed down towards the stables. There was no escape this time. "You saw what he could do, Addam! Tens of thousands of men turned into nought but ash in a moment! Defying him is madness!"

It wasn't worth dragging down the lives of his men with him. The Lannister forces were quite spent, and even if the Targaryens were gone, some of Westerlands finest were here, in the Golden Tooth. Jaime just hoped Stark had at least some of his father's honour left in him. At least he didn't bother chasing those who fled the firestorm.

"Let me go with you!" His friend insisted just as they arrived at the stables.

Jaime signalled for the stableboy to saddle Glory.

"There's no point. Even without the fire, numbers mean little to him. You didn't see it, Addam, but he was cutting through the men-at-arms and knights like a hot knife through butter," he recounted as he hopped on the saddle and spurred his steed forward. "Besides, if I am gone, I need someone to stay in charge here."

The guardsmen opened the gate, lifted the portcullis, and Jaime slowly travelled down the hill. The ground around him was covered in corpses from the earlier battle; the attackers had simply left them there in the open. Thankfully it was cold; otherwise, the stench would have been unbearable.

He shook his head and looked forward. The dark-blue dragon was devouring the corpse of Aegon's drake hungrily while the armour-clad Northerner, his kinslaying brother, and a lady dressed in her maiden-day suit, were waiting for him amidst a field of ash and smoke. The man had his helmet strapped to the belt, and his black armour was covered with dark dried-up bloodstains. The woman was standing behind Stark, on his left, like a servant and had a ripe and sensual body comparable to his sister from a few years ago, but with hair and eyes crimson red instead of gold and green. And his brother, his pitiful, traitorous brother, was defiantly looking at him while also trying to look as inconspicuous as possible at the same time. They would have made for a comical sight if not for the ash-covered field of death around them.

For a short moment, he wondered how the woman and his brother had survived in the earlier inferno but shook his head. It didn't truly matter.

As he was nearly fifty yards from the waiting Northerner, Glory suddenly stopped and refused to go any further, no matter how much he spurred him on. He didn't blame his steed; Jaime had no desire to go anywhere near a dragon either. With a sigh, he dismounted and continued on foot.

"Here I am, King Sn…Stark," Jaime corrected himself. Even he knew it wasn't wise to antagonise the man in front of him, especially after-

"Kingslayer," the Northern King greeted with a tilted head, and Jaime felt completely naked under the gaze of his dark purple eyes. Jon Stark looked relaxed, but everything about him screamed danger. Jaime had to consciously fight off the desire to turn around and run away. "I assume you know where Widow's Wail is?"

Jaime stared in confusion for a handful of heartbeats. Until he realised Stark meant the Valyrian steel sword gifted to his son. The sword that his father had made after having Ice melted in two…

"Yes," he hoarsely confirmed.

"Why do you need another sword? You already have this one," Tyrion couldn't help but ask curiously. "Is this Lord Commander Mormont's Longclaw?"

Damn his kinslaying brother and his big mouth.

"This is not Longclaw, but something I made for myself," Stark replied, and Jaime felt another chill travel up his spine.

If the Northern King could forge magical swords, he would be unstoppable. He shook his head and snorted. He was already unstoppable. Forging Valyrian steel, or whatever the blade was made of, was dull in comparison to what he had already seen.

"Does it even have a name?" Jaime could see what his impish brother was trying to do. He was trying to distract the Northerner for some reason. Jaime had no idea why Tyrion was spared or what he wanted to achieve here by talking back to someone as monstrous as the Northern King.

"Nay, I have not named it yet," Stark grunted out. "And stop trying to change the topic, Imp. It does not matter that I already have a spell-forged blade. 'Tis but a matter of principle. Your father might have thought that it was acceptable to steal House Stark's ancestral sword after your ill-born nephew usurped the Iron Throne and executed my father, because he could get away with it."

"How about naming it Black Brother?" Tyrion proposed. "Since the Night's Watchmen are oft called black brothers and you insist on having a second magical swo-"

"If you want to become a head shorter, continue speaking, Tyrion," Jon Stark interrupted icily with a voice that could probably freeze even fire. He then turned to Jaime, and the Kingslayer saw an ominous glow in the violet eyes. "You are lucky that I have urgent business in the North, so I won't bother slaughtering through the Westerlands until I find the blade. I am a reasonable man; you have fifty days to return the second stolen half of Ice to Winterfell with an apology and acknowledgement of the North as a sovereign Kingdom. Should either be missing, I will not show a shred of mercy when I return south."

Jaime's throat constricted heavily. He had come here thinking he'd die, but the Northern King seemed not interested in taking his life at all. He would count his blessings and even visit the Sept to pray tomorrow. But the cold chips of amethysts staring at him didn't leave a single shred of doubt that Jon Stark would fulfil his threat. He knew where the sword was - in Casterly Rock, guarded in the royal treasury for when Tommen would grow up and wield it. However, it seemed that his son wouldn't get to use it.

Mayhaps Casterly Rock could hold off an attack from Jon Stark… but did Jaime want to test this conjecture?

He most definitely didn't.

The painful, ugly truth was that, in front of overwhelming strength, the only thing he could do was bow down or die.

"What about my… Myrcella?" he eked out a question. Cersei had written to him that his daughter was in Winterfell more than a moon ago. He took a small solace in the fact that she was alive and, according to reports, thriving but wished to see her again, even if it was as an 'uncle'.

"She stays North lest you decide to try something foolish," was the cold reply. Jaime wanted to scream and rage, but he forcefully pushed all of his anger deep down. It seemed that the king had easily read his expression because he continued, "I offered to return Myrcella when I visited Casterly Rock as an envoy, you know. In exchange for the same terms that I gave you just now. But your sister declined and instead tried to seduce me. And when that didn't work, she ordered that undead kingsguard attack me under Guest Right."

Tyrion burst out in uncontrollable, raspy, and incredibly irritating laughter, yet Jaime could feel the truthfulness in the Northerner's words. He had no reason to lie. And it seemed his sister continued to fuck around with everyone and everything in his absence. Lancel, the Kettleblacks, probably Trant, and even the fool Moon Boy and gods know who else. And now, due to her foolishness, he would not get to see his daughter ever again. Blood rushed into his ears, and fury, unbridled fury, ran through his veins.

"Undead kingsguard?" his accursed brother coughed out as soon as he managed to stop laughing.

"Eight feet tall, quite strong. But not as strong as me," Stark replied with a shrug. "I cut him in two, and he was rotten inside. Dead for a long, long time. Your sister seems to have taken a necromancer into her employ. But that's none of my concern. And don't worry; I didn't touch anyone else in Casterly Rock. We, Northerners, respect the laws of hospitality, unlike others."

With the described height, it could only be Ser Robert Strong. But he only appeared after the Mountain died…The realisation struck him like a hammer. At this moment, Jaime finally understood that he did not know his sister at all. He had made peace with the fact that she had used and betrayed him, but the depths of depravity to which she was willing to go made his blood boil in anger. Attacking guests in her own home?! Necromancers?! His left hand had clenched so hard that he felt his nails drawing blood. He pushed down his fury and shook his head wearily; now was not the time to dwell on this.

"And Daenerys?" Jaime asked cautiously.

"What about her?"

"Aren't you afraid she will… come back with a vengeance?"

"Mayhaps she would, if she still lived," the Northern King snorted, and turned around.

If she lived?! So, the Dragon Queen was also dead. No wonder he dared to walk directly into the middle of the enemy camp. Jaime should probably have felt fear or maybe jubilation, but there was only numbness inside him. Stark walked towards the half-devoured dragon carcass, unsheathed his sword, and with a single swing, cleaved the draconic head off.

He effortlessly picked up the severed… trophy? and tied it up to his dragon's saddle before hopping on top.

"Wait. WAIT!" Tyrion desperately cried. Jaime looked up only to see his brother running towards the Northern King. "Take me with you! I helped you at the Wall!"

The fire-breathing monster turned his head, opened a mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, and roared straight towards Tyrion. The strength of the sound almost knocked out Jaime and made his bones vibrate painfully. His brother had no such luck, as he was now rolling across the ash on the cracked ground.

"Fifty days, Kingslayer. Don't make me come back south," Stark's voice thundered, completely ignoring the kinslayer.

The dragon took off, raising up a cloud of ash in his wake, and headed north, leaving them behind.

At any moment, Jaime realised that Jon Stark could have requested him to swear fealty to him, and he would have no choice but to die or bend the knee.

As the air cleared, the naked woman bowed deeply in the direction of the departing Dragonlord before simply walking away as if nothing had happened. Tyrion, however, quickly got up and started clumsily running away as fast as his short stubby legs allowed him.

It took him two heartbeats to realise that his kinslaying brother was within his grasp and was now trying to escape.

Jaime shook his head, gritted his teeth, and looked around for Glory. His horse seemed to be nowhere in sight, so he sprinted after the dwarf.

At that moment, Tyrion stumbled on a glassy crack on the ground, fell, and rolled into the ash with a pained groan.

Jaime took a handful of heartbeats to catch up. His brother was struggling to get up futilely, so he unsheathed his sword and placed the tip on his brother's neck, making him freeze. Gods, using his left hand felt awkward and wrong.

"Please, Jaime," the accursed dwarf begged through pained grunts and sobs. "Let me go; we're brothers!"

"Ah, but a Lannister always pays his debts, dear brother. Did you not say how you would take revenge for that lowborn gold-digging whore? How you poisoned my son?! Did I not save you from the headsman only for you to spit on my face and kill our father?!" Jaime badly wanted to draw his sword and lop off Tyrion's head. Something stayed his hand, though. He couldn't do it. Tommen did not need a kinslayer for a Lord Commander or an uncle.

"I was lying! Please-"

"Shut your accursed mouth, Tyrion," he spat out sharply and pressed the sword point deep enough to draw blood. "I no longer trust a single word that comes out of it. As much as I loathe to admit it, you're a Lannister. We always pay our debts, and you have plenty to pay!"

He struck his brother on the temple with the flat of his blade, knocking him out.

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GreatJon Umber

"The Bay of Ice has started to freeze," Maege reported grimly.

He jerked in surprise and worry and was about to exclaim when the wound to his side pulsed angrily, and he had to settle for gritting his teeth and hissing quietly. As always, the pain would continue for nearly a dozen heartbeats before waning. Mullin, Shadow Tower's maester, had done his best, and the wound was washed in boiled wine and stitched, but it healed slowly. Thankfully, it didn't fester, but every now and then, he would get a sharp stab of pain when he made a sudden movement.

Meanwhile, angry and worried curses flew around the council room, and Greatjon did his best to ignore the pain and observe the Queen, whose face had gone completely impassive. An icy expression worthy of a true Stark!

When the King's marriage was announced, he had some qualms about the Stark marrying a southern lass. Greatjon knew it was none of his concern, especially after being graciously accepted back to the King's Peace after the actions of his foolish uncles, but he couldn't help but be worried. All the connections that House Stark had made in the south in the last thirty years had backlashed or floundered greatly. The Tully marriage had dragged them deep into the open mire that was the Riverlands regardless of Catelyn Tully herself proving to be a decent Lady Stark. Then Lysa Arryn had turned their back on her nephew without a second thought, barring the whole Vale from participating in the War of the Five Kings. Ned Stark had been dragged south by his friendship with Robert Baratheon, only to get killed by those southern schemers for vain foolery, and he had even brought his daughters who were taken hostage with him. Not to mention Greyjoy the Turncloak, who only proved pirates and reavers could not be trusted.

The young Queen had brought nothing with her but a dragon they already had and a name with a kingdom full of enemies. And no allies whatsoever. She was not terrible on the eye, but that scar on her left cheek didn't make her pretty either.

Yet now, at the first sign of trouble, she had flown over on the purple drake through the fierce weather to aid the Watch in their hour of greatest need when the king could not. Even if they had twenty thousand more swords here, they would not manage to kill as much as a single dragonrider. Let's not forget that they couldn't even feed twenty thousand more mouths! And he might be mistaken, but the dragon seemed to have grown considerably since his arrival here nine days ago.

Now, though, he thanked the gods every night for Jon Stark's choice of a bride. It was clear that Stannis had raised Shireen as his heir, and she carried herself with the required dignity. She certainly knew her duty and some more. When the young Queen did not know something, she delegated to those more experienced to handle the matter in question. The more Greatjon looked at her, the more pleasing to the eye she became!

Shireen Stark was not even five and ten, and he remembered when he was that age, the only thought in his head was swinging his greatsword or finding a pretty pair of teats to bury his face between. Greatjon shuddered to think what would have happened if the Queen had not come when she did. Curse the thrice-damned sisterfuckers for trying to drag in the North in their petty southern games again. Hopefully, the King would deal with them quickly and come here with haste.

The rest of the lords that had arrived, the mountain chieftains, and even the wildling leaders had shown almost unquestionable respect and deference towards Jon Stark's new wife. The purple drake certainly helped, but her quiet yet firm and thoughtful approach to things won almost everyone over. That masked woman and her war-band, most of all. Morna White Mask had taken it upon herself and her spear-wives to guard the Queen day and night, no matter what.

"The wights continue surging out of the Gorge unceasingly," Great Walrus' gruff voice broke him out of his musings. "What if the Wolf Queen flies over the Bay and melts the ice before it can thicken?"

"Means we have to hold the wall for a whole day without her assistance," Wull said thoughtfully.

"'Tis not a problem. We have more than enough men," Greatjon grunted out, lifted his horn of ale and emptied it all in one swig.

"The snow hasn't stopped for nearly a fortnight. And it will be of no use," Maege sighed heavily. "At this rate, the whole Bay might freeze, and the ice does not burn like an oiled torch from the first spark of fire as wights do. If Stormstrider was the size of Balerion, it might have been possible, but he's young still. The Queen can try, but it's very possible that she simply would not be able to melt enough ice to make a difference."

Shireen Stark's blue eyes hardened like two chips of ice. Greatjon knew her answer before it even left her mouth.

"I will try to melt some of the ice," she declared firmly. "Even if I can buy us one more day, it will be worth it!"

Sansa Stark

The lack of news from the south was more than enough to drive her crazy. And the news from the North were not helping either. Accounts of endless hordes of wights attacking had left her with a cold feeling of powerlessness. Everything that could be done to aid the Watch had already long been ordered to be done, so there was nothing Sansa could do but fret. Just thinking about it brought a sinking feeling to her heart. Thankfully, there were plenty of things for her to do to distract herself from worrying. But it made her tired. While the council meetings were not daily, and she didn't hold court for more than two hours each day, there were a lot of small things that required the attention of the Stark in Winterfell daily.

The sun was already setting, and Sansa dismissed Alys and Myrcella before quickly making her way to her cosy room. After entering, she tiredly sank into the tapered chair next to the hearth and basked in the warmth of the crackling flames. Sansa actually planned to try and rework one gown to make Arya a fur-lined riding dress but was too exhausted to start right now. It had taken her quite a while, but she realised a big part of Arya's problems with being dressed like a "proper lady" was that most of those clothes were not very comfortable or practical and were made purely for looks. While a fur-lined riding gown was not exactly what a noble lady would wear daily, it was better than a pair of breeches and a tunic. Sansa's eyes were drooping, and her eyelids were becoming heavier by the moment. Maybe a short nap wouldn't hurt?

Just as she closed her eyes, her door opened abruptly, and Arya rushed inside the room, face lit with excitement, making her groan inwardly and rub her tired eyes open. Of course, Brienne would not stop Arya. Her sister wore a grey fur cloak, leather breeches, an arming doublet, and a blackened steel cuirass glinted underneath. She had to wear the latter two almost everywhere as their granduncle's condition for training her.

"Sansa! Guess who's back?"

That question got her full attention and shook off any sleepiness that she felt.

"Is Jon back?" She found herself asking hopefully.

"No, not yet," Arya's happiness visibly wilted, but a small, forlorn smile remained. At that moment, Sansa found herself looking at a pair of large dark-golden eyes. A large grey wolf, no, direwolf, was looking at her with slightly bared teeth and a quiet growl. She had not seen or heard when the direwolf had even entered her room! Unlike Ghost, this one was a bit smaller, but still as large as a normal horse.

Her sister wheeled around and quickly placed a hand on the direwolf, who happily rubbed its neck on her sister's hand and started wagging its tail, all wariness and aggression from earlier forgotten.

"Bad girl, no biting my sister!" Arya scolded the direwolf, who was a bit taller than her.

"Arya, is that who I think it is?"

"Yes, It's Nymeria. Come, give her your hand," her sister urged with a smile, and Sansa hesitantly brought her arm to the direwolf's nose. Nymeria carefully leaned in and took in her scent with her wet nose. For a short moment, Sansa thought her hand would be bitten by the razor-sharp teeth, but the direwolf started licking her palm. It tickled, and she couldn't help but burst out in quiet giggles.

It took her half a minute to gather herself. She couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy and threw a forlorn look at Nymeria. Sansa had her own direwolf once, but her own stupidity, coupled with her sister's wildness, had forced her own father to kill Lady. But she pushed it down as quickly as she could; It would not do well to sulk when her sister was so joyful for the first time in years.

"Where did you find her? I thought she was lost in the Riverlands."

"I thought so too, but Nymeria came to me while I was walking around Wintertown," Arya said happily as she rubbed the direwolf's neck.

"Just make sure she doesn't bite anyone… undeserving," Sansa cautioned with a sigh after a short silence.

"Nymeria would never! She's a good girl, unlike that Dornish harlot!"

"I thought you liked them and their warrior women?"

"That was before meeting any of them in person. Cravens, the lot of them! I asked the Sand Snakes to show me some moves in the yard, and every single one declined," Arya grumbled. "And they're all extremely suspicious. I swear to the gods, old and new, that they're up to no good in here."

Sansa barely managed to hold in her laughter and covered it with a snort. She had a pretty good guess why the spar was declined-mainly because the Dornish did not fare well in the cold, let alone a Northern winter. And she found her little sister's words quite ironic as usually she was the one up to 'no good'.

"Whatever nefarious schemes they are hatching will find no purchase here," Sansa hummed with a small smile.

The first thing she did when the southerners arrived was to assign a dozen guardsmen to always watch over Bloodfyre, lest one of the Dornish had the bright idea to try and tame a dragon. They certainly had the blood, with Aegon the Unworthy's daughter marrying the Prince of Dorne a hundred years ago, so she decided to take no chances. There were also eyes assigned to all of Arianne's retinue at all times. Every servant in the Guest House was instructed to listen in on their Dornish guests as well. Thankfully, the red drake showed no interest in their southern visitors at all. If the Martells attempted to get their hands on a dragon, it would be a disaster no matter if they died trying or succeeded.

Official food testers were also appointed, and every piece of food or glass of drink was sampled before it reached Arya or herself. One of the cooks from the kitchens had served as a 'royal food taster' before, but Sansa had decided it would be more prudent if a more serious and organised approach was taken now.

"The Dornish and the Westerlanders men-at-arms brawled again today in Wintertown, by the way," her sister's voice broke her out of her musings. "It was extremely entertaining to watch two dozen men trying to beat each other senseless with their fists."

Arya chuckled with amusement as Sansa sighed tiredly and pinched the bridge of her nose.

The feud that had started with the deaths of Elia Martell and her children was now completely rekindled with the disfigurement of Myrcella. All their weapons had been confiscated, so it resulted in nothing more than a few bruises and broken bones.

"Anything else of interest in Wintertown?"

"Oh yes, I heard a most interesting rumour," Arya began with a wicked smile. " A few people claim that Osric Burley lost the single combat on purpose, because the Knott's daughter was uglier than a sna-"

A deafening yet familiar roar interrupted her sister, and they quickly shared a look before rushing towards the yard, everything else completely forgotten.

Sansa scarcely had to run in her life, but now she was moving her tired legs as quickly as they could carry her. Arya, who had trained in the yard for hours since the crack of dawn, was just as tired as Sansa and ran even slower. Brienne shadowed behind them as usual. Nymeria, on the other hand, trotted effortlessly after them, caution and curiosity shining in her golden eyes.

She didn't dare to hope, but the sight outside filled her heart with joy.

Jon was back!

Her brother, hale and hearty, clad in his black armour, stood on the snowy ground. The black cloak billowed from a gust of wind, and the emblazoned direwolf head fluttered. Behind him, the enormous form of Winter was looming in the darkness. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks on her, but the dragon seemed slightly larger than before. She wanted to go and hug her brother, but a sideway glance showed her that the courtyard was quickly filling up with people, including their southern guests. Arya herself was a few yards behind, panting for breath heavily.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," Sansa spoke clearly and curtsied as everyone in the courtyard kneeled. Or attempted to do so when a steel-clad arm pulled her into a tight embrace. Then Arya was pulled in with his other arm.

After a handful of heartbeats, he released them but not before planting a quick kiss on both of their foreheads.

"Rise," Jon's voice was like a thunderclap.

"I hope you were successful in your negotiations, Your Grace," a puffing Wyman Manderly who just entered the yard said.

"It could be said so." Her brother's hand moved towards his belt, and Sansa had to do her best to suppress her gasp at the sight. Others, however, did not have her self-control and exclaimed as Jon grabbed two severed heads by their silvery hair and raised them up for all to see. "House Targaryen is no more! Ser Brynden, take the heads of Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen and place them on the spikes in front of the Great Hall. Let all see what happens to those who threaten House Stark!"

"STARK!"

"DRAGONSLAYER!"

"STARK!"

"THE JON!"

"LONG LIVE THE KING!…"

A cacophony of joyful and fervent shouts echoed across the yard while Sansa's heart was filled with relief. A pity that Jon was forced to kill his kin. It was said that there was no man more accursed than the kinslayer, but she doubted her brother cared for the curses of gods or men. And, if nothing else, Daenerys and Aegon made the first move and provocation, so whatever guilt her brother had was considerably lessened. But looking at Jon, he did not seem bothered in the slightest.

As Sansa looked around, she noticed Nymeria wasn't there anymore. It seemed that Arya's direwolf was intimidated by the sheer presence of Winter. Her blue eyes then passed over the deathly pale Lannisters and settled on the stunned faces of Arianne Martell and her cousins. Disbelief and doubt were clear in their eyes. Yet Sansa knew Jon had no reason to lie. She snorted inwardly; there goes their mission to bring House Stark back into the fold. There was only one King in the North, and his name was Stark!

"What of their dragons, Your Grace?" Manderly inquired cautiously as the commotion had died out.

A moment later, Winter leaned in closer towards the torches and another slew of gasps and shouts echoed across the courtyard, but Sansa was just feeling joy. The dancing flames of the torches illuminated two horrifying severed dragon heads hanging on the sides of his saddle. The first one was almost as big as Winter's and had black scales with blood-red horns and spikes. The second one was half the size and had cream-coloured scales with golden horns. She couldn't help but think that there was a macabre beauty in them.

"They will not be a problem. Lord Hand, find a way to display my trophies in the Great Hall. I've preserved the heads, so they will never rot," Jon ordered as he brought both dragonheads down effortlessly.

The smaller one was moved well enough by a pair of men and carried away, but it took four men to lift the bigger one, and they still struggled.

The Lord of White Harbour walked closer.

"Your Grace, Westwatch is under attack, and the Queen has flown there to defend it," Wyman Manderly spoke softly so only they could hear.

Her brother's face turned into an icy mask.

"Aye, I know," Jon said impassively, but she couldn't help but feel a cold shiver run along her spine, despite her fur cloak. Sansa had gotten quite good at reading people, especially her brother, and could tell he was both worried and furious. He fiddled with the handle of his sword for a short moment before agilely climbing atop Winter once again. "I shall be joining my wife shortly. Princess Sansa will continue to rule Winterfell in my stead."

The dark-blue dragon took off and was already flying north a moment later, leaving the courtyard filled with excitement and confusion.