A/N: Anyone see the trailer for Game of Thrones: War for Westeros. They hated the ending so much that they made a alternative ending as a game LOL! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and please leave a comment if you did! :)
If you want to read 5 to 10 chapters ahead,patreon: https://www.patreon.com/FullHorizon
----------------------------------------------------
Year 300 AC
Castle Black, The Wall
Jon's massive draconic wings ached with exhaustion as he soared through the frigid northern sky, approaching the familiar dark stone walls and towers of Castle Black. Despite the immense, raw power that thrummed through his transformed body, the long journey from beyond the Wall had taken its toll, fatigue gnawing at the edges of his mind. Edd clung to the rough obsidian scales along Jon's back, his presence a reminder of their shared purpose.
Circling once above the Night's Watch stronghold, Jon surveyed the scene below with his keen draconic vision, every detail rendered in sharp clarity. The castle's snow-covered courtyard teemed with a diverse array of people—grim-faced black brothers in their well-worn furs, raucous Free Folk in hides and bone jewelry, and the more flamboyantly garbed Queen's men in rich fabrics trimmed with fox fur. As one, they gazed skyward at Jon's approach, their upturned faces registering a spectrum of emotions from slack-jawed awe to primal fear to wary uncertainty.
Despite this monstrous form, you are still Jon Snow, he reminded himself, grappling with the strange duality of his nature. The bastard of Winterfell raised to Lord Commander— a son of the North.
The thought brought a fresh wave of confusion, memories of cryptic visions and unanswered questions churning in his mind. So much about his shocking transformation remained shrouded in mystery—the true extent of his powers, the full implications of being a dragon. But one driving purpose cut through the mental fog like a beacon:
Arya. Can the it be true? Is my little sister really here, released from cruel Bolton hands?
Clinging to that fragile hope, Jon began his descent, banking his wings to spiral downward in a tight circle. He took great care to avoid clipping the timber keeps and stone towers with his enormous wingspan, mindful of the destruction even an accidental brush could cause. The heat radiating from his massive body melted the snow beneath him in an ever-widening circle as he touched down in the castle's main courtyard, his wickedly sharp claws sinking deep into the frozen, muddy earth. Lowering a muscular hand, he allowed Edd to unceremoniously slide off his hand and step away, clearly relieved to have solid ground beneath him once more.
The assembled crowd instinctively backed away from Jon's looming form, maintaining a respectful distance around the dragon in their midst. His smoldering red gaze swept over the sea of familiar faces, searching for the one he longed to see above all others—Tormund's fiery red beard and broad grin, Val's striking features composed in a mask of calm appraisal. He noticed others also, Tycho Nestoris back from his meeting with Stannis, Queen Selyse's pinched expression of haughty disdain, and Melisandre's enigmatic smile hinting at secrets only she could divine. But no sign of the slight, fierce girl he had last seen heading south on the Kingsroad with a sword named Needle at her hip.
"Where is my sister?" Jon's words emerged as a deep, rumbling growl, seeming to physically vibrate through the icy ground of the courtyard. Several battle-hardened men flinched and took involuntary steps back, hands flying to weapon hilts in bone-deep reflex. When no one moved, he demanded "Someone bring me Arya Stark!"
A pregnant pause followed, the air fairly crackling with tension, before the crowd slowly parted near the back. A slender, trembling girl emerged from the press of bodies, escorted by a stocky, fierce-eyed woman clad in the snarling bear sigil of House Mormont. Jon's soaring heart plummeted like a stone as the girl hesitantly approached, gaze fixed firmly on her shabby boots. He needed only the briefest glimpse of her profile to know the bitter truth.
Not Arya. This is not my sister.
Recognition sparked, followed by a hollow ache of disappointment. Though undoubtedly changed by the passage of years, her features remained unmistakable—Jeyne Poole, the shy, pretty daughter of Winterfell's steward and Sansa's constant childhood companion. Anger flared briefly at the deception, but Jon quickly tamped it down, consumed by concern. If Jeyne was here posing as Arya, she must have endured unimaginable horrors since their carefree days at Winterfell.
"Jeyne," Jon gentled his tone with great effort, fighting against the monstrous timbre of his voice. Even so, the poor girl cringed at the sound of her name, shrinking back against her Mormont protector. Finally, she raised her eyes to his, raw terror shining from their brown depths. "You have nothing to fear from me. I remember you well from Winterfell."
The she-bear beside Jeyne tightened her grip on the girl's shoulder, offering silent strength and encouragement. "Go on, child," she murmured, her voice gruff but not unkind. "This is still Lord Commander Snow, despite his fearsome new appearance."
Swallowing hard, Jeyne visibly steeled herself, though her entire body continued to shake like a leaf in a gale. "L-Lord Snow... I... they made me..." Her voice cracked on a sob, tears welling up to spill down her pale, gaunt cheeks.
"Take all the time you need," Jon urged softly, lowering his massive, horned head in an attempt to appear less threatening. "I must know how you came to be here in my sister's place."
The words poured out of Jeyne in a halting, tear-choked rush, her tale one of unrelenting misery. "After they... they killed Lord Stark, I was kept hostage in King's Landing. Lord Baelish, he... he took me from the capital to one of his brothels. He told me I would have to serve men as... as a..."
She faltered, unable to give voice to the vile truth. A flash of white materialized beside them as Ghost padded silently into view, crimson eyes fixed on the trembling girl. Sensing Jon's turmoil, the direwolf approached Jeyne with cautious steps. She recoiled initially from the massive beast, but as Ghost settled beside her with a gentle whine, her quivering hand eventually reached out to stroke his thick fur, finding unexpected solace in the touch. Jon looked to her Mormont companion, whose features had settled into a mask of stony rage.
"She was sold like chattel to the Boltons," the she-bear supplied, her words hard and clipped. "Forced to play the role of Arya Stark and wed to that twisted bastard, Ramsay, to lend legitimacy to their claim on Winterfell."
Jeyne nodded miserably, confirming the appalling tale while continuing to take solace from Ghost. As the depth of her suffering sank in, Jon felt the spark of his temper kindling into a raging inferno deep within his breast. Waves of blistering heat rolled off his body, causing the air to shimmer around him and the snow at his feet to melt and turn to hissing steam on contact with his superheated scales. The crowd shied back even further, desperate to escape the palpable aura of draconic wrath.
"What that monster did to Lady Jeyne in the marriage bed..." The Mormont woman trailed off with a grimace, glancing at the shaking girl tucked protectively against her side. "It's not fit to speak of in the open, or anywhere else. No woman should ever—"
Jon cut her off with a single, sharp lash of his tail against the frozen ground, the impact cracking the icy earth like a whip, even causing some to stumble. "Lord Baelish and House Bolton will answer for their crimes," he snarled, the promise of vengeance thrumming through the words, barely constrained. "I will rain fire on the Boltons until it they are nothing but a scorched memory, and Littlefinger will learn the true price of his schemes."
The Mormont studied him intently, something like grim respect kindling in her eyes even as fear kept her rooted to the spot. Jon forced himself to rein in his fury, meeting her assessing stare directly.
"You are a loyal ally to House Stark, Lady...?"
"Alysane Mormont," she supplied, straightening to her full height. "My lady mother charged me with bringing Arya Stark to safety. We believed Jeyne to be the lost wolf girl."
"You've done House Stark a great service. Continue to guard her as if she were my trueborn sister," Jon commanded. "The Mormonts' faith will not be forgotten."
His gaze cut to Val, who stood slightly apart from the others, studying him with an inscrutable expression. "Val, assign a detail of your best spearwives to Lady Jeyne's protection detail as well as Ghost. She is never to be left unguarded until I return and can ensure her safety personally."
"Consider it done, Lord Snow." Val inclined her head briefly, something in her bearing suggesting she understood far more than she let on.
Their exchange was interrupted by the approach of a florid-faced man clad in the rich greens and blues of House Florent—Ser Axell, one of the late King Stannis's most vocal supporters. He sketched a deep, courtly bow, but the gesture looked faintly ridiculous when directed at a creature of Jon's immense size.
"Oh great and mighty... ah, Lord Snow," Axell began, clearly at a loss for how to properly address a man reborn as a dragon. "Shall you fly at once to our King Stannis? His Grace marches on Winterfell to oust the treacherous Boltons, but the odds are grim without your aid."
"Not just yet," Jon replied, ignoring the ripple of unease that passed through the assembled Baratheon loyalists. "Thousands of Free Folk face a fate worse than death at Hardhome, besieged by the Others with no hope of escape. Honor compels me to fly to their rescue first."
Ser Justin Massey elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, his face strained. "Snow, you cannot abandon His Grace in his hour of greatest need! Stannis came to the Wall's defense while the rest of the realm ignored your plight. Surely you owe him the same consideration!"
Smoke curled from Jon's nostrils as his patience frayed. "Careful, Massey. I am grateful for Stannis's aid against the wildlings, but I am not his to command. The true war lies to the north, not in this ceaseless squabbling over a chair made of swords. If your king falls, I will grieve him... but I will not set aside my duty."
Seeing their mounting distress, Jon forced himself to gentle his tone. "Send a raven to Stannis in my name. Counsel him to delay his attack on Winterfell until I can secure the Free Folk and fly to join his numbers. Together, we will have a far better chance of victory."
This grudging compromise eased some of the tension from Stannis's men. Ser Massey sketched another bow, this one slightly less sycophantic than the last. "I'll dispatch our fastest rider at once, Lord Snow."
As the Baratheon contingent withdrew, Othell Yarwyck hesitantly approached in their wake, his weathered face etched with worry. "Lord Commander, I fear our food stores were already strained before this latest influx of mouths to feed. How are we to keep everyone alive through the coming winter?"
"I'll direct the bulk of the rescued wildlings to Eastwatch, where they can help strengthen the defenses and hunt in the Gift," Jon assured him. "Those that remain will earn their keep, you have my word."
His gaze fell on the tall, gaunt figure of Tycho Nestoris, who had observed the proceedings in watchful silence, hands folded in the sleeves of his somber robes. The Iron Bank representative maintained his mask of composure as Jon's smoldering red eyes fixed on him, but he could not fully suppress a flinch at the dragon's regard.
"The Iron Bank will assist the Night's Watch with emergency food shipments to keep the North alive and productive in these trying times," Jon declared, holding the banker's gaze. "Consider it an investment in future stability... and in your odds of seeing those hefty loans to Stannis repaid in full."
Tycho bowed deeply, his expression betraying a glimmer of calculation beneath the outward deference. "The Iron Bank is always eager to protect its investments and foster productive relationships, Lord Snow. I'm certain we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement that recognizes the... shall we say, new balance of power in the North." His eyes flickered briefly to Jon's imposing draconic form, no doubt factoring this development into his mental ledgers.
Jon let out a rumbling snort, tendrils of smoke curling from his flared nostrils. He recognized the shrewd machinations turning behind the banker's urbane facade, already weighing the risks and potential rewards of an alliance with the dragon-commander of the Night's Watch. Let him scheme to his heart's content, Jon mused, so long as the promised food shipments and vital supplies kept flowing from Braavos and the other Free Cities to keep his people fed. The North would endure, as it always had, even if it meant parlaying with coin counters and silk-clad moneylenders from across the Narrow Sea.
"Now, I need a few volunteers among the Free Folk who will fly with me to Hardhome," Jon announced, turning to the wildlings. "Those who know the lay of the land and can help organize an orderly evacuation. It will be dangerous, but vital if we are to save as many as we can."
Tormund, Val, and Toregg stepped forward as one, ready to stand with him as they had for so long. Jon felt a rush of fierce pride and gratitude for their unwavering loyalty.
Val looked up at him, her honey-blonde hair whipping in the icy wind, pale eyes gleaming with fierce determination. "I will go," she declared, her voice ringing with quiet authority. "I know the paths and the people. They will listen to me."
"Aye, and me as well!" young Toregg piped up eagerly, puffing out his chest. "I'm not afraid of no wights or White Walkers. I'll stand with you, Lord Crow." The lad's bravado brought a faint smile to Jon's lips, even as Tormund frowned, clearly torn.
"Tormund, I need you stay here," he said, holding up a clawed hand to forestall the big man's protests.
"I should be going with ye," the big wildling rumbled, his prodigious beard bristling with indignation. "Not sitting here on me arse while you fly off into danger."
Jon fixed him with a solemn gaze, his obsidian eyes glinting. "Tormund, I need you to remain here to keep the peace between the Free Folk and the Watch," he said, holding up a clawed hand to forestall the big man's protests. "There's no one I trust more to knock heads and keep this lot in line. The alliance is still fragile - it needs a strong hand to guide it."
Tormund's broad shoulders slumped, but he nodded grudgingly, recognizing the truth in Jon's words. "Harr! Aye, I'll keep 'em in line," he grumbled. "But you best come back in one piece, you hear? Don't be making me regret this, crow."
Jon let out a rumbling chuckle, tendrils of steam curling from his nostrils. "I'll do my best," he promised, flexing his great wings. Val and Toregg clambered up onto his back, settling between the ridges of his scales. He felt a rush of fierce pride and gratitude for their unwavering loyalty. Come what may, he knew they would stand with him, even unto the end.
Tormund grumbled, his prodigious beard bristling with indignation. "You fly off with my boy on some godsdamned dragon-fool ride, and leave me stuck tendin' crows like some craven wetnurse?"
"I do not ask it lightly," Jon said solemnly. "If I cannot rely on you to safeguard Castle Black in my absence, I might as well fly off to a new life in Essos."
This seemed to mollify Tormund somewhat, though his eyes still glinted with envy as he watched Val and Toregg clamber up onto Jon's hand, settling themselves between the ridges of his scales. Val moved with fluid grace, seemingly untroubled by their precarious perch, while Toregg practically vibrated with excitement at the prospect of flight.
Before launching himself skyward, Jon turned to Edd, his draconic features etched with grim determination. "What has been done with Bowen Marsh and the others who betrayed me?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"Still rottin' in the bloody cold cages of yers, far as I know.," Tormund supplied, his meaty hand fingering the worn hilt of his bone-handled knife. The wildling chief's blue eyes glinted with a fierce, protective anger. "Say the word, and I'll hack off their godsdamned heads with a smile—spit in their cold dead faces too, just for the joy of it."
"No," Jon growled, wisps of smoke curling from his nostrils as he fought to master his own seething rage. The memory of cold steel sliding between his ribs was still fresh, the sting of betrayal a raw wound that would not soon heal. "Keep them alive and chained until I return. I'll deal with them myself." He had no intention of allowing his murderers to escape justice, to wash their hands of the blood they had spilled in the name of their small-minded fears. But that reckoning would have to wait, as much as it galled him to leave it unfinished. There were more pressing matters at hand, innocent lives hanging in the balance. The traitors could rot in their cells a while longer, alone with the ghosts of their sins.
He carried Val and Toregg well away from the timber keep and crumbling stone towers, seeking an open patch of ground. The wildlings clung to his scales as he unfurled his great wings, the black membranes blotting out the weak sun.
"Hold fast!" he warned, giving them a moment to brace themselves. "And try not to fall off, as I do not know if I can catch you!"
With a mighty surge of his hind legs, Jon launched himself into the air, the force of his passage knocking several brothers off their feet. His wings churned the air like a gale as he climbed higher and higher, banking northward toward the distant bay of Hardhome. In moments, Castle Black had vanished behind him, swallowed up by the vast expanse of snow and ice.
As the wind rushed past his scales, Jon felt some of the tension ease from his muscles. Whatever challenges this rescue mission held, whatever fresh horrors they might face at Hardhome, in this moment, he was truly free—beholden to no king or oath, only the boundless sky and the fire burning in his blood. He could only pray to the old gods that he would not arrive too late to save his people but another thought struck him: Where is she now?
On the ground far below, the black brothers and wildlings slowly dispersed back to their duties, speaking in hushed tones of the dragon that had once been their Lord Commander. Melisandre watched them go with a secret smile playing about her lips, her red eyes alight with visions of shadows and flame.
----------------------------------------------------
Braavos, Essos
Arya sat cross-legged on the cold stones of Braavos, her back pressed against a wall where the Purple Harbor's main walkway met the Street of Bargains. The constant din of commerce—haggling merchants, shouting sailors, clattering carts—flowed around her like water. Though her eyes saw nothing, her ears caught everything.
A copper star clinked against the wooden bowl between her knees. Arya's fingers darted out, seemingly clumsy, yet she knew exactly what she touched. The weight and sound told her it was Braavosi—not as valuable as a Westerosi copper, but it would buy a heel of bread.
"Bless you, kind ser," she murmured in the local tongue, her head bowed submissively.
She had been sitting here since dawn, playing the blind beggar while practicing the skills the Kindly Man had taught her. Each conversation she overheard became a game—truth or lie? The fish merchant bragging of his morning catch was lying; his wares had been sitting in salt for days. The silk trader complaining of taxes spoke true; the customs officers had doubled their demands this month.
The wooden bowl now held seven coppers, three Braavosi and four foreign. Not enough for a proper meal, but she wouldn't starve. The House of Black and White provided for its acolytes, even those in training on the streets.
"Cersei, Ilyn Payne, The Mountain, Meryn Trant..." The names whispered through her mind unbidden. Each night before sleep, she recited them—her prayer, her promise. "Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei."
The Kindly Man would be disappointed. A girl should have no list, no hunger for vengeance. No One had no enemies. But Arya Stark did.
Footsteps approached—heavier than most Braavosi, with the distinctive stride of men unused to the city's slippery stones. Their voices confirmed it: Westerosi merchants, speaking the Common Tongue with northern accents.
"—worth the journey if we can secure favorable terms," one was saying, his voice thick with the accent of White Harbor. "The Manderlys still control shipping, despite everything."
"Aye, but for how long?" countered another. "The North's a mess. Bolton's bastard—though he's legitimized now—has married the Stark girl. Winterfell's theirs by right of both conquest and marriage."
Arya's fingers froze over her bowl. The world narrowed to those words, echoing in her mind. Married the Stark girl. Winterfell's theirs.
That's not possible she thought, heart hammering against her ribs. I am here in Braavos.
"Poor girl," the White Harbor merchant continued. "They say she tried to escape once. What happened after doesn't bear repeating in decent company."
A third voice, older and gruffer: "Starks have had nothing but misfortune since Lord Eddard lost his head. Robb betrayed at the Twins, the little lords murdered by their own ward, and now the daughter wed to that monster."
Arya's mind raced. If not her, then who? Sansa? Last she'd heard, Sansa was in King's Landing, married to the Imp. Unless...
The merchants moved on, their conversation shifting to timber prices, unaware of how they'd shattered her carefully constructed facade. Memories of Winterfell crashed through her defenses—Father's smile, Robb teaching her to shoot, Jon mussing her hair, Bran climbing towers, little Rickon chasing Shaggydog through the godswood. Mother brushing her hair, scolding her for ruined dresses.
All gone. Father beheaded. Robb and Mother murdered at the Twins. Bran and Rickon killed by Theon. Only Jon remained at the Wall, and perhaps Sansa—if it was Sansa who had been forced to marry Bolton's bastard.
Anger flared hot and bright within her chest. Bolton. The name belonged on her list. The son of the man who had betrayed Robb, who now claimed Winterfell through some false Stark bride.
"Who are you?" The Kindly Man's daily question echoed in her thoughts.
"No one," she whispered automatically, but the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
She was Arya Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, descendant of the First Men. Wolf blood ran in her veins. The North remembered, and so did she.
For months she had tried to become No One, to shed her identity like one of the faces hanging in the Hall of Faces. But the names remained. The memories remained. The wolf dreams—running with her pack in the forests of the Riverlands—remained.
A realization dawned, clear and sharp as Needle's point: becoming No One might be the surest path to fulfilling Arya Stark's purpose. The Faceless Men could give her the skills to cross the names from her list. To reclaim what was hers. To avenge her family.
She could play their game, wear their faces, speak their words—"Valar morghulis"—while keeping Arya Stark alive beneath the surface.
With newfound resolve, she gathered the coins from her bowl and tucked them into the hidden pocket sewn into her ragged clothes. Her fingers counted them one last time: enough to report a successful day's begging.
Though blind, she navigated the winding streets with practiced ease. The smell of the canals guided her—this one carrying the scent of fish, that one perfumes from the courtesans' barges. Her feet knew every dip and crack in the stones, every turn and corner between the harbor and the House of Black and White.
Her steps were more determined now, driven by purpose rather than mere obedience. The salt breeze carried the scent of home—of snow and pine and direwolves—impossible across so many leagues of ocean, yet real to her all the same.
At the massive doors of the temple, she paused, composing herself. The Kindly Man could read truths in the slightest twitch of an eyebrow, the smallest change in breathing. She must be perfect in her deception.
"A girl has returned," she announced to the darkness as she entered.
"What has a girl learned today?" The Kindly Man's voice came from her left, soft as always.
"A girl has learned three new lies and recognized four truths," she replied, her voice steady, her face serene. "A girl has collected seven coppers from the kindness of strangers."
She held out her hand with the coins, feeling them being taken from her palm.
"And who is a girl?" The daily question, the daily test.
"No one," she answered, her face betraying nothing.
But in the depths of her mind, where no one—not even the Kindly Man—could see, she silently added a new name to her list: Ramsay Bolton.
"A girl will follow," the Kindly Man said, satisfied with her answer. "Tomorrow we continue your training."
"A girl will learn. A girl will serve. A girl will become No One," she replied dutifully, following his footsteps deeper into the temple.
And then Arya Stark will cross the sea and finish her list, she added silently, her resolve hardening like ice in the heart of winter.