[111] A Cold Wind Blows

Chapter 111: A Cold Wind Blows

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The wind howled across the frozen landscape, cutting through Jon's furs despite their thickness.

He pulled his cloak tighter, his breath forming clouds before his face as he trudged forward. Ghost padded silently beside him, the direwolf's red eyes scanning the desolate terrain ahead.

Jon hadn't felt so cold ever before.

The notorious Qhorin Halfhand led their small band of rangers, his weathered face betraying no discomfort despite the brutal cold. The Fist of the First Men loomed before them, an ancient ring fort now nothing more than a pile of stones jutting from the snow-covered ground.

“Is that the place?” A brother of the Night's Watch asked.

"Aye. We'll make camp here," Qhorin announced, his voice barely audible over the wind. "Good vantage point. We can see anything approaching for leagues."

Jon nodded, relief mingling with exhaustion.

They'd been tracking Mance Rayder's wildlings for days, finding abandoned camps that grew larger each time. The wildling army was swelling, thousands fleeing south from something worse than the cold.

Jon had a feeling he knew what. After all, he'd written his letter to Rob on that feeling.

"Snow," Qhorin turned to Jon and called, gesturing him closer as the others began setting up camp. "Take Stonesnake and check the perimeter."

The ground crunched beneath Jon's boots as he and Stonesnake circled the ancient fortification. Ghost suddenly darted ahead, disappearing behind a snow-covered rock formation.

"Seven hells, keep that beast close," Stonesnake muttered. "Last thing we need is him bringing wildlings down on us."

Jon whistled softly, and Ghost reappeared, something dark clutched in his jaws. The direwolf dropped it at Jon's feet.

"Hm? What's that?" Stonesnake asked, kneeling beside Jon.

Jon brushed the snow away, revealing a jagged piece of black stone. It gleamed oddly in the dim light, its edges sharp enough to slice through leather.

"I don't… ah, wait. Dragonglass," Jon breathed, turning it over in his gloved hands.

Stonesnake's eyes widened. "Wait, what? You mean the same thing that King Viserys is supposed to send?"

Jon studied the obsidian shard. "Aye. Looks like it."

They gathered more pieces, tucking them into their pouches before returning to camp.

The Lord Commander examined their find, holding a large piece up to catch what little light remained.

"Good eyes, Snow," Mormont said gruffly. "It does seem to be Dragonglass. The brothers of the Night's Watch from millennia ago must have left these behind. For what, I wonder…”

Jon cleared his throat. "As I notified you before, Lord Commander, my brother Robb sent word that King Viserys is sending dragonglass to the Wall.”

“Ah, yes.”

“He says it can kill the White Walkers,” Jon added, watching the commander scowl in thought. “If I may, we should send a raven to the King while distributing these among us for now.”

Several rangers exchanged skeptical glances. To begin with, most of them found the story of Jon killing a White Walker nonsensical.

So to hear him talk about a weapon that can kill the said White Walkers, it was natural they called bullocks on his words.

Jon didn't blame them for it.

But he knew if they were in his spot, most of them would have died. And he didn't want his brothers to die like that.

"The dragon king?" Dalbridge snorted. "The one who burned Stannis Baratheon alive, and raped Queen Cersei?"

"The stories of him doing anything to the previous Queen remain stories. We don't have facts on that, brothers," Jon confirmed. "Ny brother, King in the North, trusts this Viserys. So I do as well.”

“Of course you do,” one of them said, laughing among his group.

"Old Nan of House Stark used to tell us stories," Jon continued, remembering the old woman's crackling voice by the Winterfell hearth. "About the Long Night. She said the Children of the Forest gave the First Men dragonglass weapons to fight the Others."

"Nursery tales," scoffed one of the rangers.

"Maybe," Qhorin said, weighing a shard in his palm. "But I've seen things beyond the Wall that make me believe the old stories hold truth. If the Dragon King, who has awakened dragons after two centuries of Targaryen failure, believes these can help against what's coming, I'll carry one."

The Lord Commander nodded grimly. "There aren't many. Every group’s best fighter should carry one. Keep it close."

As they distributed the obsidian, Jon felt Ghost press against his leg, the direwolf's warmth a small comfort against the deepening cold.

Something was coming with the winter winds—something the wildlings were desperate to escape. Something the rest of Westeros didn't think true, but Jon was grateful that the King was wise to.

I wonder what kind of person he is, Jon thought about his brother-in-law who he didn't know was also his uncle. I have a feeling that we'll avoid something terrible because of his wise decisions.

He just hoped it’d be enough.

Jon tucked a dragonglass dagger into his belt, hoping the Dragon King would send more soon.

They would need every weapon they could get.

****

Daenerys shifted on her carved wooden bench, the elevated dais offering little comfort despite its cushions.

Her arm no longer required bandages, but phantom pain still shot through the bone when she moved carelessly—a lingering reminder of Viserys's temper.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since her brother had departed Meereen in a flap of golden wings, leaving behind a city teetering between chaos and order.

Two weeks of sleepless nights, haunted by dreams of stolen dragons and crowns beyond reach. The Great Pyramid's council chamber felt suffocating today.

Bronze harpy fixtures stared down with empty eyes, as if judging her failures. Daenerys surveyed the faces of her advisors seated around the long table. Each carried shadows beneath their eyes, their expressions carefully controlled as they awaited her command.

"The Sons of the Harpy have gone quiet since the incident at Daznak's Pit," Tyrion began, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his wine goblet. "We’ve found a bunch of them and imprisoned them, and that’s also keeping the rest quiet in fear that tempting us might get their friends executed."

Daenerys nodded. "And the city?"

"Stable, but fearful," Tyrion continued. "The people witnessed two dragons destroy their enemies. Now they wonder if they might be next."

"They will not be," Daenerys said, perhaps too quickly. If I still have any power to prevent it, she added silently.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat. "Your Grace, our scouts report no sign of false Aegon or Rhaegal. He seems to have vanished entirely."

The mention of her stolen child sent a sharp pain through Daenerys's chest.

Rhaegal wasn't merely a weapon—he was her child, born from fire and her blood. Now in the hands of a pretender for so long, how was he faring?

"And our forces?" she asked, turning to Grey Worm.

The Unsullied commander sat straighter, though something in his eyes had changed since his brush with death. "Unsullied are ready..." He said firmly. "We’re lucky that we’re Unsullied, Khaleesi. We do not feel fear. Command us at any time."

"The freedmen speak in whispers," Missandei added gently. "Some say the gods have chosen the golden dragon over the red and black. Others claim both Targaryens bring only destruction."

Daenerys felt a chill settle in her stomach. Both Targaryens. As if we are the same. She’d submitted to him, but she wasn’t him. She’d never be. She’d never burn cities just to prove a point.

"I see," she said softly, her fingers instinctively tracing the spot where her arm had snapped under Viserys's grip. “...” She couldn’t find any further words.

Ser Jorah shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Your Grace, perhaps you should consider a break—"

"What?" Daenerys interrupted, her voice carrying an edge she hadn't intended. "Break from what, Ser Jorah?”

“I, uh… I meant the usual meetings with us and the common folk,” he said. “I feel like you’re under a lot of pressure, regarding everything on top of Rhaegal’s situation. It’d be wiser to leave things to King Viserys while you rest in your chambers for a few days, or weeks. It won’t do anyone harm.”

“That is insulting, Ser. You think I can’t attend important meetings such as this just because I have a headache?” she asked.

“I didn’t–”

“And you’re also telling me to abandon the people who call me 'Mhysa'?" she asked with a small frown. “The meet-ups with the common folk every day help the common folk understand the difference between me and my brother. It... reassures them that I won’t burn them down. How can I stop that just because I have some worries in my head? I’m not a little girl anymore, Ser.”

The chamber fell silent.

Daenerys drew a deep breath and rose from her seat, moving to the open terrace that overlooked the city. The afternoon sun bathed Meereen's white buildings in golden light, making the ancient city seem almost peaceful from this height.

"I was wrong," she finally said, her back to her advisors. "About Aegon. About Viserys. I thought one a savior, the other a monster." She turned to face them again. "I forgot the most important lesson I've learned since Drogo died—trust must be earned, not given freely because of blood or claims."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes studied her with something like respect. "A hard lesson, Your Grace. One many rulers never learn."

"Rhaegal is not just a dragon," Daenerys continued, her voice growing stronger. "He’s my child, he’s a part of my claim, my strength. Without him..." She let the words hang in the air. “I feel incomplete.”

"Your strength comes from more than dragons, Khaleesi," Jorah said softly.

Does it? she wondered. Or have I been playing at power while my brother masters the true magic of our bloodline?

"Meereen needs its queen," she declared, finding resolve in the words. "And I will not hide away in my room just because—"

A thunderous roar shook the pyramid, sending dust cascading from the ancient ceiling. The sound vibrated through Daenerys's chest, familiar yet somehow different from Drogon's call.

Above them, from the roosting pit atop the pyramid, Drogon answered with a fearsome cry of his own. Then came the other roar once again—deeper, more resonant, unmistakably different.

"Viserion," Daenerys whispered, her heart suddenly racing.

Her advisors leapt to their feet, hands moving to weapons.

"Your Grace, stay back from the terrace," Ser Barristan urged, drawing his sword. By now they trusted Viserys, but one couldn’t ever fully trust the son of the Mad King.

But Daenerys was already moving, drawn to the sound like a moth to flame.

She stepped onto the terrace as a massive shadow passed overhead, golden scales catching the sunlight like a thousand polished mirrors.

Viserion circled the pyramid once, twice, her vast wings stirring the hot Meereenese air into a tempest. And on her back, silver-gold hair streaming behind him, sat Viserys—her brother, her tormentor, her kin.

The dragon banked sharply, and to Daenerys's astonishment, Viserys leapt from the saddle. Not falling, but flying—great translucent wings unfurling from his back as he descended toward her terrace.

What has he become, truly? Daenerys thought wildly, backing away as he hovered before her, suspended in midair just beyond the balcony's edge.

Compared to the image he bore back when he fled from the Dothraki, his appearance was transformed—leaner, stronger, something otherworldly about his violet eyes that burned with inner fire.

"Sister," he called, his voice somehow carrying above the wind. He extended a hand toward her, his expression unreadable. "I wanted to pick you up… We're going to get Rhaegal back together."

Dany’s heart skipped.

Had he found Rahegal?!

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