Game Of Thrones: The Dragon Targaryen

He'd left Winterfell months ago as part of a great host of warriors, going north to save the world. He returned at the head of a ragtag group of starving children, running for his life.

They'd gravitated to him in ones and twos, lost in a snowy land they'd only heard about until then. Young a.d.u.l.ts to toddlers, well dressed to half-n.a.k.e.d, they somehow found their way to the failed Prince. Some cried, some stared in shock, and others merely followed. Their parents were either dead or had been north of the Wall when it fell, which in Jaehaerys' mind also meant dead. Very few wildlings of fighting shape had made it through the tunnel before it had all gone to hell; they had sent the rest of their children and their elderly first. They too found themselves following the Targaryen prince, crunching through the new snowfall of the Kingsroad, slogging through the mostly-filled trail Aegon and Aelor had left behind.

Only one thing had looked up since, and that was when Ghost simply appeared beside him, scaring the toddler in his arms nearly to death. Jaehaerys had no clue how the direwolf had survived the destruction of the Wall or the vicious fighting that accompanied it, but he had sank down and hugged the wolf as tight as his frozen arms could. Soldiers, some knights and others men-at-arms, joined as well, though they were few and far between.

There was no food. Jaehaerys' stomach pained him terribly, and he heard the hungry whimpers of the children following him like daggers to his soul. Water was of no consequence, snowmelt plentiful, but the lack of food and warmth took its toll, as did the pace Jaehaerys set. He still hadn't seen with his own eyes what had frightened the wildlings so much that they had brought their salvation down atop their own people's heads, but he knew with certainty that he didn't want to see it.

They moved at night, all night, constantly moving forward despite the cries of exhaustion and grumbling bellies. Jaehaerys didn't know if the ice demons were deterred by daylight or not; the wildlings stories put the attacks at night, but none of them seemed sure that they couldn't attack in the day. Still, night just seemed more fitting, be it true or not, so that was when he moved. The Prince of the Iron Throne only gave them respite during the few hours the sun made an appearance, his followers collapsing into great piles, huddled together around the youngest of their number for warmth. He, Val and a few of those in their teen years tried to scavenge for firewood, but often their searches were fruitless. He would stagger back to his followers and collapse, he and Val bookending around the two toddlers they had saved, Dalla pressing Mance's son to his back. Ghost would hunker down over top the two small children, serving as a living blanket. He would wake just before dusk, rousing those who followed him out of whatever slumber they had managed to find, forcing them to their feet.

Each time, some of those who had bedded down earlier couldn't be roused, dead from the cold or the lack of food. The elderly—while they had been there, though almost all of them had fallen behind by now—had urged him to burn the bodies, even the youngest. Jaehaerys either never had the materials or refused to spend the time, but he always put an extra urgency in his pace when they began.

He didn't know how many he lost during the days they moved south, but Jaehaerys knew the numbers would shatter what was left of his soul.

Jaehaerys himself didn't escape unscathed. Three of his fingers and the thumb of his left hand were black with frostbite, sparing only the pinky, and the Prince of the Iron Throne was enough of a realist to know there was no saving them. He had given his gloves and overcoat to a young child who barely had anything in terms of protection, and while he could keep his swordhand tucked into his breeches his left hand was either holding the gloved hand of the small boy whose name Jaehaerys still didn't know or exposed while carrying him. Jaehaerys supposed he should be grateful it wasn't his nose or ears, as several of the children were going to lose those.

And of course dozens of them were dead, stretched back across their path, leaving a trail of bodies from the Wall to the stone of Winterfell.

Winterfell's gates were barred, and Jaehaerys could feel more than see the guards lining her curtain walls, his skin prickling with the unseen crossbows and longbows aimed at him. One man, his voice echoing from atop the gatehouse, called out a challenge, voice cutting through the cold night air. "Who goes there?"

His voice when he found it was rough with neglect and exhaustion. "Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen."

The cold wind carried the low grumblings back to his ears, followed shortly by a different man's voice. "All of you?"

He felt a spark of anger. He had finally found a touch of sanctuary after days and days of leaving dead children behind him; he was in no mood for another delay. "Yes, bloody all of us. Now open the damn gates."

It took forever in the mind of Jaehaerys, dawn beginning to lighten the sky, before the great gates of Winterfell were thrown open. His mother, tears streaming down her face, was the first out of the gates, sprinting through the snow to throw her arms around Jaehaerys and the boy. Lyanna Stark murmured thanks and questions, and while Jaehaerys was thrilled to see her he spoke only to Rodrik Cassel, who had led a wary contingent of guards out behind him. "Find them food and clothing. The Crown will repay the Starks, should any of us survive this winter."

Cassel hesitated a moment, eyeing the furs.

"They're children." His voice this time was sharp as the biting wind. "There used to be more of them. You're going to save these." He looked down at his blackened hand. "Send the maester to me when he's finished with them, and then call a council."

A voice he never thought to hear again sounded from beside Cassel, and Jaehaerys' eyes shot up to see Eddard Stark striding to the front. "Do as he says." His uncle looked…old, old and defeated. The Prince of the Iron Throne could see more grey and sadness in him than he remembered the grim Lord of the North ever showing before. "There is much to be done."

Jaehaerys had expected it to hurt when Maester Luwin removed his frostbit fingers, but he hadn't felt a thing.

The Prince Who Had Lost the Wall stared down at the bandages wrapped around his left hand as voices murmured in the great hall of Winterfell. Luwin had informed him even as he worked that, while his ring finger wasn't as far gone as the others, the bite and rot had already set in deeper than any of the maester's remedies could fix. He removed it as a precaution, to ensure the Prince not lose the entire hand.

Jaehaerys felt nothing when he looked at it. Not in the physical sense of course—he could feel the bandage against the flesh that was still living, could feel the pain starting to build where the master had cut the definitive line between what stayed and what didn't. But emotionally, he felt nothing for it. It was a hand; he had another, the sword one to boot. He may never be able to fire a bow again, but he could still fight with the blade on his side. What's more, he could still do his everyday task; he could teach himself to cut his own steak, could still write as well as he could before. He would survive.

Dozens of children hadn't. When one had seen so many tiny faces frozen to the bitter earth, the loss of a hand seemed trivial.

His cousin Aemon sat to one side of him, wrapped up in furs. The brown-haired, violet eyed Targaryen and Samwell Tarly had been saved by Lord Stark, who had along with some of his men managed to mount horses before the Wall fell. He had made a point of freeing as many of the other mounts as he could, and on them many a knight or man-at-arms—or wildling—had made their way to Winterfell, all well ahead of Jaehaerys and his staggering army of children. Robb, however, had not been among those to return. Ned had searched for him, refusing to abandon his eldest son, until the Wall itself had begun to collapse. It had taken a concentrated effort of Lords Umber and Glover to convince him to flee then, and they had barely outraced the falling ice.

Lord Eddard blamed himself, even if no one else would. It was foolish of him; the fault resided with Jaehaerys alone.

Maester Aemon, the Targaryen who had seen so much before and after he had gone blind, was almost certainly dead. Robb and Grey Wind. Harrion Karstark. Ser Borran. Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. Mance Rayder himself. Ygritte. So many hadn't returned.

Greatjon Umber had no love for wildlings; his family had been killing them for years, and his uncle Mors' daughter had been abducted by raiders when he was a boy. His opposition to Jaehaerys' plan had been the fiercest, and even now the giant man glared at Val and Tormund. Jaehaerys had learned the bearded wildling and his daughters had been found by a middle-aged black brother known only as Alman, who had led a mixed party of survivors—among them wildlings, those who were so normally at odds banding together in fear of what was behind them—to Winterfell. Lord Stark had given them all protection, despite the many and frequent protests of those present.

The Prince had insisted Tormund and Val attend this council as representatives of the Free Folk; whoever had brought down the Wall and whatever their reasons, they were all in this together now. It was to this two that Greatjon spat his rhetoric. "Those f.u.c.kers brought the Wall down and let the demons among us, and we give them protection? Their way of life is to kill and pillage like rabid f.u.c.k.i.n.g dogs. We should be killing them, not feeding them!"

A roar of approval met them, and Jaehaerys felt Val shift uneasily on his other side. In response he stood, and though the crowd quieted he saw more angry glares than he did supportive glances. "These people were going to change their way of life, Lord Umber. All they wanted was protection."

Umber growled deep in his throat. "Oh, I saw your ploy to try and control them, lad. Look where it's gotten us."

Jaehaerys met the big man's eyes cleanly; there was no fear left in him. "Whoever brought the Wall down isn't among us."

Thoren Smallwood, the most senior surviving ranger of the Night's Watch that had been found so far, shot to his feet. "No, they're dead with most of our friends and soldiers, just as we soon will be." He beseeched the lords around him, face furious. "The men at the other towers and castles are likely dead as well; they wouldn't have had any notion of what was going on. The Wall is gone, and there is nothing to protect us now."

"My brother has thousands and thousands of men in the South."

Lord Alester Farring snorted. "They're all busy fighting thousands of other men."

"Yet Lord Stark has thousands left in the North, making their way here now."

Smallwood cursed in exasperation. "Don't you understand, boy, it doesn't matter. The Wall was more than a tall stack of ice. It was interwoven with spells that kept the dead from passing it. Without those, no number of men will stop them from destroying all the North, and then they'll be ripe to take the war-torn South."

Jaehaerys grit his teeth. "Watch your tongue."

Smallwood let loose a maniacal, taunting laugh. "Or what, you'll sentence me to take the black? Hoster Tully did that years ago, and I served it loyally until you destroyed the watch and killed his grandson."

His uncle Eddard spoke for the first time then, and his voice was as cold as Jaehaerys had ever heard it, cutting Smallwood even smaller. "Never speak of my son again. You aren't worthy of uttering his name." Silence descended, the lords of the North hanging their heads, until Eddard spoke again. "If we can't defend the North than none of it matters anyway. I will fight until my last breath to protect this land. I'd do it willingly, but in this case there is no other alternative anyway."

A voice Jaehaerys never thought to hear in this setting piped up from beside him. "Then leave."

All eyes jumped to Aemon Targaryen, the slightly built dragonlord who looked more like a shopkeeper than a man of royal blood. Instead of cringing into a small ball as Jaehaerys expected, Aemon returned the gazes, though a red flush creeped along his skin. His normally quiet voice had a steel backbone that Jaehaerys had never heard before, and the Prince felt himself take his seat when Aemon stood. "Leave the north."

A round of scoffs filled the air, Greatjon Umber's disbelieving voice weaving among them. "You can't be f.u.c.k.i.n.g serious. Who are you to speak, boy"

Aemon raised his chin. "I am the son of The Dragon of Duskendale, and I am as serious as the threat we face. The North is too broad to defend it all; I still haven't seen it with my own eyes, but the wights are said to come in waves like an ocean tide. They will swallow an army whole."

A new voice, belonging to some minor lord Jaehaerys didn't actually know, filtered in from the back. "We still don't know if they truly exist!"

Tormund Giantsbane, who had sat through the insults to his people with a face of stone, finally spoke. "I do. So does every other Free Folk here, and so do the crows. We've fought them, been killed by them. Do you think anything less than a living night terror would have made Mance Rayder and the Free Folk kneel to twats like you southerner's? Do you think anything less than an evil worse than your cuntish rules would have made us give up our children, and then bring our only hope down on top of our own heads? Think what you will about the Free Folk, but we were willing to do everything we ever swore not to to survive this thing you haven't seen. Trust me, you weak-kneed southron; I've seen enough of it for us both."

Aemon didn't let any outrage at the big man's words resonate, speaking almost as soon as Tormund finished. "We had a Wall to stop them, and whatever the reasons why, now we don't. We can't face them in the open field; how do you fight something that brings winter itself? All those who died at the Wall are now in their numbers, and Smallwood is correct in that we don't have enough. So we do the only thing reasonable; we leave. We do as Lord Umber and some of the far northern lords did; we take our families and we leave."

A northern lord, Ryswell if memory served Jaehaerys correctly, chimed in. "What, leave all of our homes, our castles and woods?"

Aemon faced him. "Yes. The dead have no need of plunder and loot; all they want is to turn those living into one of their own. Leave everything but your families and all the food you can carry and run south."

Lord Cerwyn pointed out the obvious. "Eventually south runs out, Lord Aemon."

Aemon nodded in agreement. "Yes, it does. But it will take us and the Others months to get south of the Neck, where Westeros naturally shrinks to where it is barely a quarter as wide as it is here. The bogs of the Neck and mountains cut the strip of passable land even smaller. Build your defensive line there, where we can't be flanked. I am young, my lords, and I know nothing with certainty about what we face, but I equate their advance to a tide. Tides follow the path of least resistance, and mountains and bogs are the embodiment of resistance. They will go where we want them, where we can be ready for them. Where we can stop them."

Lord Stark was watching Aemon intently, face emotionless. "There is a war in the south."

"Yes, Lord Stark. But as I said, it will take months for anything, dead or living, to make it south in these snows. My father will have handled the south by then. His combined with our numbers will be enough, or at the least our best hope of ever having enough."

Smallwood risked speaking again. "Nothing can stop them. As you said, you don't know this enemy."

Aemon's eyes lit with a fire that reminded Jaehaerys of Aelor. "And you, ser, don't know my father."

Grumbles of debate followed, and Aemon suddenly retook his seat, face red as the Targaryen symbol. Jaehaerys reached his good hand over to squeeze his arm in reassurance. I don't know where any of that came from, cousin, but I am thankful for it.

The head table let the debate roll for a long while, until finally Ned Stark, who had been conversing quietly with his wife and Maester Luwin, looked to Jaehaerys. The Prince nodded his agreement to the plan, seeing the question in his eyes, and Eddard Stark rose. "Young Lord Aemon has the right of it. As Lord Paramount of the North, I order it to be evacuated. Immediately."

Grumbles of both disagreement and confirmation met him, and he raised a hand. "My son is dead. Many of your sons are dead as well. I do not intend to lose the rest of my family. Our homes will still be here when this threat is destroyed. Many of you followed me in the last war; I ask you to follow me in this much different one. The larders of Winterfell will be emptied, to feed those who go south." He straightened his shoulders and stood taller. "I, along with any volunteers, will remain to hold back this coming wave as long as possible." Catelyn Tully gripped his hand in a panic, and Lord Stark reached the other around to cup her face, smiling gently, before he turned back to the crowd. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

Jaehaerys watched the reactions of those around, from the Lords of the North to the brothers of the Watch to the two wildlings beside him, before he too stood. "I will stand beside Lord Stark."

He heard his mother's gasp, even as Greatjon Umber pointed out the obvious. "You have half a hand."

"So I'll tie my shield to my arm instead." He cleared his throat. "I was tasked with holding the Wall. I did what I thought was best—what I still think was best—but I ultimately failed. Many died because of that failure. I saw dozens of children freeze or starve to death because of the panic and terror our enemy brings. I will stay here to fight that enemy." He looked to his uncle. "Besides, I am half wolf, and wolves run in a pack."

"Begin the preparations at once. Send riders and ravens to the other lords and those South. We evacuate the North."