Barbery Dustin’s home had scarce seen so many visitors. Glovers, Manderlys and Mormonts broke bread silently, mourning losses in their minds. Few men of the Vale dined ravenously after a grueling journey and tiring battle. Those trapped on the western keep of Goldgrass had stayed there – all of them unhurt, yet confused when Jon Snow had ordered them to receive the Unsullied in their keep, and when Daenerys Targaryen told her men to lay down their spears.
Then there were the Dothraki, the Tyrells and the Unsullied. Barrow Hall did not have space enough for both Jon and Dany’s men, which meant a few northerners had to withstand the cold outside. Jon saw Dothraki men jape amongst themselves as if the battle that just passed was sport. He heard outside the screeches of dragons as they feasted on corpses. I could never have defeated her, he thought, looking across the hall at the Dragon Queen. If Jon had doubted his choice, he did not anymore.
While the men he sent to Goldgrass were unharmed, Barrow Hall barely stood. He had ten thousand strong garrisoned before the start of the battle; now there were barely two.
Daenerys’ army were mere minutes away from storming through front doors of the castle and slaying every last man inside. All that scheming, all that strategy and it only took one breath of a beast for hundreds to turn to ash.
Jon’s eyes strayed towards his northmen in guilt. Those who were alive and healthy enough to partake in the feast were sullen, minds still on the battle. Cley Cerwyn had lost his hand to an arakh, and it was doubtful that he would live. Some claimed to have seen Robett Glover burn alive by the Dragon Queen. Jon had finally found Davos – half his body was charred by the dragon, but according to the maesters, the other half had refused to die.
When Jon recalled Arya’s dead eyes the past night, part of him wanted to clench Longclaw and charge at his foes again. All it took him not to, was the knowledge that they had suffered as much as he had. Tyrion Lannister was killed, as was the Tyrell ally, and Theon slain by his own hand. War found no winners. Perhaps, Jon realized, with regret, he ought to have heeded Theon’s advice.
Some of Jon’s men stole glances at him, but none of their eyes showed the remotest inkling of hate. They would never blame their king for dragging them into this massacre, Jon mused gloomily, not when they think of me as their god.
He knew what they were thinking, but he had no more answers than they did. However closely he looked at his arms, no burn marks caught his eye, yet he was sure he was once afire. Jon was covered in blankets, yet he felt just as cold as he did on the rooftop of Barrow Hall. When the flames had fallen but he had not, he recalled the look Daenerys gave him. That, coupled with her equal readiness for a truce suggested she might know something.
The Dragon Queen approached him now. Jon thought she looked quite comely, but if her countenance expressed care or indifference, anger or pity, hatred or lust, he would not have known it – she hid her emotions well. Accompanying her was who could only have been the eunuch Sansa spoke of.
“Are you all right?” she said, by means of introduction. “Do you still feel the fire?”
“I never did.” Jon could not keep the disbelief nor the curiosity from his voice. “How?”
Between them, Jon felt, was fast developing a form of mutual apology. They were at odds on the battlefield not hours ago, yet this unexplained miracle of sorts transcended the animosity between them.
This time it was Varys the Spider who spoke, with a sense of imposing urgency. “Pardon my language, but you have been called the bastard son of the deceased Lord Eddard Stark. Have you any reason to dispute the claim?”
Jon was confused. The question seemed odd, and Varys’ tones deeply distrustful. His contemplations over answering his question may have been apparent to Daenerys, for she spoke in words gentler. “It is not a question you must answer, but it may help us in our quest for truth. If there is any doubt to your parentage, that may change a lot. Could you tell us if you know for certain the identity of your mother, perhaps?”
Jon thought about Lord Eddard’s cagey nature when it came to the identity of his mother. He remembered his cryptic words when Jon had asked him if she was still alive. The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother, he had said. That time never passed.
“I have no idea who she is.”
Varys looked at Daenerys enquiringly, as if waiting for confirmation. Upon her nod, he spoke. “Birds whisper to me from the Wall to the Arbor. In my line of, ah, business, one must learn to separate strange tales from downright unreal. Even my guesses are, thus, marred with authenticity. But before I speculate, we must know: do you plan to vie for the Iron Throne?”
Jon’s response was swift. “Not in the least.”
*
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