Jon Snow. Or is it Jon Sand?
Throughout his life, he was taught that he was lowborn, that the best privilege he would have was as the pretend son of Eddard Stark, the pretend brother of Robb, Sansa or Arya. He yet may be. But being the son of Lyanna Stark had to be better than of a tavern wench.
He had been scorned, stabbed, burned. At Hardhome, he was one swing of the sword away from being killed. Time and time again lived to tell the tale. Stannis Baratheon had offered to name him a Stark. Melisandre thought he was a promised prince. Were his escapades coincidental, or were they prophetic? If he was a chosen one, surely, he was not meant to die today? He had sent ravens to Sansa, telling her about the climax of the battle and of the possible Targaryen lineage, hoping for a response, and none came yet.
If I am a Targaryen, can I lay claim to a dragon? It was thoroughly unlikely, since Daenerys was with the beasts all her life, and frequently called them her children. Besides, the largest one, Drogon, seemed to have a particular hatred for him.
His thoughts strayed to Daenerys. How did a Targaryen, relatively unnoticed, build an army, hone three dragons and pick the best advisors from King’s Landing to her aid?
Whatever her intentions, Jon was thankful she was equally enthused for peace. After his declarations of war, she could have torn the north from limb to limb, killed him and shown the people he was no god, but she did not. Jon remembered the flutter in his stomach when she called him ‘one of the most honest men in Westeros.’
No. There is no time for that.
The winds suddenly grew colder, more concentrated, raining in his direction. A split second later, he saw the shadow form on the snow, and knew the cause. Jon looked up to see the dragon staring down at him as it landed beside. Its yellow-orange colored wings closed upon itself, as his eyes bore into Jon’s. It snarled, advancing.
Jon thought to flee, but only for a second. An air of invincibility had enveloped him, the feeling that he was not to die today. It may not be long before he, or his people, would have to face a hundred thousand creatures of the army of the dead. Surely, he had to be brave enough to stand in front of a dragon. Thankfully, he noticed, as the snarls lessened, this one was not Drogon. It seemed slightly smaller, with green and bronze-colored scales instead.
I must be mad, Jon thought, as he fumbled with his gloves, finally removing the left one. His hand reached forward slowly, attempting to touch it. By all accounts, he could not be stabbed or burned, but surely, if the dragon decided to chomp away his hand, the gods would not bend the rules further?
For a second, the dragon showed him his teeth. Then it closed.
As Jon petted the scales of a beast five times larger than him, wondering if this was another coincidence or prophecy, a voice sounded behind him. “You are quite an extraordinary man, Jon Snow.”
Jon recognized the voice before he turned around to see her. He wondered if Daenerys Targaryen was angry that he breached unsaid boundaries between her and her dragons, but when the snows cleared, it looked like she was grinning. First honest, now extraordinary.
Even the smallest of seeds as such were sprouting wild branches in his mind. No, the voice reminded him. There is no time for that.
*
End of episode – Season 7 finale will be published on Sunday, 2nd September 2018, 8:30 am GMT
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