A Feast For Dragons

Jon

Jon dreamt of fire that night. He dreamt of flying high above the world, on wings made of bone and membrane and scales. He dreamt of hunting through the forest, fire erupting from his throat as he burnt a stag alive and tore it to shreds before eating it. He spotted his brothers-he felt them to be his brothers-hovering over head. One was almost golden while the other was emerald. Jon spread his wings once more and took to the air again. He could hear a voice, and he decided to follow it. Jon had never felt so free before; he had never dreamt of fire and flight.

The voice grew louder the closer he got. He landed by a small clearing, his brothers following after him. He stood before a cave, the opening large and wide. It was probably home to a winter bear. But it's not the bear he spotted.

A woman, wearing all white, stepped out from the entrance her hair was long and matched her dress. She was beautiful. Jon spread his wings, wanting to fly again, but her hands touched his snout and suddenly he did not want to leave. Looking down at her, Jon tucked his wings back in and pressed his scaled face against her hand.

That's when he woke with a start. His heart was hammering in his chest and for a moment Jon didn't know where he was. It was dark and it was humid and cold. He could feel straw under him, and smell the stench of shit and piss. He heard the groans of men, and that's all it took to realise where he was.

The dungeons of Winterfell. Jon pushed himself up and sat on the bed. It was hard and uncomfortable, but it was better than the floor.

The dream had been so real... It had been like the dream he had with Ghost what felt like years ago beyond the Wall—before Mance, before being Lord Commander, back when he had just been a Crow. What had the Halfhand called it? He had said that Jon was a warg, that he could slip into the minds of animals.

But he had been a dragon, and the dragons were all dead. So it couldn't have been that. It had just been a dream.

Running his a hand over his face, Jon laid down once more, his body aching from the beating and the running. But he didn't feel cold. He thought he should, but he didn't. He could see his breathe as a puff of smoke, but the cold never touched him.

Jon had never really liked the dark, but had grown used to it in his time at the Wall. The Wall was always dark, no matter how many fires burned to light the night. Darkness swallowed them whole each night, and when he stared off the edge of the Wall into the Haunted Forest, hoping to see a sign of his uncle, he never once realised how the darkness was closing in. He never once thought about it, because that had been his home. He had belonged to the Night's Watch, he had given his sword and life for it-and now he was nothing. He was back to being a bastard, and a deserter. Who will believe that his brothers had burnt him at a pyre? Who would believe he could walk through flames and not be harmed?

No one.

Jon couldn't tell anyone about what had happened to him. He knew what to expect though. If they realise who he was, that he was a sworn brother of the Night's Watch and Eddard Stark's bastard, they'd cut off his head and mount it on a spike. He might not be a Stark but he had Stark blood running through his veins... and perhaps something else as well.

Down in the dungeons where the enemy slept, Jon Snow was given a fresh stack of hay and a pot to piss in; that's what Ramsay called, Royal Treatment. Reek sought out the Bolton Bride and escorted her to the Great Hall of Winterfell, just as his master had asked. Sansa dressed in her darkest coloured dress and picked up her hair in tall, twisted braids. She required no hand maidens here. This was her home, and she wished to do everything herself. Sansa learned to trust no one, not even the Northern folk that still remained in Winterfell. Nowhere was safe, no one was on her side. Ramsay made sure to turn her home into a strangers castle.

Sansa followed Reek to the hall, her hands clasped behind her back and her chin held high so the winter wind could cut her throat. Pain was her source of comfort, it was the only thing she knew to be real. Ramsay waited in the Hall for his wife and dearest friend. When they arrived, he greeted them with a frosty smile. Nothing about Ramsay was warm.

He came down the tall steps to meet Sansa and Reek centre floor. He held out his arms for her to take his hands. When she stilled, he only smiled more and pressed his palms to her shoulders, then to her face to hold her head in place. Ramsey peered over at Reek, his smile melting into a thin frown. "Reek. Where is Sansa's gift?"

Reek nodded slowly and bowed his head. "F-Forgive me, m'Lord. I will f-fetch it, m-m'Lord." Sansa watched as a trembling Theon left the Great Hall and rushed down the hall the best he could without falling. He and two other guards went down to the dungeons and to the cell where Jon was being kept. Reek was given a torch to light his way through the dark stone tunnels. He mounted the torch and reached for the ring of keys he kept around the loops sown to his trousers. He dropped the keys on the ground, his hands shaken and unsteady. Reek bent forward to pick them up. He could feel Jon's eyes on him but he dared not look up. he searched for the right one and proceeded to unlock the cell doors. The guards stepped in and grabbed Jon Snow under his arms, lifting him to his feet.

Reek finally met the man's gaze, guilt swallowing him whole. "L-Lord Ramsay w-will see you now. He has s-sent me to f-fetch you. A-at once, he said." Theon Greyjoy and Jon Snow were never friends, not like Robb and Theon were. He was once like a brother to him, like a son to Eddard Stark. He betrayed Robb and abandoned the only family he had. He killed innocent children for the sake of pride, and for that he was taken hostage by the Boltons. Now he was Ramsay's personal lap dog. Theon was Reek, and Reek will never again be Theon.

Jon's mind was still reeling with questions and thoughts when he heard the sound of keys jingling and saw the dim light of a torch. He was about to ignore it until he saw who it was that was holding the keys.

Theon Greyjoy. The man that had betrayed Robb's trust. That had attempted to murder Bran and Rickon. Theon and Jon had never been friends, but he had always some shred of respect for the Ironborn. Now? Now all he wanted to do was rip his throat out and watch him die screaming, begging him for the mercy he hadn't shown to his family.

Dark eyes narrowed as the cell door opened and the guards came in, pulling him up. He shrugged off their hands, his lips curling into a snarl. "I'm not going anywhere with you, Greyjoy. You can tell your Lord to come down here and get me himself. Or I'll send you up in pieces."

The Guards pulled at Jon's arms to silence him. They squeezed so tight, threatening to break his bones. Reek was taken aback by Jon's comment, but it was expected after what he did to Robb and the others. He had no friends in the North, or on the Iron Islands where he was born. Reek only had Ramsay. Ramsay was all Reek needed.

"I-I insist y-you come willingly, o-or m'Lord will p-punish me. P-Please, at once, h-he said." Reek looked to the guards for help. They yanked at Jon's limbs and dragged him out of the cells and up the stone steps. Reek stood in the shadow of the torch's light and squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Jon's resistance. Memories of his life before the harsh Winter brought breath to Theon's lungs, but Reek rid of those memories immediately. He caught his thoughts before they could escape him and started after Jon and the guards, dismounting the torch to bring it along.