A Feast For Dragons

Sansa & Jon

Sansa used to look out her window every night and admire the beauty of the tall stone castles that made up her home. Now whenever she looked out her window, all she knew was demolition, distrust, distaste, and dishonour. She watched the banner flapping above the iron gates, the wind whipping the flayed man from side to side. Tomorrow her husband would behead the only remaining family she had left. She looked out the window and at the broken tower where Bran took his fall. She looked out the window and down at the courtyard where Jon and Robb once spent their afternoons sparring with dull-edged swords. She looked out the window and cried for them all.

The door opened and in came Reek, holding a bowl of warm water in his clumsy hands. She kept her eyes to the starless sky. Reek set the bowl down on the table, accidentally spilling some of the water on the old wood. He grabbed a cloth and wiped it dry. He didn't notice Sansa when she walked away from the window, so he was startled when she clung to his wrist like a leech.

"Take me to the cells." Sansa demanded, but Reek only shook his head. She squeezed at his wrist. "Theon-"

"Not Theon, m'Lady... Reek. I'm Reek." He stuttered, his head hanging low between his shoulders.

"Fine!" Sansa squeezed tighter. "Take me to the cells, Reek." His name tasted like acid in her mouth. "Take me to the cells, now!"

Reek begged for her to release him but his pleading only had her squeezing tighter. She wanted to break his wrist, but Ramsay wouldn't like that. When he agreed to take her, Sansa let go. Reek rubbed his arm to ease the pain. He lead her down to the cells, lighting a torch to shed some light on the darkened halls. They took the spiral staircase down to the dungeons where Jon was being kept. When they arrived, Sansa shoved Reek aside and hurried to his cell, grabbing the cold iron bars and shaking them to wake him.

Sleep never seemed to come easy after joining the Night's Watch. It was the cold mixed with the terrifying realization that winter was coming along with the Wilding hoard and the Walkers. Sleep was meant as a rest for his body, but never his mind.

Jon hadn't meant to fall asleep. He hadn't meant to close his eyes. Dawn was coming, and with it his death. He had survived the fire, but he wouldn't survive a beheading. All the same, he had managed to slip into slumber, and with that slumber came the dreams again. The fire and flying dreams he had had the night before.

Jon found himself soaring across the dark sky, the stars shimmering above his head and the clouds under him. He flew higher and higher until the tips of his wings grew cold from the altitude. Then Jon tucked in his wings and began to dive. The fall was fast and the ground was coming faster and faster and for a moment Jon wasn't sure how to stop. He was now ten feet from the ground, his wings spread once more and he soared, easily missing the ground that would have killed him.

He could see clearly in the dark. It was as if it wasn't nighttime at all. The trees all held a sort of light to them, as if they spoke. The Old Gods, Jon realised. They were still here, after all. They spoke to them, even if they couldn't understand their words.

That's when Jon caught the scent of something-fur, meat. His large head turned in the direction and he began flying towards it. He was a mile away now and he could see the stags running, as if they could sense him. But no matter how fast they ran, he was faster. He wanted to breathe fire again, but a part of him realised that he should get food for the woman he had seen.

So instead of burning the stags alive, he swooped down and picked one up, sinking his sharp teeth into it's neck. The stag screeched and struggled for all of five seconds before going limp in his mouth. Jon stretched his wings once more and flew back towards where he remembered the cave to be. He saw his brothers laying by the entrance, and they lifted their heads as he approached.