Once the dream ended, Jon’s mind began racing at once.
There were only two ways to reach Pentos.
By ship, there was simply no chance of making it to Essos within twenty days.
Which left only one other option.
To ride Frostflame, and cross the Narrow Sea through the sky!
But almost at once, Jon’s brow furrowed again.
Another problem stood in his way: if Frostflame appeared over Pentos, word of it would spread without question.
By then, all of Essos would know — the dragon that had vanished for a hundred years had returned.
And once news of a dragon’s return made its way back to Westeros, the peace of the Seven Kingdoms would inevitably shatter.
There was an even more pressing problem still: King Robert would be arriving soon, and if Jon left now, the tragedy buried in his memory might well come to pass after all.
Caught between two impossible choices, Jon’s brow stayed knotted, and for a long while he could think of no good solution.
“No. Think again. There has to be a way.”
Another night crept in before he knew it.
Jon stood in his bedchamber, two freshly written letters in hand.
One was for his father.
It didn’t say much, only explaining why he was going to Pentos.
That letter had taken him a long while to write.
He had picked up the pen and set it down again more than once, unsure how to explain to Ned why he was willing to risk exposing Frostflame, crossing an entire sea, just to save one girl.
The other was for Uncle Benjen, telling him where he was going, and that Frostflame would be leaving the North with him.
Daenerys was in danger now, and he had less than a month left.
Caught in his dilemma, he had landed on one plan: to tear across the continent of Essos, letting word of the dragon’s return spread across the whole world.
Jon slipped past the guards and made his way to the lord’s solar.
He pushed the door open, made sure the room was empty, and walked quickly to the desk, tucking the letter beneath a stack of documents.
Then he turned and left the solar.
Back in his room, he began packing what he’d need for the journey.
Dried rations, a waterskin, a map, a purse of gold dragons and silver stags, and a worn old book, all of it he had to bring.
Last, he slid the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw into its sheath, and fastened it at his hip, in the spot that came easiest to hand.
The sword was House Mormont’s own ancestral blade.
Jeor Mormont had placed it in his hands himself.
The Old Bear was very old now, and it clearly cost him some effort to swing a sword at all.
But when he’d placed the sword in Jon’s hands, his grip had been steady.
“When you no longer need it, I hope you’ll see it returned to House Mormont.”
Jon had never forgotten those words.
He cinched his pack tight, checked it over once more, and took one last look around the room.
He had lived here more than ten years.
Once he left tonight, there was no telling when he might come back.
He reached out and snuffed the lamp, then pushed open the door and stepped out into the night.
He moved down the corridor, his steps light, barely making a sound on the stone floor.
Once outside the main keep, he didn’t head straight for the gate, but circled instead toward the godswood.
Wind stirred through the heart tree, its red leaves swaying gently, looking from a distance like a low, wind-pressed flame.
Jon looked up, and saw a raven perched on a branch above him.
A raven, black as pitch, sat there, its head tilted, watching him.
Jon stopped in his tracks.
Boy and bird stared at one another for a moment across the short distance between them.
The raven did not fly off, only ruffling its feathers slightly.
Jon looked away, and turned to walk on.
Once out of the godswood, the night guards spotted him quickly.
One of them had just opened his mouth to speak, but on recognizing Jon, straightened up at once and gave a salute with his spear.
“My lord.”
Jon only nodded, and the guard stepped aside at once.
He led his horse out through the gate, and only once he was far enough from the walls did he mount up, riding hard toward the northern wastes.
Hooves struck the thin snow with a dull, steady sound.
He glanced back one last time.
Winterfell fell further behind him, the warm glow of its walls shrinking, little by little, into blurred points of light, until at last it vanished into the night.
As he neared the place where he was to meet Frostflame, the wind suddenly died.
Snowflakes hung suspended in the air, and then, all at once, a powerful gust pressed down from above.
Whinny—!
The horse startled at once, rearing up on its hind legs with a terrified cry.
Jon pulled the reins in tight, and looked up at the sky.
Out of the grey clouds, a massive white shape came plunging down.
A violent wind followed close behind it.
Snow was flung up into the air, a whiteout of blinding drift.
Frostflame landed, her thick hind legs coming down hard on the ice, sending faint cracks running across it beneath her feet.
The horse backed away several steps, nearly wrenching free of the reins.
“Easy.”
He looked at the great dragon before him, a faint smile finally touching his lips, and walked toward Frostflame.
He reached up and stroked the bridge of her snout.
He wasted no more time, climbing up onto her spine and settling himself, making sure Longclaw and his pack were both secured.
“Sōvēs.”
Frostflame let out a low hiss from deep in her throat, by way of answer.
The next moment, she snapped her wings open all at once.
A violent wind slammed down against the ground, snow dust and shards of ice whipped up into the air.
Jon lay low against her, both hands gripping the spikes along her spine for all he was worth.
Frostflame beat her wings, and her massive body lifted off the ground, rising quickly into the sky.
Valley, forest, cliff, and snowfield fell away swiftly behind them, and Winterfell in the distance grew smaller and smaller.
The old castle had shrunk to a black silhouette, the lights along its walls scattered like stars in the darkness.
Frostflame climbed higher still.
The wind and snow roared past his ears, and at last, Winterfell vanished from sight.
Jon looked away, and tightened his grip on her spine once more.
From this night on, the road he had to walk was no longer confined to this one corner of the North.
The night wind struck him full in the face, stinging until it ached.
The next day.
After breakfast, Ned and his wife returned to the solar to see to the remaining business of the day before.
As he shuffled through the documents, a letter slipped out from beneath the pages.
Ned’s hands paused.
He picked up the letter, glanced at the handwriting on its face, and his brow furrowed at once.
By the time he finished reading it, his breath had gone quick and ragged, his hands gripping the letter tight.
Beside him, Catelyn noticed her husband’s expression, and asked: “Ned, what’s happened?”
Ned didn’t answer, only handing the letter to his wife.
Catelyn took it, and at a single glance, her own face changed too.
“He’s gone to find that Targaryen girl?”
“But why?”
Ned said, low-voiced: “Over these past years, he’s told me a great deal about that girl. I’d already guessed there was something between them.”
Catelyn pressed a hand to her forehead, and sank slowly onto a stool nearby, saying nothing for a long while.
“He’s still just a boy.”
“He’s grown up.”