The Wall, Castle Black.
Jon had been here for three months.
During that time, he had grown accustomed to the cold and monotony of life at The Wall.
Most of the men of the Night’s Watch were criminals, and their manner of speaking tended to be rough and blunt.
As for Jon, being House Stark’s bastard earned him no special treatment.
When he had first arrived, some of the men had even deliberately mocked him for his birth.
At that moment, he was sitting beside Maester Aemon, studying Old Valyrian.
The old Maester’s voice was aged and hoarse but remarkably steady as he recounted tales from old histories.
Words that would have taken most people a great deal of time to memorize, Jon had learned almost entirely within a few evenings.
But that was not enough for him.
If he truly wanted to understand the Targaryens, knowing a few phrases of Old Valyrian would never be enough.
Still, he was in no hurry.
He had plenty of time.
“I’ve memorized the individual words, but when they’re put together, I still can’t fully understand what they mean.”
Aemon sat across from him, his sightless eyes turned in Jon’s direction, a faint smile on his face.
“You have more patience than many who pride themselves on their cleverness.”
Jon lowered his head and turned a page, tracing the letters with one finger.
Aegon the Conqueror.
Visenya.
Rhaenys.
Targaryen.
Dragons.
The Iron Throne.
Bloodline.
Once, those names had been nothing more than words on a page.
Now they were connected to him.
“Why are there so many madmen among the Targaryens?”
He had been thinking about the question for days.
At last, he asked it aloud.
Aemon was silent for a moment.
“I asked myself the same question when I was young.”
Jon looked at him and waited.
The old Maester sat beside the brazier, his weathered features shifting between light and shadow in the flickering firelight.
“We once believed that keeping our Bloodline pure would preserve the power of the dragons.”
“That is why brothers and sisters could marry, as could uncles and nieces.”
Aemon paused before continuing.
“But a Bloodline is not necessarily better simply because it is purer.”
“Some gained strength from it.
Others lost something in return.”
“Like their sanity?” Jon asked.
Aemon gave a slight nod, his voice still calm.
“Madness, for one.”
“Dragons gave us many things, but they also took things from us.”
“What exactly they took, no one can say with certainty.”
A log cracked softly in the brazier, and silence returned to the room.
Aemon raised his head.
Though blind, his eyes almost seemed able to see the furrow in Jon’s brow.
“Does it trouble you?”
“You needn’t rush to find an answer.
Some things only become clear once you face them for yourself.”
Jon nodded.
“I hope so.”
Aemon’s smile deepened slightly.
“Besides, you have no sisters to marry.”
“Chances are you’ll one day wed a woman who shares no blood with you.”
The remark was made lightly, yet for some reason Jon froze for a moment.
“Back to your studies.”
Aemon’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
“Aegon the Conqueror, and his two sister-wives, Visenya and Rhaenys.”
Jon pushed the thought aside and returned his attention to the page.
Whenever he encountered a word he did not recognize, he traced its letters one by one into Aemon’s palm.
The Maester would then tell him its pronunciation and meaning.
One taught and the other learned.
The wood in the brazier burned steadily while their voices rose and fell through the room.
…
Castle Black’s training yard was small, its ground perpetually covered in frozen earth and a thin crust of frost.
Every morning, the recruits were berated by their instructor until they could scarcely hold their heads up.
The knight had a vicious temper.
Anyone who moved too slowly, lost their footing, or held a sword incorrectly could expect a merciless tongue-lashing.
He was no gentler when it came to kicking them into place.
But whenever it was Jon’s turn, he always pulled his strikes at the final moment before the wooden blades connected.
“Ser, please stop going easy on me.”
This was the second time Jon had said it.
Thorne raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not.”
“I’m not as frail as you seem to think,” Jon said helplessly.
The Night’s Watch instructor did his best to keep his tone stern.
“You’re a child.
I don’t want to hurt you.”
“But if someone truly comes to hurt me, they won’t hold back.”
Jon tightened his grip on the wooden sword, his expression serious.
“And we’re using wooden swords.”
“If you never let me take a real hit, I’ll never learn how to fight.”
Thorne stared at him for a long moment, surprise flickering across his face.
“Very well.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the true sparring began.
Thorne’s wooden sword suddenly became far more vicious.
His first strike came down, and Jon raised his own blade to block.
Crack!
The heavy force traveled through the wood and left Jon’s entire arm numb.
Then came the second strike, followed immediately by the third.
Thorne held nothing back.
Every blow was heavy and fierce, forcing Jon steadily backward.
Jon was put on the defensive from the very first exchange.
He could only rely on his quick footwork to evade while searching for an opening in Thorne’s attacks.
After several strikes, Thorne finally found his chance.
His wooden sword, which had been sweeping horizontally, abruptly changed course.
The blade snapped upward toward Jon’s chest.
The attack came so quickly there was almost no time to react.
Yet just before the wooden blade struck his clothes, Jon’s body instinctively shifted aside.
The sword passed close enough to brush the edge of his clothing.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed.
Jon had already stepped back with the motion, opening the distance between them once more.
He had somehow sensed the strike before it came.
“Good!”
Someone among the watching recruits could not help but shout.
“That was a fine dodge.”
“Hard to believe a boy that young can move like that.”
Jon ignored the voices around him and stood quietly, thinking.
Ever since his Dragon Dreams had begun at the age of four, his memory had far surpassed that of ordinary people.
And now, after meeting Frostflame in the waking world for the first time, he could clearly feel that his body had begun to change as well.
He was becoming stronger, and his reactions were much faster than before.
What caused those changes, he still could not say.
Was it some effect of his Transmigration?
Or had Frostflame’s appearance stirred the Targaryen Bloodline within him?
Or perhaps…
Both.
Jon had asked Aemon about it indirectly, but the old Maester had told him that such things had been rare even among the ancient Valyrian Dragonlords.
He did not know the reason either.
Jon tightened his grip on his sword and looked at Thorne again.
“Continue.”
…
The days at Castle Black passed one after another.
One morning after breakfast, Jon set out with Benjen and Thorne for Frostflame’s lair.
According to their plan, they would visit her every half month so Jon could strengthen their bond and continue practicing flight.
Two days later, they reached their destination.
The white dragon was already lying at the mouth of the cave, waiting for them, her enormous body nearly blocking half the entrance.
Her eyes were half closed, and her tail occasionally swept across the snow, stirring up fine clouds of powder.
Warm air constantly poured from the depths of the cave, mingling with the heat radiating from the dragon’s body.
When it met the freezing air outside, a pale mist formed around the entrance.
From a distance, a pair of enormous violet slit pupils could be seen faintly through the haze.
When Frostflame heard Jon and the others speaking, she slowly rose.
Her massive body sent snow cascading around her as she began walking toward them.
Watching the dragon draw closer, Thorne instinctively stopped.
He had seen Frostflame many times by now, yet whenever the colossal creature approached him, his body still tensed beyond his control.
The dragon lowered her enormous head and gently nudged Jon’s shoulder.
Jon smiled and raised a hand to pat her snout.
Frostflame gave a deep rumble, her tail sweeping through the snow as though urging him to play with her.
Jon raised one hand and pointed into the distance.
“Dracarys.”
Frostflame tilted her head.
She seemed not to understand what Jon meant and merely watched him for a moment.
Then she suddenly raised her head.
With a roar, pure white flame erupted from her jaws and surged into the sky.
A wave of heat washed over Jon, and he instinctively lifted an arm to shield his face.
“Seven hells!”
Someone nearby muttered the curse under his breath.
The flames lasted only a short while before fading.
Frostflame lowered her head again, her violet eyes fixed on Jon while a deep rumble vibrated in her throat.
Jon smiled and stroked her snout.
“Good girl.”
He did not try any other commands.
There was no need to make Frostflame learn everything at once.
Some things simply took time.
Jon rested an arm against her lower jaw, gently stroking the scales until she settled down.
Then he unloaded a deer they had hunted along the way and placed it before Frostflame.
Once the white dragon had finished eating, Jon went into the cave and brought out the long-handled brush and wooden bucket he had prepared in advance, ready to clean her.
The task took far longer than he had expected.
By now, Frostflame had grown into a subadult dragon.
She was more than seven meters long, with a wingspan of fifteen meters.
Her enormous frame was already beginning to possess the majesty of a ruler of the skies.
Cleaning her scales was exhausting work, almost like tending to a moving castle.
Between the thick silver-white scales, he occasionally found snow, dirt, and small stones she had brought back from the mountains and forests.
Jon held the long-handled brush and worked slowly in the direction the scales grew, taking care not to damage the softer places where they joined.
Frostflame was just as impatient as she had been the first time.
She crouched low, occasionally sweeping her tail across the ground and sending up a cloud of snow.
Deep rumbles came from her throat as if she were asking how much longer this was going to take.
“Stay still.”
Jon patted her scales and pulled a face of mock disgust.
“You stink.”
Frostflame lowered her head and stared at him, confusion seeming to fill her violet slit pupils.
She clearly did not understand why anyone would spend so long doing such a thing.
Even so, she gradually settled down.
As time passed, Frostflame seemed to begin enjoying it.
Whenever the brush passed over the scales along the side of her neck, her eyes would narrow slightly.
Her enormous head would slowly lower as she leaned closer to Jon of her own accord.
When he reached her wings, Frostflame even began to spread them.
The enormous dragon wings blocked out the sunlight overhead, their membranes covered in a thin layer of frost.
Jon picked up the bucket and slowly rinsed away the dirt with warm water.
For the wing membranes, he switched to a soft cloth.
They were much softer and more sensitive than her scales.
Frostflame did not pull away.
Instead, she spread her wings a little farther and allowed Jon to continue.
Benjen and Thorne, who had been preparing to go hunting, quietly left them alone.
After what felt like an eternity, Jon finally finished cleaning the last scale.
Exhausted, he dropped straight into the snow, his arms aching so badly he could barely raise them.
Frostflame lowered her head and gently nudged his shoulder with her snout.
Jon laughed and reached up to stroke her nose.
“It’s good to have you with me.”