Snow Lanterns Outside the Dragonpit and a Meeting
Winterfell's night was as deep as ink, with only scattered snow lanterns lighting the streets and alleys—simple lamps made by the Night's Watch from animal fat and coarse cloth.
Their dim, yellow light filtered through the snowflakes, casting tiny specks of light on the stone walls.
Jon Snow pulled his black cloak tighter and walked slowly along the flagstone path leading to the Dragonpit.
His boots crunched softly on the accumulated snow, a sound unusually clear in the silent night.
He had intended to go to the library to reconfirm some details of the wildfire traps with Tyrion, but as he passed the Dragonpit, he glimpsed a warm light emanating from within—not the red of a hearth, but the faint gold reflected from dragon scales, very much like Daenerys's hair color.
At the entrance to the Dragonpit, two Unsullied sentries saluted him silently.
Jon nodded in acknowledgment, pushed aside the door curtain, and stepped inside.
A humid warmth enveloped him, mixed with a faint scent of sulfur and dragon, starkly different from the biting cold of the North.
Rhaegal was curled up on a stone platform, his green scales gleaming under the fluorite lamps.
The bandage on his right wing had been replaced with a new one, made of improved linen by Illyrio, reportedly mixed with dragonglass powder to accelerate healing.
Daenerys sat on a low stool beside the stone platform, holding a polished piece of dragonglass, gently pressing it against Rhaegal's scales.
The black dragon seemed to enjoy the touch, emitting a low purr from its throat, like the sound of a distant stream melting from a snowy mountain.
"He's willing to eat today," Daenerys's voice came before she turned around, her purple eyes looking exceptionally soft in the warm light, devoid of the usual sharpness seen in the council hall.
"Illyrio said that after three more days of rest, we can try to let him carry someone and fly."
Jon walked to the other side of the stone platform, his gaze falling on Rhaegal's wing—the wound beneath the bandage was still faintly visible, from an arrow shot by the Golden Company previously over the Narrow Sea.
"He's recovering faster than I expected," he said, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the snowflakes off his cloak.
"I thought the cold of the North would affect him."
"Dragons are creatures of fire," Daenerys said, placing the dragonglass shard into her bosom and tracing Rhaegal's jaw with her fingertips.
"As long as they have enough warmth, they can resist the cold.
Just like people, as long as they have something to protect, they can endure even the coldest winter."
Her gaze fell on Jon's face, pausing for a moment: "You look very tired.
Coming from the library?
What did you talk about with Tyrion?"
Jon sat on the stone stool opposite her, the hearth light casting alternating patterns of light and shadow on his face.
"We talked about Euron's fleet, and... the morale of the soldiers."
He avoided the topic of his identity, his fingertips gently tapping on the cold stone surface.
"Many Northmen are still afraid of dragons, afraid of your army, afraid that this war cannot be won."
Daenerys was silent for a moment, then turned to look at Rhaegal.
The black dragon seemed to sense her mood, gently rubbing her hand with its head.
"In Meereen, the slaves were also afraid of me," she said softly.
"Afraid of my dragons, afraid of the chaos after I overthrew the masters.
It wasn't until they personally sowed the first wheat and received their first silver coin that they began to trust me."
She looked up at Jon, with a hint of candor in her eyes: "I know Northmen don't easily accept outsiders, just as I didn't understand your obsession with 'home' at first.
But I promise you, once the Others are defeated, I will not force the Northmen to submit, nor will I rule with an iron fist like Cersei."
II. Confidences and Candor by the Hearth
The Dragonpit was quiet, with only Rhaegal's breathing and the occasional crackle of peat in the hearth.
Jon watched Daenerys's profile; her hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching a few sparks from the hearth but remaining unsinged—as if even fire was exceptionally gentle with her.
"I'm not doubting you," Jon finally spoke, his voice a little softer than before.
"It's me... there's something I haven't told you."
Daenerys paused, not turning her head, but he could feel her attention sharpen.
"About Bran?" she asked, "Or about Sansa?"
"Neither."
Jon's fingers tightened on the edge of his cloak; the melted snow soaked the fabric, chilling him to the bone.
"It's about my parentage.
Bran said... I'm not Ned Stark's bastard."
The light from the hearth seemed to dim for a moment, and Rhaegal's purring stopped.
Only their two breaths remained in the Dragonpit.
Daenerys slowly turned around, her purple eyes showing no surprise, only a calm sense of "I knew it."
"You are a Targaryen," she said, not as a question, but a statement.
Jon looked up at her sharply, his eyes full of astonishment.
"How did you know?"
"Varys's 'little birds' heard whispers in King's Landing," Daenerys said, her fingertips gently tracing a dragonglass shard by the hearth.
"He didn't tell me directly; I guessed it myself.
You're not afraid of dragons, you can look Drogon in the eye, you can make Rhaegal drop his guard against you—the Targaryen bloodline has always had an inexplicable connection with dragons."
Her tone was calm, without the anger or questioning Jon had expected, which only made him more uneasy.
"I know this isn't fair to you," he said quickly.
"You are the rightful Targaryen heir; I..."
"Rightfulness has never been determined by bloodline," Daenerys interrupted him, her voice carrying a hint of past weariness.
"My father was The Mad King; he had the purest Targaryen blood, yet he turned King's Landing into hell.
My brother Viserys, obsessed with the iron throne, couldn't even protect himself."
She stood up and walked to the hearth, gathering her shawl around her—it was made of Dothraki grassland wool, its edges already somewhat frayed.
"When I was almost starving in the Red Waste, I didn't think of myself as a Targaryen; when I faced assassination by the Sons of the Harpy in Meereen, I didn't think of legitimacy either.
I only wanted to let the oppressed live and make those who burned, killed, and plundered pay the price."
Jon also stood up, watching her back.
The hearth light cast her shadow long on the stone wall, like a bird about to spread its wings.
"Aren't you angry?" he asked.
"I clearly have purer blood, yet I kept it from you, watching you strive for the alliance and plan for war."
"I was angry," Daenerys turned around, a trace of almost imperceptible fatigue in her eyes.
"The night I heard the whispers, I talked to Drogon all night, like a fool.
I was angry that you didn't trust me, angry that fate played another trick on me."
She walked up to Jon, very close, close enough to see the unmelted snowflakes on his cloak.
"But then I realized," she said, "if your bloodline can unite the Northmen more, if your identity can make more people believe in this war, then it's not a threat; it's hope."
Rhaegal suddenly let out a soft whine, stood up from the stone platform, and walked between them, gently rubbing Jon's arm with his head, then Daenerys's hand.
It was as if he was silently mediating, or perhaps confirming the scent between them.
Jon looked into the black dragon's eyes, which reflected the hearth light and their figures.
He suddenly felt that the identity anxieties that had troubled him for so long, the worries about disrupting the alliance, all seemed to lighten at this moment.
III. A Promise in the Snow and a Distant View
"Do you want to go for a walk?" Daenerys suddenly suggested.
"The sulfur smell in the Dragonpit, if you smell it too long, makes you forget how clean the snow outside is."
Jon nodded in agreement.
They walked out of the Dragonpit side by side, the night wind blowing on their faces, bringing the coolness of snow, yet clearing their minds.
Snow was still falling, not heavily, like tiny feathers, landing on their cloaks and quickly forming a thin layer.
They walked slowly along the path below the castle walls.
In the distance, on the training ground, a few soldiers were still wiping their weapons by the light of the snow lanterns; dragonglass spears gleamed a dark green under the light.
"Illyrio said the last batch of dragonglass arrow will be delivered to each company tomorrow morning," Daenerys said.
"Every archer will get twenty, enough to deal with the wights of the vanguard."
"Bran said the Night King's vanguard has five thousand wights," Jon added.
"Most are Night's Watch and wildlings who died beyond the Wall previously, they move faster than ordinary wights and use weapons."
"I've arranged for Drogon and Rhaegal to patrol over Snowblind Valley tomorrow morning," Daenerys said.
"dragonflame can burn out a safe zone and also embolden the soldiers.
Viserys is still young, he'll stay in the Dragonpit, watched by the Unsullied."
They walked in silence for a while longer, arriving at a mound from which they could see the entire Winterfell.
Lights dotted the castle windows, like stars in the dark night.
Beneath each light, there were people waiting for dawn—Sansa counting provisions, Tyrion guarding his wine jug, Arya wiping her dagger, and Illyrio on watch in Snowblind Valley.
"I never thought I'd be discussing how to fight the Others with a Targaryen on a snowy night in Winterfell," Daenerys suddenly chuckled, her laugh soft, like snow falling on branches.
"In Pentos, Illyrio said I would marry the Horse King and become the Queen of the Grass Sea; I believed him.
In Meereen, I thought I would stay there my whole life, watching the slaves plant wheat and the children grow up; I believed that too."
"I never thought I'd go from Lord Commander of the Night's Watch to Protector of the North, and have a Targaryen ally," Jon also laughed, the most relaxed he had been in a long time.
"At the Wall, I thought I'd be like Uncle Benjen, guarding Castle Black my whole life, dying on some patrol; I believed that too."
Daenerys turned to look at him, the snow light reflecting tiny glints in her eyes: "Perhaps this is fate.
It doesn't go as we plan, but at some turn, it gives us an unexpected ally, a challenge we must face."
"Not fate, but choice," Jon corrected her.
"You chose to leave Meereen and come to Westeros; I chose to trust you and ally with you; all of us chose to fight to survive.
These weren't arranged by fate; we chose them ourselves."
Daenerys looked at him, something more in her eyes—acknowledgment, admiration, and a hint of imperceptible tenderness.
"You're right, it's choice," she reached out and gently brushed the accumulated snow from Jon's cloak, her fingertips accidentally touching his arm, bringing a trace of warmth.
"Then let's choose together, and win this war together."
Jon also reached out, brushing the snowflakes from her hair.
His movements were very light, afraid of startling her, and afraid of disturbing this rare calm.
"Win together," he said, his voice firm.
Suddenly, a wolf howl echoed in the distance, long and desolate, from Winterfell's Direwolf.
Daenerys instinctively leaned closer to Jon, and Rhaegal's sound came from the direction of the Dragonpit, as if responding to the wolf howl.
"It's time to go back," Daenerys said, "We have to get up early tomorrow."
"Mm-hmm," Jon nodded.
They walked back side by side, the snow still falling, but they no longer felt cold.
The warm light of the Dragonpit awaited them ahead, the lights of the training ground glowed in the distance, and countless people awaited dawn, guarding the last hope in this ancient castle.
As they reached the entrance of the Dragonpit, Daenerys stopped and turned to Jon, saying, "No matter what happens in the future, no matter what your identity brings, I believe in you.
Just as I believe in my dragons, and believe this war can be won."
Jon looked into her eyes, which held the light of fire, the light of snow, and his reflection.
"Me too," he said.
Daenerys turned and walked into the Dragonpit, and Rhaegal's purring soon resumed.
Jon stood in the snow, looking at the closed door curtain, his unease gradually dissipating, leaving only a firm conviction—tomorrow, no matter how many wights they faced, no matter how powerful the Night King was, they would face it together, defend this city together, and defend this world together.