Chapter Text
The Trident lay shrouded in a haze of grief and fury, the once-vibrant landscape now a graveyard echoing with the memories of lives lost. The aftermath of the Battle for Dawn left behind the wreckage of dreams, bodies littered across the muddy banks like discarded hopes. Jon Snow stood amidst the carnage, his heart heavy with the weight of despair. He wore Valyrian steel armor, gleaming and sharp, a testament to his victory over Euron Greyjoy. In his grip was Blackfyre, a blade that had once belonged to his half-brother Aegon, now stained with blood and sorrow.
He clenched his jaw, remembering the last time he had seen Aegon, just before the Long Night swallowed them all. They had reconciled, found a fragile bond between brothers only to have it severed by Daenerys Targaryen’s lust for power. It was Jon who had used Rhaegal to burn down her Dothraki horde and her Unsullied when they had sought to rebel against him, the loyalists turned traitors blinded by her delusion. The memory of the fire still haunted him; the taste of ash lingered in his mouth, a bitter reminder of duty over love.
He had gutted one Unsullied, a worm of a man whose name escaped him—a detail that felt irrelevant now. Ghost, his direwolf, had marked the scene in his own way, taking a dump on his corpse, that made Jon almost smile in this desolate moment.
A chill wind swept through the battlefield, rustling fallen banners and whispering the names of the dead. He could almost hear their voices. Arya. Jorah. Davos. Tormund. Jaime. Sandor. Sam. Each name struck him like a dagger, twisting in his heart. Each loss was a wound, raw and bleeding, and in their absence, he felt like a hollow shell.
Amidst the ruins of the battle, Bran Stark appeared, his presence as ethereal as the mist that hung in the air. The light around him flickered, and in his hands, he bore gifts that shimmered with history and power: Darksister, the ancestral sword of House Targaryen, and a dragon egg that pulsed with a warm, living energy, its scales a brilliant red adorned with golden freckles and black whorls.
“Jon,” Bran said, his voice grave yet determined. “You must listen. The time has come for you to reshape destiny.”
“What do you mean?” Jon’s heart raced, the weight of grief pressing down upon him as he examined the sword and egg. “What can I possibly do to change this?”
Bran’s eyes were steady. “This egg belongs to Lord Ambrose Butterwell, stolen during the Second Blackfyre Rebellion. It holds the potential to hatch a dragon, but you must act quickly. The world as we know it is dying. I can send you back in time, where you can reclaim what is rightfully yours and perhaps save your parents before the rebellion begins.”
Jon felt a surge of determination. He had been a pawn in a game of thrones for far too long. Perhaps this was his chance to seize the power and respect he had always craved. With a nod of acceptance, he took Darksister and the egg from Bran, feeling their weight in his hands as if they were burdens made of hope.
In the blink of an eye, the world around him twisted and blurred, enveloping him in darkness.
When Jon awoke, it was not in the familiar chill of the North, but in a cave bathed in an otherworldly light. The air was thick with the scent of ice and ancient secrets. As he blinked against the dim illumination, he found himself surrounded by a landscape of stark white, the endless stretch of the lands of Always Winter. Shadows flitted along the edge of his vision, shifting like whispers of old, and from the darkness emerged a figure cloaked in greys and shadow—Bloodraven.
"At last, you've come," Bloodraven intoned, his one red eye gleaming like a dying ember. "King Crow, the time is ripe. The world waits, and I will teach you to command it. To see the threads of the past, present, and future all at once. You will learn to warg, to see beyond the skin of this world. Together, we’ll claim your throne.”
Before Jon could respond, a chill swept through the cave, and Bloodraven’s face twisted, his red eye widening with sudden fear. The air froze, and a deep crack resounded, splintering the silence. From the depths of the shadows came a piercing, icy blue glow. A towering figure strode forward, his form outlined in sharp, frosted lines. The Night King.
In an instant, the Night King’s hand shot forward, and Bloodraven’s body slumped, a fine dust of snow gathering at his feet. The old greenseer’s voice faded into silence as if he had never existed.
"Tree-hugging, mind-meddling albino,” the Night King muttered, brushing snow off his arm as he stepped into the pale light. "Couldn’t stand the way he kept poking around in my head. He got what was coming."
Jon, sword in hand, stood ready, his instincts screaming to fight. But as the Night King looked at him, the ancient figure raised a finger, waving it dismissively.
“Relax, King Crow. I’m not here to kill you. Gods, you humans are so dramatic. The White Walkers aren’t all blood and gloom, you know. I mean, sure, I look terrifying, but I’ve been around for ages—it gets lonely.”
“I am the Night King, but we can skip the formalities. You can call me whatever you like, really,” he replied, his voice smooth, tinged with a disarming humor. “Some call me the Frosty Fellow or Chill King. Your choice!”
Jon stared, momentarily taken aback. The Night King, the embodiment of terror, was cracking jokes? “What is this place?”
“This,” the Night King gestured expansively, “is a sanctuary. A place of beginnings and endings. You see, I’ve been watching you, Jon Snow. Or should I say, King Crow?”
“Why are you… so casual about this?” Jon asked, still trying to process the surreal situation.
“Because, Jon, life is far too short to take everything seriously. You should know that better than anyone,” the Night King chuckled, a sound like the cracking of ice on a winter lake. “We have much to discuss, you and I. I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”
“Someone like me?” Jon echoed, bewildered.
“Yes! A bridge between our peoples,” the Night King said, his tone brightening. “The pact we once had has been broken, and I’m here to help you forge it anew. But first, I require something of you: a hundred children of your bloodline. It will be the means to reforging the bond between the living and the dead.”
Jon blinked, incredulous. “Children? You want me to… produce a hundred heirs?”
“Not quite what I meant, but we’ll get there,” the Night King replied, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ve already gained the loyalty of the wildlings. They’re a tough lot, but with your charm, I’m sure you’ll win them over soon enough. Just throw a couple of feasts, maybe a few stories about your heroic battles—everyone loves a good yarn!”
Jon couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of camaraderie forming. The Night King was not the monstrous fiend he had expected; he was witty and surprisingly relatable. “So, I unite the wildlings and then what?”
“Then we’ll end this Long Night together,” the Night King said, his expression serious once more. “But first, you’ll need to make some choices. I’ll help you along the way. Think of me as your supernatural life coach, if you will.”
Jon felt a knot of unease twist in his stomach, but beneath that lay a flicker of hope. “And what if I fail?”
“Failure?” The Night King laughed, a sharp sound like icicles clattering. “My dear King Crow, failure is just a step on the path to greatness. Just look at me! I’ve failed more times than I can count. But here I am, a chill dude ready to change the game.”
With the Night King’s unexpected warmth and humor, Jon found himself feeling lighter, a sense of purpose igniting within him. Perhaps this was not just about power or kingship; perhaps it was about creating a future where his family—and others—could thrive.
“I’ll do it,” Jon declared, resolve hardening in his chest. “I will unite the wildlings. I will become king Beyond the Wall.”
“Excellent! You’ve got the spirit!” The Night King clapped his hands together, his laughter echoing through the cave. “Let’s get started on that charm offensive, shall we? There’s a lot of work to be done, but with you leading, I think we’re in for one hell of a time!”
As Jon took a deep breath, preparing to step into this new role, he realized that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges. But with allies in unexpected places, perhaps he could finally carve out the destiny he had always wanted. Together, he and the Night King would face the coming storms, not as adversaries, but as allies in a battle for a future worth fighting for.
Jon lay in his cold bed, the weight of the Night King’s strange words pressing down on him. A hundred heirs. A dragon egg that pulsed in his hands. The unsettling promise of a future bound to a pact with ancient powers. Around him, the silence of the cave pressed close, but it did little to calm the storm of thoughts in his head. He hadn’t seen a living soul—or rather, a living dead soul—since his unexpected conversation with the Night King himself.
But then she entered.
At first, he thought she was merely another figment of his fatigued mind. Silhouetted in the soft, blue-tinged shadows, she moved with a fluid grace, her form both ethereal and vivid. As she stepped closer, the eerie light of the cave illuminated her features. She had skin pale as frost, nearly glowing in the dim cave, and eyes that shone with a blue fire, piercing through him as if they saw every shadow in his soul. She was tall, her figure statuesque yet full with the softness of curves—hips that swayed with each step, a narrow waist accentuating the ample swell of her chest, and lips full and inviting, though tinged with an icy hue.
“You are Jon Snow,” she said, her voice low and smooth, trailing through the air like the distant echo of wind over the Wall.
He managed a nod, his eyes locked on hers, unable to tear his gaze away.
“I am your bedwarmer,” she said simply, her tone neither presumptive nor timid. She spoke as if her presence was a simple fact, a part of the pact the Night King had struck.
Her approach was deliberate, each step closer sending a shiver down Jon’s spine. She stopped in front of him, her white hand tracing along his jawline, cool against the warmth of his skin. Jon’s breath caught as her fingers lingered there, his senses alert to her every movement. She tilted her head, examining him as if he were something curious, something to be tested, tasted.
He was no stranger to passion, and memories flooded back unbidden, of other nights and other women—Ygritte in that hidden cave beyond the Wall, her laughter echoing as they shed their layers and their fears together. Jeyne Poole, sweet and shy in Castle Black after her own resurrection from hell. The fierce and unyielding Asha Greyjoy, their passions burning hot after the Battle of Ice. Amerei Frey, taken at the Twins, a conquest of strategy and of flesh alike. Mya Stone and Myranda Royce in the Moon Gate, where each kiss tasted like the cold of the mountains, and Alayne Stone—Sansa Stark, truly his kin—whom he had claimed after he dispatched Petyr Baelish in the shadowed halls of the Eyrie. And Daenerys, at Dragonstone, her fire a match to his, though she was always a woman touched by a tragic madness.
But this woman was unlike any of them. There was something inhuman, otherworldly about her, as if she were sculpted by ice itself.
“You were sent here?” he asked, though the question sounded foolish even to him.
Her lips curved into a small smile. “My father believes you may need… companionship, to bear the cold,” she said, her voice a whisper. Her words danced over him, mingling with the strange allure of her presence.
Jon’s brow furrowed. It was one thing to speak of alliances and heirs in vague terms, but here she was, her flesh as real as the dragon egg resting by his side. He felt her hand trace down his chest, as cold as the air around them, but her touch ignited something deep within him. His doubts—his thoughts of duty, ambition, and his desire for respect—flickered as her hand slipped to his shoulder, her face drawing closer. Her eyes, blue as winter skies, were endless as the night itself.
The fire in him flared, but it was tempered by caution. “Why me?” he asked, his voice barely a murmur.
“Why not you?” Her voice held a strange softness, almost playful. Her gaze lingered on him, and for the first time, he caught a glimpse of something within her—a longing perhaps, the hint of life in that cold flesh. She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “I have been waiting for you.”
And he found himself yielding to her touch. The years of struggle and doubt fell away, replaced by a raw hunger, one that only the living—or perhaps the dead—could stir. Her lips met his, and he tasted winter, a bite of cold that only heightened the heat rising within him. She was a study in contrasts—flesh warm where it pressed against his, yet her hands retained that frost-like chill as they moved over him.
When she kissed him deeper, he surrendered to it, his fingers sinking into her hair, its strands cool and fine as spun silver. Her lips were soft, yet her kiss was fierce, demanding, a potent reminder of his own desires—the same desires that had driven him from Ygritte to Daenerys and all those in between. Here in this frozen cave, beneath the weight of destiny, he allowed himself to be drawn into her, to let go of duty and ambition, to give himself over fully.
As they moved together, her body firm and unyielding, yet warm against him, he found his mind drifting to those he had known before. Each touch, each breath reminded him of moments he thought he had buried. The warmth of Ygritte, the wild abandon of Asha, the quiet intensity of Sansa—each memory melded into the present, a potent mixture of passion and regret. But here, with her, he felt that same intensity anew, drawn not by obligation or desire to conquer but by an inexplicable need. She was ice and fire, like the dragon egg resting nearby, a promise of something both ancient and dangerously alive.
Time drifted in the cold, and when she finally pulled away, her blue eyes lingered on him with a strange, haunting look, as if she saw more than just his flesh, but the core of his being, his hopes, his fears, his buried ambitions.
“You are destined for greatness, King Crow,” she whispered, her hand resting on his chest, right above the beat of his heart. “Father told me so.”
Jon felt a shiver—not from her touch, but from the weight of her words. In her gaze, he saw a reflection of his own ambitions, his own hunger for power and respect. She had seen his every flaw, every strength, and she accepted it all without judgment. She was a creature born of ice and darkness, yet here she was, entwined with him as if bound by some unseen force.
“Greatness is a curse as much as a blessing,” Jon replied, though his voice was soft, barely audible. He wondered if he was speaking to her or to himself.
She tilted her head, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “A curse for those who lack the courage to wield it. But you… you are strong enough to bear it.”
The words sank into him, resonating with a truth he had long denied. He was born of both the fire of the dragon and the blood of the wolf, a union forged in darkness and hidden beneath a cloak of humility. Yet here, in the heart of the frozen North, he felt something within him awaken—a whisper of ambition, of desire for something beyond duty, beyond honor.
As he watched her slip back into the shadows, her form merging with the icy darkness, he felt a strange resolve settling within him. She was gone as silently as she had arrived, leaving only the faintest trace of her presence—a ghostly imprint in his memory, a reminder of the pact he had made.
In the silence that followed, Jon lay alone, his mind a maelstrom of thoughts. He was the bridge between worlds, the heir of both fire and ice, and perhaps it was time he embraced that role fully.
Next day
Jon Snow stirred awake in the cave, the air crisp and biting. He instinctively reached for Longclaw, finding it resting against the wall beside him, gleaming ominously in the dim light. He glanced around and saw his Corpse Bedwarmer Gift from the Night King lying next to him, her striking figure draped across his bedding like an icy blanket.
“Morning, King Crow!” she chirped, stretching lazily. “Did you sleep well? I hope I kept you warm enough.”
“Uh, yeah,” Jon mumbled, feeling slightly disoriented. “What day is it?”
“Not sure. Time kinda doesn’t matter when you’re dead inside, you know?” she replied with a teasing grin. “But I think it’s the perfect time to do some more wrestling.”
She started kissing him passionately, showering him with affection. “So, the Night King comes by later today, right?”
“Yep! I think Father will be in a jolly mood. He always is after I... um, take care of you,” she winked. “He might even bring snacks. Last time, he showed up with some frozen elk—good stuff!”
“Great,” Jon sighed, shaking his head. “I’ve gone from saving the realm to being a snack buddy for the Ice King. What’s next, a summer retreat with the White Walkers?”
Just then, the Night King strolled in, his presence commanding despite his casually cool demeanor. He was draped in shifting shades of blue and silver, his crystal sword hanging at his side like a fashion accessory from the latest winter line.
“Ah, King Crow!” the Night King bellowed, his voice booming like thunder, but his tone was almost friendly. “How’s my daughter? Ready to make babies?”
“Yeah, I guess so? But what’s with the ‘King Crow’ nickname? It sounds like a bad tavern in Mole Town,” Jon replied, crossing his arms.
“Hey, crows are cool,” the Night King responded, grinning. “Plus, you’re a Night’s Watch bro, and I’m all about that loyalty. Anyway, I think you might need a little gift to help with the hatching of your dragon egg.”
He told him that Frosted Delight would bear him a babe to hatch the dragon without any moral issues, as the frosted baby isn't human. “Fancy, huh? It’s gonna need some love, though. And maybe a little less of that ‘burn them all’ attitude you had back in the day.”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “You want me to cuddle it? That’s not really my style.”
The Night King laughed, a sound that echoed off the cave walls like the cracking of ice. “No, no! Just... you know, keep it warm. Kind of like a pet rock, but with more fire.”
Jon looked at the egg, then back at the Night King. “You really expect me to believe you’ve got a soft spot for dragons? You’re the one who, you know, kills people in their sleep.”
“Hey, you think I enjoy the whole ‘being the most terrifying thing on the planet’ routine?” the Night King retorted, rolling his eyes. “I’d much rather watch my daughter wrestle you with a mug of giant's milk. But someone has to keep the balance. And since you’ve got the whole ‘cold as winter’ vibe going on, I thought we could be pals.”
“Friends?” Jon said, incredulous. “With the Night King?”
“Absolutely! You just need to help me reforge our ancient pact. I’ll give you the chill treatment, and you give me 100 kids,” he said nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather.
“That isn't an easy task, you know?” Jon gaped, his mind racing. “You want me to do like multiple consorts to achieve that in one lifetime?”
“Just 100 kids—take as many as Bedwarmer you require,” the Night King said, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ll throw a big ice party. You know how many women will show up? All the hot ones. I mean, have you seen the hips on my daughter? Wowza!”
Jon rubbed his temples, feeling a headache brewing. “And I’m supposed to just... what? Line them up like cattle?”
“Pretty much! It’s like a really bizarre game of musical chairs, but, you know, with more snow and fewer chairs,” the Night King said, chuckling at his own joke.
Jon took a deep breath. “Okay, so what’s the plan? I’m not exactly a kingly figure here. I’m just trying to survive.”
“Oh, you’ll do fine! You could use that fancy Valyrian steel armor and your big sword to beat those little shitty Wildlings into shape. Trust me, they’ll fall in line real quick,” he suggested, a glimmer of mischief in his icy blue eyes.
Jon blinked, processing this new tactic. “You really think they’ll respond to a little intimidation? I’m not exactly known for my bedside manner.”
“Hey, it’s all in good fun! Just think of it like a rough initiation. Show them who’s boss, and they’ll rally behind you. Nothing gets the blood pumping like a good wrestling match in the tent, am I right?”
Jon chuckled, starting to warm up to the idea. “Alright, let’s do this,” he said, determination settling in. “But just so we’re clear, I’m still in charge here, right?”
“Of course!” the Night King replied, raising his hands in mock surrender. “You’re the King Crow! I’m just your loyal, chill sidekick. Now, let’s get to work on hatching that dragon egg and raising an army of babies. We’ve got a long winter ahead of us!”
And as Jon Snow looked around at the frozen world, he realized that perhaps, just perhaps, he could make this work. With laughter echoing in the cave, he began to see a flicker of hope in the cold darkness as well as something big under the sheets.