GOT: Reborn as a Martell

( Daeron POV )

Sometimes, it was said that a great storm preceded a great battle.

But today, there was no storm, just light rain. And it had been like that for days on end. Just rain. No wind, no cold and no snow. Only the grey skies over an increasingly empty landscape.

Well, it was almost over.

If there was no storm, there was going to be a battle.

The Ironborn were heading straight to Highgarden, and Jon knew that they stood no chance.

They were reavers, not fighters, and after what supposedly happened in Oldtown, Jon doubted they could align more than three thousand men, all famished and exhausted.

Winter's breath will be a mercy.

And finally, he would be able to move.

But Willas Tyrell's words resonated in his head.

If you take the throne, you can unite all the Seven Kingdoms against the Others.

Damn that man. Jon did not have a wish to take the throne of the North, and now he was being offered the throne of the Seven Kingdoms? To the Seven Hells with these chairs and titles!

All Jon wanted now was just a keep to his name.

But Arianne's voice sounded just as loud.

It's not about what you want, but what you are.

And what was he? A bastard, just one that happened to have the blood of the dragon?

No, truly, there were better men suited for the chair. But the threat of the Others coming ever closer to the Wall was there, looming over him.

How long since he left the North? Would Lady Catelyn be able to defend Rickon's lands, and those of Westeros? How well could she fare with Mance and the free folk? News travelled slowly in these parts. Desperately slowly, as a matter of fact.

And with every passing day, Jon wondered whether or not Willas had been right. If he took that chair, then the Kingdoms would obey and he could unite everyone to fight the Others. A tempting prospect if it were only that.

But Kingship…he had tasted it once. He wasn't likely to taste it again.

And besides, his home was the North, and they had broken with the South a long time ago.

He already had so much to deal with, the thought of ruling Westeros was just one more enormous problem that he didn't want to focus on. He needed to defeat the Ironborn, then get Sansa, and, if both of those went well, then he could turn his attention to the biggest issue and prepare to repel the Others' invasion.

And then there was Arianne.

Gods, he didn't even know where to start with that woman.

For all that he regretted laying with her, he could not help feeling that he enjoyed every moment of it. After Ygritte, after Val, nothing compared to her touch.

He thought he was being stupid. A poor fool that was only thinking with his cock.

But every instant spent with her felt…good. Arianne wasn't really subtle or flowery. She had long since past those days. She wasn't a warrior like Ygritte and Val, but her voice was full of assurance, and her spirit was very much that of a fighter.

After all, did the Martells not descend from the legendary Nymeria of Ny Sar?

That certainly appealed to him. Perhaps he was foolish again. Perhaps she was just using him, too. But to what ends? He was going to bring her home anyways. The throne? He had none to give her, nor did she wish any. His name? By her own volition, it seemed her brother went on a quest to bring back another, more powerful Targaryen.

Her body, her scent, her touch, her voice, her accent, her gestures…gods he was falling for her!

Jon shook his head.

Better to chase away those thoughts before they could take root. Another disappointment and another woman that he couldn't have would just send him spiralling down another road to madness…

Better not to think about that when you have the blood of the dragon…

Jon slowly made his way out of camp, towards a clearing in the woods. Sam would be there, like he always was, watching Winter with fascination.

If Jon was here today, he owed it in great part to Sam.

Ever since they left the Wall, he had been writing everything about Winter: her behavior, how much she ate, her growth rate, her speed and agility…and he had conceived a saddle! Based on the drawings of old Targaryen dragon-riders. A saddle on a dragon was a much better method of flying than just hanging on to a few scales or horns.

And Sam continued to observe Winter's coming and goings. Meaning he was always the first to be there when Jon wanted to take her to the skies.

But today, he found Samwell unusually weary.

"What's the matter?" he finally asked as he approached the clearing.

"It's your dragon, Jon…" Samwell replied, anxious, "she's behaving irrationally. It's like she's almost…scared of something?"

"Scared?" Jon stared at Sam in disbelief. "The creature that can burn castles to the ground is scared of something?"

"Just so, Jon." Sam nodded. "I don't want to go near her. She's been reacting adversely to the slightest movement in the bushes, even if it's a small rabbit."

Jon frowned. This was abnormal to say the least, but perhaps she had just been irritated by something? Maybe feathers had stuck themselves between the scales?

He took a step forward, into the clearing.

There was the magnificent blue dragon, laid on the grass, as if it was asleep.

Jon's venue startled her, as she immediately stood up.

"Easy, girl, it's me." Jon raised a hand in the air, showing his palm.

The dragon relaxed and approached him, nostrils flaring.

Jon put a hand on its warm scales, rubbing her snout.

"We have to go, Winter," he told her, but the dragon immediately took a step back.

"What's wrong?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Jon knew dragons were smarter creatures than one would think. He couldn't hear the answer but it was clear she at least understood what he said.

"Come on, girl, we've done this before," Jon sighed.

He took another step forward, but, almost mechanically, the dragon took a step back.

The distance between Jon and the dragon was now growing.

"Are you afraid of something?" Jon asked.

The dragon huffed, and laid on the ground, just like a child would when he was scared of thunder.

Jon sighed again.

"It's alright, girl. I can manage."

With that, Jon left the massive dragon on the ground, almost flat against the earth, as if she wanted to bury herself.

What in the Seven Hells causes a dragon to do that? He certainly didn't see anything impeding her. Not on her scales, not on the wings, then what…

Jon passed Sam and shook his head.

"You're right," he told his friend, "she won't budge. She barely lets me approach her."

"What happens now?" Samwell asked, marching by his side.

"Well, we fight the Ironborn like we always have." Jon smiled. "With a sword and a horse."

Jon had only asked for volunteers to fight the Squids. He didn't even need to. Every single Northman rose up in cheers about how they'd gut the fuckers to the last. Robb's death was still fresh in everyone's minds, and there was nothing that could stop a Northman's desire for revenge.

Thus, at camp, people were surprised that Jon came back without Winter, but most did not question it.

However, it was his turn to be surprised when he entered his tent. There, he was graced with the presence of Arianne Martell, in person.

"Arianne." Jon raised an eyebrow. "How did you get in? What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I just asked politely," Arianne shrugged, "one of your women searched me. Not very talkative, but all the same. And as for why I came here…well I wished to see you off before the battle, although I had feared you had already left with your dragon."

"I'm afraid you won't see much of Winter this day, Ari." Jon sighed.

Arianne's gaze darkened for a moment.

"Why is that?" she asked with a slight frown.

"She refuses to fly. Well, the Ironborn should fold soon enough."

Jon's squire, Gawen Glover, appeared to help him don his armor, but Arianne stayed in the tent nonetheless.

"And I trust it that you are heading into battle despite it?" she asked.

"I have a duty to my men and even Lord Tyrell. I said I would bring assistance against the Ironborn."

"You don't have to go into battle, you can lead…"

"What good is a commander if he refuses to go into battle with his troops, it's my duty…"

"What about your duty to me?" Arianne's voice suddenly broke.

Gawen was about to help Jon with his helmet, but he sent the boy away to go prepare his horse instead.

Jon sat down slowly, next to the Dornish princess, who had a lone tear running down her cheek.

"Listen, Ari, I'll be back and I'll bring you home, I promise."

"I've had enough promises, Stark." Arianne shook her head. "I'm not a girl who believes in them anymore. I only see a man about to go to war."

"Against a horde of starved and exhausted sailors who know nothing but to loot, pillage, rape and reave. I doubt many know how to use a sword, an axe or a pike." His hand touched her shoulder. "I'll be back, I swear. And besides, your betrothal to Willas Tyrell has been broken, I saw to that."

"That promise won't matter if you don't come back, and you know it. The Tyrells need me, and they won't let me go."

"Then I'll come back. I never turn my back on my promises."

"If you don't return…" Arianne sighed. "I don't want to know what will happen."

"You're a strong woman, Martell, you should be fine."

Arianne scoffed and even laughed a little.

"I wish I was. But if I lose you, I lose someone I have not cared for in a long time, and I might lose home too."

Care about him? Jon stayed mute for a moment, but pulled himself together.

"I'll bring you home, I swore it to you."

Arianne stood up and kissed his cheek, her eyes refusing to meet his.

"I'll pray for you, if the Warrior wishes to honor the prayers of one who has only prayed the Mother."

"I think the gods listen to any prayer. At least, that's what I was told."

"May they hear you and I, then."

Arianne then left the tent, leaving him alone.

Jon looked into the void for a moment, and focused himself. There was still a long way to go, and an enemy to defeat.

Jon put on his helmet, saddled his horse, and, like that, he was off.

His men followed right behind him. Along with the Tyrell guard, there were about five thousand of them: Northmen, Valemen, Riverlanders and Reachers. A queer assembly bearing sigils from Mormont to Waynwood and Piper to Beesbury.

The Ironborn came staggered, almost all on foot. There were a few horsemen, but not even half a dozen.

They were all chanting war cries and death threats, aligned on the plain in front of them, not even bothering to form something coherent.

As expected, all of them, or almost, were half-starved or barely standing.

This wasn't going to be a battle; this was going to be a slaughter.

Jon nodded to his right. Rickard Karstark had been with him since the first, and he had not abandoned him yet. Jason Mallister, on his left, was a more recent addition, but no less experienced.

The two of them were the veterans of a dozen battles, but, more importantly, they both were used in killing Greyjoys. Rickard had slain Asha after Theon's treachery, and Jason Mallister had killed one of Theon's brothers…Rodrik mayhaps, at the Battle of Seagard, during the Rebellion.

As for Jon…well hadn't he slain Theon? Admittedly not by his own hands, but he did certainly taste it…

The Squid killers, all united. There was only the Greatjon missing, but he was likely near as well.

"Well, Ser Rickard?" Jon asked. "Do we just charge?"

"I suppose it will be a mercy for these fools," Karstark heartily replied, unsheathing his sword. "NORTHMEN, FOR ROBB STARK, FOR KING RICKON AND THE NORTH!"

A cheer came from behind.

"ARE YOU READY TO KILL IRONBORN?"

An even louder roar erupted.

"WITH ME, LET'S SEND THEM TO THEIR DROWNED GOD. REMEMBER THE YOUNG WOLF, NO QUARTER!"

"NO QUARTER!" came the clamor from behind.

Rickard Karstark lowered his sword, and the cavalry charged in.

The Karstark charge came from the right, the Riverlanders, Reachmen and Valemen on the left.

Jon took out Longclaw and pointed it to the center of the Ironborn line in turn. Another clamor rose behind him, and he kicked his horse forward.

The shock was brutal…for the Ironborn. They fell one after the other, like a knife cutting through butter.

Although, there quickly was a problem. The rain had rendered the ground muddy, and soon enough, the horses began to tire and fall, or get stuck, allowing the Ironborn to kill some of them, with their axes or pikes.

Jon was amidst the unfortunate ones.

His horse came to bog itself down in a patch of mud, and an Ironborn had the time to skewer its belly with an axe before being hacked down.

Jon was fine, the mud slowing down his fall, but he was now on foot.

Well, that didn't really matter too much. The Ironborn kept screaming, "what is dead may never die," before a stray hammer, axe, sword or lance cut them down.

This had nothing to do with the fights against the free folk or even the wights. No, the wights had numbers and didn't stop till they were hacked to pieces; these were a handful of crazy fanatics, mostly without any protection, who thought they were truly going to slaughter a troop of well-fed, well-trained, well-protected and well-armed soldiers.

Who is their leader to be so delusional in thinking he could win, but so charismatic that he could force his soldiers to keep going although the battle was clearly lost?

In any case, after slaughtering a few walking corpses, some figures resembling knights tried to hamper him.

Without success, that was clear enough. A man with the arms of a horn fell screaming, bleeding from his knees, while Jon sent another with a green and black sigil into the mud, his face then trampled by a Northern horse running through the battlefield.

Suddenly, a cry rose through the air.

Jon barely registered it. After all, there were sounds everywhere on the battlefield, and his helmet didn't really help him hear much better.

But there, in front of him, was a man, laughing.

Yes, laughing. In the middle of the battlefield, not really being attacked by anyone!

He was in a terrible state too. He did have plate armor, except on his right arm, which was in a horrid state. One could say it was jet black, almost dead, from the shoulder to the fingernails, with green veins sticking out of it.

A horrid sight.

And the man wore no helmet, in the middle of a battle! He had only one eye, judging by his eyepatch, and half his neck was covered in the same black-green muck that his arm was currently in, the skin seemingly stopping to let itself be consumed by nothingness.

"YOU!" the man pointed his sword at Jon, who could barely register what was going on.

"BLOOD OF THE DRAGON! I HAVE FOUND YOU AT LAST! I SHALL KILL YOU AND THEN TAKE YOUR DRAGON FOR MYSELF, TO FINALLY USHER IN THE AGE OF DARKNESS AND ASCEND TO GODHOOD! THE SACRIFICE OF TWO MILLENNIAL BLOODLINES, FOR…"

Jon didn't really care much for what he said. Taunt, speech, encouragement? Who cares? A battle is a battle, you don't just stand there and launch tirades like you don't stand a risk of getting killed at every moment.

Two steps were all he needed. With a swift movement, and taking advantage of the man's blind spot in the eye he was missing, he buried Longclaw in his neck, cleanly sectioning everything from the base to the middle.

Completely shocked, the man vomited blood and then fell into the mud, dead.

Jon made sure by planting his sword in his face, blood filling the small droves, giving the grass a scarlet color. It was only then that he noticed the all too familiar Kraken sigil on the armor.

By then, the battle was mostly over. The Ironborn were now fleeing from the battlefield, in disorder. There would be a pursuit, likely led by Reachmen and Northmen alike. None of which were in much of a mood to give any quarter.

Jason Mallister was kind enough to give him a horse, and to identify the screaming man. At least, from the eyepatch.

"Euron Greyjoy…" Mallister shook his head. "So ends the Greyjoy line, in the stinking mud, like it should have a long time ago…"

Jon breathed a sigh of relief. It was finally over. He could finally start the long journey home!

And his relief turned to happiness and smiles when he discovered three things. The first was Euron Greyjoy's armor: pure Valyrian steel!

Heavens knew where he'd got it from, but as he was the one to kill him, that armor belonged to him.

The second was the feast thrown by the Tyrells to celebrate the victory: enough food to fill the belly of ten thousand souls. And in winter, no less!

Lastly, though, was the sight of Arianne Martell on his bed…

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