( Daeron POV )
Jon winced in pain as he raised his arm towards Winter's body, the bandages wrapped around him nearly coming loose.
"Careful, Jon," Sam warned from behind him, staying a respectable distance away. "You cannot move your arm too briskly; it will hurt and might undo the bandages."
Jon nodded, and brought his arm down. The burns on his body hadn't hurt until he landed, too caught up in the fight to care about the pain. But once the dust had settled, the suffering had started, and it had taken a big dose of milk of the poppy to calm him.
All across his right arm, from the elbow to the wrist, were burns, turning his skin to wrinkles, when not melting it outright. His calves were aching, his feet hurting, and the right side of his body had taken bruises, the result of Winter's quick evasive movements.
Winter was not in a better shape either. The dragon had the advantage of surprise against the first dragon, but it did not benefit from it at all afterwards. Always on the back foot, trying to find an opportunity to evade…Winter was finally caught.
There were bite marks all along her neck and tail, half the scales of her stomach were clawed or torn off. Her wings were now in a decrepit state, the left being riddled with small holes, while the right one saw her bones holding it together bent or broken outright.
It was there that Winter suffered the most. Her bones bent at such angles…it would be hard for her to fly properly, let alone evade anything if Daenerys' dragon were to still be able to fly.
And that, was one of his deepest fears.
The fight had left both battered, but Winter had taken hits. Her dragon was much more combative than expected, fighting for its life…and had almost cost Winter hers. A few more moments and she'd have lost the fragile scales in her neck, ripped off, tearing into her…
Jon had no choice but to flee, to run away, and leave the field to his enemy.
But that weighed little on him.
For he had seen what happened to the green dragon, Aegon's dragon.
It had speared out of the clouds, attacking him.
Twice could Aegon have chosen to end him, and twice he had chosen not to.
How did I repay that? By driving him and his dragon into the ground. By being a kinslayer.
The words echoed in his head, almost as loud as the scales shearing off of the green dragon as it fell.
Kinslayer. Kinslayer. Kinslayer.
The voices grew louder and louder.
Aegon, a brother he never knew, had chosen not to kill him outright when he could. And he, the son of Ned Stark, rushed in and killed him without a second thought.
It was necessary in that moment, Jon told himself. Even if I now question it. Aegon was dead and Daenerys was alive. She would come back, with vengeance, with fire and blood like her house words would say.
Winter could still put up a fight…but would it be worth it?
The words echoed in his head again.
Kinslayer. Kinslayer.
Gods, what would Maester Aemon think of him? What would his father think of him? Having squandered both of their gifts in a few hours…and because of him.
He hadn't understood why Daenerys' dragon hadn't attacked him. Why the dragons all seemed to be patiently waiting, not trying to confront him…until he left the battle.
When the clouds parted and the sun shone over Tumbleton, that's when he finally saw the white smoke coming from the forest. There would be no battle.
And his heart sank even deeper then.
He thought that he was defending his army, his people.
Instead, in all likelihood, Daenerys and Aegon had come to renew the negotiations, just with a show of force at their back, as they did before. And in his brashness, he had attacked.
Winter bellowed, causing Sam to step back.
Jon did not, though. He kept his hands firmly on the dragon's stomach, tears flowing down his cheeks.
"I killed him…" Jon whispered, "I killed him…"
Jon wanted to cry out. To have set aside his pride a little while longer, and mayhaps he could have come to terms with Aegon. He looked like the reasonable one, mayhaps Prince Quentyn could've helped him see reason…
Now, it was too late. He had spilled blood, and his aunt would come for him now, there was no backing down. What penance would the Gods inflict on him after this crime? Would they take away his wife, his child?
Jon's mind raced to Arianne. She needed to be kept safe. He might need to send her to her brother, he would bring her back to Dorne.
His mind went back to the Wall.
He could flee now, go to the North, block Moat Cailin, and wait for the oncoming storm, whether from the North or the South…but honor forbade that too. Rickon's kin still fought, and he and Lord Edmure may not share blood, but they shared the same sense of duty. He could not abandon him, either.
Sighing, he patted Winter on the back, and walked out of the clearing in the woods where the dragon had settled.
Out in the forest were a few men, all dressed in black, waiting patiently.
Jon didn't spare a look at Sam, who tried to extend him a hand.
As he approached, the men straightened up.
They were all taller, older than him. And, if not for his dragon, Jon would feel intimidated, almost out of place.
Edmure Tully stood chief amongst them, with Jason Mallister, Rickard Karstark and Edwyn Frey waiting patiently behind him. All were wearing some mail, but no armor, as there had been no battle that day, thanks to the dragon's presence.
"What news?" Edmure asked, his voice not betraying an inch of concern.
"I fear to bring none that will please you." Jon shook his head.
Edmure sighed deeply.
"Say what you have to."
"I…I don't think Winter can fight again," Jon let the words slip out of his mouth.
His interlocutors looked at each other with pained expressions on their faces.
"I will clarify," Jon replied. "Winter can fight again, but I am not sure if she can win. And even if she could win, she would be in such a state that it would be unlikely that she could fight for a long time. Too long for…"
"What's coming from north of the Wall." Rickard Karstark gruffly completed his sentence.
"Aye," Jon agreed. "If you choose to fight, I could go and try to fight my aunt, whose husband I have just killed. She will be enraged and will stop at nothing to kill me for this crime. I dare not say I could return alive from it."
"And we would lose everything anyways." Edmure stroked his auburn beard. "If I understand, either we defeat the Targaryens, or we defeat the Others, but not both?"
Jon swallowed his spit, not wanting to admit the unthinkable. His face was all that Edmure needed to confirm this horrid state of affairs.
"And if we gamble?" Edwyn Frey smiled. "We saw both dragons fall."
"And surely, the gods have not deprived you of your ears, Frey?" Jason Mallister scoffed. "That dragon's roar was not one of pain. It was one of victory."
"What do you know about dragons?" Edwyn scowled.
"Peace, my lords." Edmure raised his hand. "It is true that whatever fight we had, Queen Daenerys must have been battered as well. Lord Frey may be right; is there a chance we could gamble? With the clouds, Winter's state might not have been so obvious to them."
Jon bit his tongue. He hadn't considered that.
"You mean to hide Winter's wounds?" he asked.
"Queen Daenerys would not dare go against us if she thought your dragon was perfectly able to fight," Edmure reasoned.
"But then, I would have to hide her," Jon countered. "What conclusions would they draw once they see me arrive, ahorse, in their camp? Would they not think I'd rather have arrived atop my dragon?"
"After what happened today…" Edmure breathed in, "they would think you are a sane man."
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