They left Farwinter three days after the ice throne fell.
The dead had been burned. The wounded who could travel were loaded onto sleds and the few remaining ships at Eastwatch. The Silver Emperor, still favoring one leg, insisted on flying; the purple dragon and the black dragon refused to leave its side. Rhaegar rode with them more often than he walked, but when he did walk it was at the head of the column, True Dragon (now bound with iron bands where it had cracked) resting across his shoulder.
Behind him came the survivors of the Direwolf Suicide Squad, the better part of the Night's Watch garrison from Eastwatch, a long train of wildlings who had chosen to stay south of the Wall for the first time in living memory, and the Northern lords who had answered the call. Lord Rickard rode near the front, Eddard at his side. Roberta never left Rhaegar's vicinity for long.
The Kingsroad south of the Wall was still buried under snow, but the black-brick road Rhaegar had built in earlier years began to show through near the Last River. By the time they reached the edge of the Gift the worst of the unnatural cold had faded. Ordinary winter remained—bitter, hungry, long—but it was a winter men understood.
Word traveled faster than any army.
Ravens had already flown from Castle Black. By the time the column reached Winterfell, every castle in the North knew the Night King was dead and the ice throne broken. The banners of House Stark flew at full staff for the first time in two years. When Rhaegar rode through the gates, the people of Winterfell lined the walls and the yard in silence that broke only when someone began to shout his name. The shout was taken up until the sound rolled out across the wolfswood.
Rickard Stark offered the high seat in the Great Hall that night. Rhaegar refused it and sat instead at the long table among the other lords. He ate little. He listened more.
The talk was already turning from survival to what came next.
"The Iron Throne will want a full accounting," one of the mountain clan chiefs said. "And a share of the glory."
"The Iron Throne can have the accounting," Rickard answered. "The glory belongs to the men who stood on the Wall when the mist came."
Robert Baratheon, who had ridden hard from the south the moment the first raven reached the Riverlands, slammed a fist on the table. "Seven hells, the glory belongs to the man who put a sword through the bastard's heart. Don't pretend otherwise."
Rhaegar only smiled and raised his cup. "The dead keep their own glory. The living have work left to do."
They stayed four days in Winterfell—long enough for the worst wounds to be cleaned and for the Silver Emperor to heal enough for sustained flight. On the morning of the fifth day Rhaegar took formal leave of Lord Rickard in the yard.
"The North remembers," Rickard said, voice low enough that only those closest heard it.
"And the dragon remembers the North," Rhaegar answered.
He clasped Eddard's arm, nodded to the King-Beyond-the-Wall (who had decided to winter at the Gift and see how the new peace held), and then climbed onto the Silver Emperor's back. Roberta settled behind him as if she had always belonged there. The other two dragons rose with them. The column would follow by road; the Dragonlord would reach the south first.
They flew over the Neck in a single long day, the swamp country still half-frozen below. At Harrenhal the black-brick road and the new camp waited, larger and better ordered than when Rhaegar had left it. Ser Barristan had held the place with quiet competence. The moment the dragons were sighted, the camp emptied into the yards and the shore of the Gods Eye.
That night Rhaegar called a private council in the restored solar of the Widow's Tower: Barristan, Jaime Lannister (who had come up from King's Landing with a strong escort the moment rumors of the Night King's fall reached the capital), Oberyn Martell's latest letter from Essos, and a sealed packet from the Small Council.
Jaime wasted no time. "The King is failing. Maesters give him months at best, perhaps less. The court is already dividing between those who want a swift succession and those who want to… manage it."
Rhaegar read the packet in silence. When he finished he looked up.
"And where does my father stand?"
Jaime's mouth twisted. "King Jaehaerys still breathes. Beyond that, the letter does not say."
Roberta, seated at Rhaegar's right, spoke quietly. "The realm has seen what happens when the cold rises and the throne is weak. They will not want another long regency or another dance of claimants."
Barristan inclined his head. "The lords who fought in the North will follow the man who ended the Long Night. Most of the Reach and the Stormlands already lean that way. The West will follow Lord Tywin's lead—and Lord Tywin has never been slow to recognize strength."
Rhaegar set the packet down.
"Then we do this cleanly. No knives in the dark. No second Dance. I will go to King's Landing, present myself to my father, and let the realm see the dragons and the men who came back from the Wall. After that… we take what comes."
He rose. The others stood with him.
Outside, the three dragons slept under the winter stars, smoke rising from their nostrils. Far to the north the Wall stood dark and silent for the first time in years. Far to the east, across the Narrow Sea, the Free Cities and Braavos were still receiving the first true accounts of what had happened Beyond the Wall.
The Dragonlord who had left King's Landing as a prince was returning as something more.
And the game of thrones, which had paused for the Long Night, was about to begin again.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If you like the story please give it some power stones and reviews. And if you want to read 40+ advance chapters or just want to support me please join my patreon at [email protected]/Translatingfanfics