Westeros had already enjoyed more than ten straight sumrs.
No one knew how long the coming Long Night would last.
In Varys's last report, the Red Wedding at the Twins had failed. After Roose Bolton was killed, the other northern lords, seeking revenge, rallied what forces remained and marched on Winterfell to capture Ramsay.
But Ramsay had gotten word early and withdrawn in advance.
Who ruled Winterfell now was unclear — so Drogon decided to see for himself.
From afar, he spotted the X-shaped flayed-man banners hanging over the battlents.
How is that possible?
Varys's intelligence couldn't be wrong — but those were unmistakably Bolton flaying flags.
Lowering his altitude, Drogon slipped quietly into the castle to investigate.
Hiding behind a section of collapsed wall, he surveyed the scene. Not only did the flayed-man banners fly from the walls, but the sa sigils fluttered from scattered poles throughout the courtyard.
Winterfell looked very different from his last visit.
After Ramsay had taken the castle before, he'd ordered craftsn to repair the walls. Now, the fortress was in even worse shape than before the repairs — a large section of the northern main wall had collapsed entirely.
Clearly, another siege had taken place.
Recalling Varys's earlier intelligence, Drogon guessed Ramsay must have sohow returned and retaken Winterfell. Judging from the bloodstains still not fully washed from the stone, the casualties had been heavy.
Confirming Ramsay held Winterfell again, Drogon decided not to linger. However brutal the fighting in the North, it wasn't his concern — not yet.
He was just about to take off toward the Wall when a wooden door nearby creaked open.
A young man shuffled out, thinly dressed in coarse rags, hair matted, beard filthy, eyes dull and unfocused. He limped badly, carrying a chamber pot.
In a flat, chanical voice, he muttered to himself:
"Reek… I'm Reek…"
Drogon imdiately recognized him.
Theon Greyjoy — the man who had betrayed Robb, burned Winterfell, and now, after Ramsay's torture and mutilation, had been broken into sothing barely human.
Not Theon anymore.
Just Reek.
Still holding the chamber pot, Theon turned his neck stiffly, searching for the wooden stairs leading down. As his head turned toward the wall, his eyes landed on Drogon staring back at him.
Their gazes t.
Theon's dull, vacant eyes froze for a mont. Then his brow furrowed, as if he were trying to figure out what kind of creature Drogon was.
Drogon didn't bother hiding. In Theon's current state, even if he saw him, he wouldn't scream.
After staring for several seconds, a faint light suddenly flickered in Theon's lifeless eyes. Limping, he hobbled toward Drogon. The chamber pot tipped, its contents spilling, but he didn't notice.
"Dragon… dragon…" he muttered.
Oh hell, he can still recognize like this? Drogon shot upward at once, as if afraid Theon might try to grab him like a bird.
From the air, Drogon glanced back. Theon still stood below, craning his neck, reluctant to look away.
Drogon didn't feel much sympathy — but he did feel the weight of it.
Theon had been sent to Winterfell at ten as a hostage-ward by his father, Balon Greyjoy. Though Ned Stark had fought Balon fiercely, he treated Theon well — not quite as a son, but never as an outsider.
Robb, especially, had treated him like a brother. During the war with Tywin, Robb had even sent him back to the Iron Islands to seek an alliance.
And Theon repaid that trust by letting his father's rejection and scorn twist him. Instead of fulfilling Robb's mission, he led Ironborn to seize Winterfell, defended only by Bran and a handful of others.
When the people of Winterfell refused to accept him, he executed Ser Rodrik Cassel, who had trained him since childhood, and killed gentle Maester Luwin. Had Osha not smuggled Bran and Rickon away, he might have murdered the Stark boys too.
Later, after Ramsay's torture broke him, Theon helped Sansa escape and followed his sister Yara. In the end, he chose to defend Bran against the Night King and died doing so — a grim kind of redemption.
Carrying these thoughts, Drogon flew on toward the Wall. The air grew sharper and colder than before; snow now drifted even south of the Wall.
This ti, instead of avoiding Castle Black, Drogon used the storm as cover and flew overhead to observe.
There were clearly more n than before, both inside the castle and atop the Wall.
The Night's Watch brothers still huddled against the wind, but at intervals they forced themselves up to scan beyond the Wall for signs of wildling armies.
Though Alliser Thorne despised Jon Snow, he knew Jon's warnings about Mance Rayder's assault weren't lies. If the starving wildlings broke through, these "black crows" wouldn't last long.
After circling once, Drogon didn't leave. He hovered high above, waiting.
The blizzard ant nothing to him. Snow lted on his scales, turning to steam before it could drip away.
Nearly an hour passed before he finally saw a familiar round figure.
A large, heavy body with a perfectly round head pushed open a door. The man stepped out, didn't shut it right away, but stood in the doorway, using his bulk to block the wind until soone behind him ca out. Only then did he close the door and continue shielding the person behind him.
As they moved, Drogon saw clearly — a woman, bundled thickly, holding a baby.
That confird it.
The big man was Samwell Tarly.
The woman had to be Gilly — Craster's daughter-wife — whom Sam had rescued and brought to Castle Black.
Seeing Sam safe, Drogon finally relaxed. That man was the future hope for treating Shireen's facial scars. He couldn't afford to die.
Sam escorted the woman across the yard into another building and didn't co out again. Drogon waited another half hour but saw no sign of Jon.
He guessed Jon wasn't at Castle Black. Otherwise, with his bond to Sam, they would likely have crossed paths.
Drogon decided he'd circle back later to see if Jon returned.
The storm howled on around the Wall.
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