The Wall
Jon Snow's POV, 300 AC
The cold bit deeper than the blades. Jon Snow staggered, blood pooling beneath him, staining the snow crimson. The men he'd called brothers, men he'd sworn to lead, stood over him, their faces twisted with fear and betrayal. Each stab was a betrayal, each wound a promise broken. The Wall loomed above, silent and unyielding, as his strength ebbed away.
"Ghost," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. His direwolf, his truest companion, was somewhere in the darkness, howling a mournful cry that echoed across continents. Far away, in a land of ash and flame, a silver-haired girl tilted her head, hearing the wolf's lament in her dreams.
Jon's vision blurred, and memories not his own flooded his mind. A man with silver hair and sad violet eyes—Rhaegar Targaryen—running through a forest with a girl whose laughter was as wild as the wind. Lyanna Stark. Their love was a spark that set the world ablaze. He saw them steal moments beneath starlit skies, Lyanna's hand resting on her swelling belly, Rhaegar's voice soft as he mused, "If it's a boy, Jaehaerys. If a girl, Visenya." Then war. Rhaegar falling at the Trident, his last breath a whisper of "Lyanna," his heart heavy with the weight of a kingdom lost.
Jon saw her then—Lyanna, pale and feverish, cradling a newborn in a tower of stone. "Promise me, Ned," she begged, her voice breaking. "Keep him safe." Not his father—his uncle. Ned Stark, burdened with a secret that would shape a bastard's life.
Darkness claimed him.
Winterfell
Jon Snow's POV, 289 AC
Jon gasped, his chest heaving as he bolted upright in bed. His hands flew to his torso, searching for wounds that weren't there. No scars. No blood. Just smooth, unmarred skin. His heart pounded, the echo of betrayal still raw, though the memory felt like a dream. Was he alive? Had the gods returned him to the world?
A lock of hair fell across his face, catching the dim light of the candle by his bedside. He froze. It wasn't the dark curls he'd known all his life. It was silver, gleaming like moonlight on steel, unmistakably Targaryen. He reached up, trembling, and ran his fingers through it, the strands soft and foreign.
Then he felt it—a pulse, not his own, thrumming in his blood. It was like the bond he shared with Ghost, that silent tether to his direwolf, but this was different. Fiercer. It burned like wildfire, primal and untamed, a rage that roared with the fury of a thousand suns. Visions flashed behind his eyes: dragons soaring over a blackened sky, their scales glinting like molten gold; a clutch of eggs, pulsing with life; a great beast fleeing across a windswept plain, driven by an instinct it didn't understand. The vision shifted—an island wreathed in mist, a cave shrouded in shadow, and then… darkness.
Jon's breath caught. What had he seen? A dragon? A memory? A warning? The bond pulsed again, searing his mind with heat and hunger. It was no direwolf. It was something ancient, something alive.
The door to his chamber burst open, and Arya barreled in, all wild energy and tangled hair. "Jon! Jon! Father says you've got to—oh!" She stopped dead, her grey eyes widening as they locked on him. Her mouth fell open, and she took a step back, clutching the doorframe.
"Jon… why do you look like that?" Her voice was a mix of awe and fear. "Your hair—it's silver, like… like a Targaryen. And your eyes…" She trailed off, her gaze fixed on his face.
"There Red like Ruby's" she replied looking shock with he mouth wide open.
Winterfell, Great Hall
Jon Snow's POV, 289 AC
Jon's heart thundered as he followed Arya down the winding corridors of Winterfell, her small hand tugging at his sleeve. Her grey eyes darted to him every few steps, wide with questions she hadn't yet voiced. The ruby-red glow of his own eyes still burned in his mind, a stranger's gaze staring back from the bronze mirror. His silver hair, tucked beneath a hastily donned cap, felt like a secret too heavy to carry. The primal pulse in his blood—the fiery bond that wasn't Ghost—throbbed relentlessly, urging him toward something he couldn't name.
"Jon, you can't hide it forever," Arya whispered as they neared the Great Hall. "They'll see. Father will see." Her voice held a mix of excitement and worry, as if she sensed the world shifting beneath their feet.
"I know," Jon muttered, his throat tight. He didn't know how to face them—Ned, Catelyn, Robb, Sansa, little Bran, and baby Rickon. Would they see a brother, a son, a bastard… or a stranger? The memory of the Wall, of blades piercing his flesh, lingered like a ghost. Had the gods sent him back to this time, to this younger Winterfell, to rewrite his fate? Or was this some cruel jest, marking him as something he'd never been?
The Great Hall was warm with the scent of fresh bread and sizzling bacon, the clatter of plates and the murmur of voices filling the air.
The Stark family was already seated at the high table, the morning light streaming through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Ned sat at the head, his face lined with the quiet strength Jon had always admired. Catelyn was beside him, her expression cool but attentive as she cut bread for Bran. Robb laughed at something Sansa said, her auburn hair gleaming, while Rickon babbled in his wet nurse's arms.
Arya bounded ahead, sliding into her seat with a grin, but Jon hesitated at the threshold. The cap felt heavy on his head, a flimsy shield against the truth. His hands trembled as he stepped forward, the bond in his blood pulsing hotter, as if sensing the weight of this moment.
Ned looked up first, his grey eyes sharpening as they landed on Jon. "Jon," he said, his voice steady but laced with something unreadable. "You're late. Come, sit."
Jon swallowed, his mouth dry, and forced himself to move. He pulled off the cap as he approached, letting his silver hair spill free. A gasp rippled through the hall. Sansa's spoon clattered against her bowl. Robb's laughter died mid-breath. Catelyn's hand froze, her knife hovering over the bread. Bran's small mouth fell open, and even Rickon went quiet, as if sensing the shift in the air.
"Gods be good," Catelyn whispered, her voice barely audible. Her blue eyes fixed on Jon's hair, then flicked to his face, where his ruby-red eyes gleamed like polished gems in the morning light. "Jon… what is this?"
Ned's face paled, his fork slipping from his fingers to clatter against the table. His gaze locked on Jon's, and for a moment, Jon saw something flicker in his uncle's—no, his father's—eyes. Guilt? Fear? Recognition? Ned knew. He had to know. The secret of Lyanna and Rhaegar, the promise made in a tower of blood and sorrow, was written in Jon's transformed features.
"Jon?" Robb's voice was hoarse, his blue eyes wide with confusion. "Your hair… your eyes… what happened to you?"
Sansa leaned forward, her hands clasped tightly. "You look like… like a Targaryen," she said, her voice trembling with awe, as if she'd stepped into one of her beloved songs. "Like Prince Rhaegar from the stories."
Jon's stomach twisted. He wanted to speak, to explain, but the words caught in his throat. The fiery bond surged again, and a vision flashed—dragons circling a shadowed island, their roars shaking the earth. He gripped the edge of the table, steadying himself as the hall spun.
"Jon, what's wrong?" Arya's voice cut through the haze, sharp with concern. She was at his side in an instant, her small hand on his arm. "You're shaking."
Ned rose abruptly, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "Enough," he said, his voice low but firm, commanding the room's attention. "Jon, come with me. Now."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed, flicking between Ned and Jon, suspicion hardening her features. "Ned, what is this? What aren't you telling us?"
"Not here," Ned said, his tone clipped. He gestured for Jon to follow, his expression unreadable but heavy with the weight of secrets. Jon glanced at Arya, who gave him a fierce nod, as if to say she'd be there no matter what. Robb and Sansa exchanged uneasy looks, while Bran stared, wide-eyed, as if Jon were a figure from a tale come to life.
As Jon followed Ned out of the hall, the bond in his blood roared louder, a primal call that drowned out the whispers of the servants and the clatter of dishes. The vision returned—mist curling around a cave, a dragon's silhouette against a blood-red sky. Whatever he was becoming, it was tied to fire, to blood, to a destiny he couldn't yet grasp.
Ned led him to the crypts, the air growing colder as they descended. The statues of the Stark kings watched in silent judgment, their stone eyes glinting in the torchlight. Ned stopped before Lyanna's statue, her face carved in serene sorrow, a wolf at her feet.
"Jon," Ned said, his voice barely above a whisper, "tell me what happened. Everything."
Jon met his uncle's gaze, his ruby eyes burning with questions he didn't know how to ask. "I died," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "At the Wall. They betrayed me. And then… I woke here. Like this."
Ned's face crumpled, a rare crack in his stoic mask. He reached out, his hand hovering over Jon's shoulder, as if afraid to touch him. "Lyanna," he murmured, almost to himself. "Her blood… it's in you. I thought I could protect you from it."
"From what?" Jon demanded, his voice sharp with frustration. "From who I am? Tell me, Ned. Tell me the truth."
Ned's eyes glistened, and for the first time, Jon saw the weight of a promise that had broken a man. "You're her son," Ned said softly. "Hers… and Rhaegar's. And your true name is Jaehaerys Targaryen."
The words struck like a blade, sharp and searing, confirming the fragmented dreams that had haunted Jon before his death on the Wall. Rhaegar's voice, soft and hopeful, naming him Jaehaerys. Lyanna's desperate plea to keep him safe. It was true—all of it. The bond in his blood roared in triumph, a wildfire coursing through his veins, as if the truth had unshackled something ancient within him. His ruby eyes burned brighter, reflecting the torchlight like twin flames.
Outside, a piercing cry shattered the silence of Winterfell—a sound no wolf could make. It was deep, primal, a roar that shook the stones of the castle and sent a shiver through Jon's soul. A dragon's cry, echoing his turmoil, his rage, his awakening. It came from nowhere, from everywhere, a call that seemed to rise from the very heart of the world.
Ned staggered back, his hand gripping the edge of Lyanna's statue. "Gods," he whispered, his voice trembling. "What have the gods done to you, Jon?"
Jon's breath hitched, his mind reeling. The dragon's cry faded, but its echo lingered in his chest, intertwined with the fiery bond. "Jaehaerys," he murmured, testing the name, feeling it settle into his bones like a key turning in a lock. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I swore to protect you," Ned said, his voice thick with grief. "Robert would have killed you. The world would have torn you apart. I thought… I thought I could keep you safe as Jon Snow."
Jon's hands clenched into fists, the weight of his true name pressing against him. Jaehaerys Targaryen. A name that carried the fire of dragons, the legacy of a fallen dynasty. And yet, he was still a Stark, raised in the snows of Winterfell, bound to Ghost, to Arya, to this family. The dragon's cry rang in his ears again, fainter now, but undeniable. Something was calling him—across the seas, to a destiny he could no longer deny.
"What do I do now?" Jon asked, his voice raw, his ruby eyes searching Ned's face for answers.
Ned's gaze softened, but his jaw tightened with resolve. "We keep you hidden. For as long as we can. But the gods… they've marked you, Jon. That cry…" He trailed off, glancing toward the crypt's entrance, as if expecting the dragon's roar to sound again.
The bond pulsed, and a vision flashed—a dragon's wings blotting out the stars, a cave lit by fire, a voice whispering his true name. Jaehaerys. Jon straightened, the fire in his blood steadying him.
Whatever he was becoming, he would face it—not as a bastard, not as a Snow, but as something more.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the faint echo of a dragon's cry, and somewhere, far beyond the horizon, a silver-haired girl stirred in her sleep, dreaming of fire and snow.