Chapter Text
The name echoed not in the air, but inside the very fabric of his being. It was a name he had not heard since he was a living man, a name given to him by the beggars and cutpurses of the stinking alleys he had once called his domain. It was a key to a door deep within him, unlocking memories of torchlight on grimy walls, the taste of cheap wine, and the fierce, possessive pride he’d felt for his city.
A figure began to form on the ancient, weeping face of the heart tree. It was not a true form, but an impression, as if the blood-red sap was bleeding into the shape of a man. A pale, gaunt face with a single dark eye, a shock of white hair, and a blotch of a birthmark like a raven splashed across his cheek. The image was faint, flickering, but the presence behind it was immense, ancient, and powerful.
It has been a long time, the voice rustled again, the leaves of the weirwood whispering the words. I had wondered if you would ever wake.
Daemon’s spectral form coalesced, hardening from simple mist into a more defined shape of shadow and cold fury. He knew this face. The histories had poured through him, and this visage was burned into the story of the Blackfyre Rebellions. The sorcerer, the kinslayer, the Lord Hand who had ruled from the shadows.
“Brynden Rivers,” Daemon hissed, the name a soundless curse. “The Bloodraven. You should be as dead as I am.”
Death is not the end we thought it was, is it? The image on the tree gave a faint, dry smile. I am… elsewhere. Rooted. Watching. I have been watching for a very long time. I watched you sleep in the lake. I watched the stag king’s passage stir you. And I guided you here.
“You guided me?” Daemon’s rage was a cold, sharp thing. “I am guided by no one. I came for the boy. For my blood.”
You came because I allowed it. You are a ghost, Daemon, a whisper on the wind. I am the weirwood, and the wind blows through my leaves. I could have scattered you like dust. I could have let you fade back into the nothing you came from. The single red eye of the carved face seemed to bore into him. But you are useful.
“Useful?” The insult was so profound, so contrary to everything Daemon had ever been, that it almost amused him. “I am a prince of the blood. A king in my own right. I am not a tool to be used by a tree-bound corpse.”
And yet, that is what you are. What we both are. Tools for the war to come. The voice of Bloodraven lost its mocking edge, becoming as cold and serious as the grave. You have seen the past, but you do not see the present. You look at the Usurper and his lion queen and you see the enemy. You see a political squabble. You are a dragon, still thinking of the Iron Throne.
“It is my family’s throne! Stolen by oathbreakers and fat drunks!”
And it will be a throne of ice and bones if you do not see the truth, Bloodraven whispered, the leaves rustling with urgency. The game has changed, my prince. There is a threat rising in the true North, beyond the Wall. A thing of ice and death, an enemy that does not care for crowns or titles. The Great Other. The Night King.
Daemon recoiled. He had heard the stories, of course. Old Nan’s tales to frighten children. Grumpkins and snarks, and the Others who came in the dark. “Fairy stories. The fantasies of wildlings and fools.”
Were dragons a fairy story? Is your own un-death a fantasy? The world is not as you left it. Magic is returning, and with it, the things that magic holds at bay. The Long Night is coming again. And the world of men has forgotten how to fight it.
The image of Bloodraven on the tree seemed to lean forward, the single eye burning with intensity. A prophecy was made. The Prince That Was Promised, born of the line of Aerys and Rhaella. The song of ice and fire. He is the one who must unite the living against the dead.
“Rhaegar’s whelp,” Daemon breathed, the pieces clicking into place. “The boy. Jon Snow.”
He is the one, Bloodraven confirmed. And he is in mortal danger, surrounded by enemies who do not even know what he is. He needs a guardian. A shield in the shadows. Someone who is not bound by the rules of men, who can see the threats others cannot, who can kill without leaving a trace. Someone who has a vested interest in seeing a Targaryen king win the ultimate war.
The implication was as clear as it was galling. “You want me to be his nursemaid.”
I want you to be the weapon you always were, Bloodraven corrected. But aimed at the true enemy. Protect the boy. Keep him alive until he is ready to face his destiny. Guide him. Be the shadow that slays his enemies before they can strike. Do this, and you will not only save the world, you will see your house restored. Refuse, and you can watch him die, and then fade back into the cold of the lake, knowing you failed them all a second time.
Daemon was silent, the cold fury within him warring with the undeniable logic of the sorcerer’s words. He had been given a purpose, a chance to undo the damage of his own bloody life, to serve his house in a way he never had before. It was not the glorious charge on dragonback he would have chosen, but a war fought from the shadows. It was a role for a rogue.
“I will protect the boy,” Daemon finally conceded, the words feeling strange and heavy. “Not for you, kinslayer. Not for your prophecies. For my blood.” Daemon never liked one-eyed men.
The image on the tree smiled, a final, fleeting expression. It is all for the same cause in the end, Lord Flea Bottom. Now go. Your watch has begun.
The presence receded. The face on the weirwood was once again just carved bark and weeping sap. The voice was just the wind. Daemon Targaryen, the shadow of the Rogue Prince, was alone again, but now, he had a purpose. He had a king to guard.
The yard was a welcome escape. Inside the castle, the air was thick with the scent of southern perfumes and the sound of false laughter. The king was drinking, the queen was smiling her sharp, brittle smile, and Jon felt like a ghost at the feast before it had even begun. His father had looked at him with a sort of pained apology before going to the crypts, and Lady Catelyn’s eyes had been colder than the wind off the Wall. Here, with a sword in his hand, none of that mattered. There was only the weight of the steel, the burn in his muscles, and the familiar rhythm of the training dummies.
He moved through the forms Ser Rodrik had taught him, the blade a blur in the grey afternoon light. Parry, thrust, pivot, slash. He lost himself in the motion, the sting of his otherness fading with each strike. Robb was inside, playing the young lord. Sansa was probably dreaming of the golden prince. Arya was likely hiding somewhere. But he was here. This was his place.
He was in the middle of a lunge when it happened.
A chill, sudden and profound, washed over him. It was a cold that had nothing to do with the northern air; it was a deep, grave-cold that seemed to seep into his bones and still the very air in his lungs. The sounds of the yard—the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer, the shouts of the guards on the wall, the barking of dogs—all faded into a dull, distant hum. He was suddenly, utterly alone.
He felt a presence at his back.
It was not a sound, not a sight, but a feeling. A pressure. The feeling of being watched by something ancient, powerful, and utterly lethal. His heart hammered against his ribs, and the practice sword felt heavy and useless in his hand. He froze, every instinct screaming at him not to turn around. The shadow that fell over him was not cast by the sun. It was a patch of deeper darkness, a void in the light.
Then, a voice spoke, but it was not a voice he heard with his ears. It was a thought, a feeling, a word that blooms in the center of his mind like a drop of blood in fresh snow.
Dracarys.
The word was foreign, yet he understood it on a primal level. It meant fire and death. And beneath it, he felt a wave of something else, something he had never felt in his life: a fierce, unwavering, possessive protectiveness. It was the feeling of a predator claiming its own, a silent vow that nothing would ever harm him again.
Just as quickly as it came, it was gone.
The sounds of the yard rushed back in, deafeningly loud. The chill receded, leaving him shivering in its wake. He stumbled, whirling around with his sword raised, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
There was nothing there.
Only the empty training yard, the impassive grey stone of the keep, and the distant figures of guards who hadn’t noticed a thing. He stood there for a long moment, his heart pounding, trying to make sense of what had just happened. A trick of the mind? A sudden fever?
He lowered his sword, his hands trembling slightly. He felt… different. The gnawing loneliness in his gut had been replaced by a strange, unfamiliar warmth, a flicker of banked coals deep within his chest. He looked down at his hands, then up at the great keep of Winterfell. He was still a bastard, still an outsider. But for the first time in his life, he didn't feel entirely alone. He didn't know why, but he felt as though a shadow had fallen over him, and for some reason, it felt like a shield.
Unsettled, Jon sheathed his practice sword. The warmth in his chest remained, a confusing counterpoint to the lingering grave-chill on his skin. He needed quiet. He needed a place to think. He needed the godswood. He gave a low whistle, and a moment later, Ghost trotted silently from the shadows of the armory, his red eyes fixed on Jon.
Together, they walked away from the noise of the main castle and passed through the small iron gate into the ancient wood. Here, the sounds were muted by the dense canopy of sentinel trees and ironwoods. The air was still and cold, smelling of damp earth and decaying leaves. Usually, this place brought him peace. Today, the quiet felt watchful.
He led Ghost towards the heart of the wood, to the small, dark pool that lay before the heart tree. The great weirwood stood like a pale giant, its bone-white bark a stark contrast to the gloom, its red leaves like a thousand bleeding hands. The carved face watched him with its sad, weeping eyes, and Jon felt the familiar sense of being in the presence of something immeasurably old.
He knelt by the water’s edge, the cold seeping through the knees of his breeches. Ghost, however, did not relax. The direwolf stood stiffly at his side, his white fur bristling. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, a sound Jon had never heard from him before. The wolf’s crimson eyes were not fixed on the heart tree, but on a patch of deep shadow beneath the boughs of a gnarled old oak.
“What is it, Ghost?” Jon whispered, his hand going to the hilt of his sword.
He followed the wolf’s gaze. At first, he saw nothing but darkness. But as he stared, he realized the shadow there was… wrong. It was too deep, too absolute. It did not shift with the faint light filtering through the leaves. It was a void, a hole in the world. And it was growing.
Slowly, like smoke coalescing in still air, a figure emerged from the unnatural darkness. It was tall and slender, garbed from head to foot in robes of black so deep they seemed to drink the light. A great hood shrouded its head, leaving its face in complete shadow. No features were visible, not a hint of a chin nor the glint of an eye—only a pit of absolute blackness where a face should be. The air around the figure grew impossibly cold, and the surface of the pool before Jon began to frost over at the edges.
Ghost’s growl intensified, but he took a half-step back, a clear sign of fear. Jon’s own blood ran cold. This was no man. It was a specter, a thing from the crypts, one of Old Nan’s tales made real. His hand, slick with sweat, drew his sword. The rasp of steel was loud in the sudden, dead silence of the wood.
The hooded figure took a silent step forward, making no sound on the damp earth. When it spoke, the voice was not a human sound. It was like the grinding of ancient stones, the whisper of a winter wind through a graveyard, a voice that had not been used for centuries, yet it resonated directly in Jon’s mind.
“The wolf fears what it does not understand,” the voice rasped, a sound of rust and ruin. “But the dragon in you is not afraid. It is… curious.”
Jon’s breath hitched. “Who are you? What are you?”
The figure tilted its hooded head, a gesture that was unnervingly human. “I am a shadow of a memory. A vow given form.” It took another silent step, the cold intensifying. “I am here for the fire that burns in your veins. It is a lonely fire, hidden in the cold. It needs to be tended, lest it go out.”
The figure raised a hand from the depths of its black robes. It was not a hand of flesh, but of shifting shadow, gauntleted in what looked like dark, ethereal steel. It pointed a single, smoky finger at Jon’s chest.
“You are more than the bastard of a wolf, boy,” the voice whispered, the words now laced with a dangerous, possessive heat. “You are the last ember of a dying flame. And the cold winds are rising to snuff you out.”
The figure held his gaze for a long, terrifying moment. Jon stood frozen, sword in hand, caught between the instinct to run and the inexplicable urge to listen. This creature spoke of a fire inside him, the same fire he had felt a flicker of in the yard. It knew something about him. Something no one else did.
He found his voice, though it was a strained, thin thing. "I don't know what you're talking about. Tell me your name."
The hooded head seemed to offer a silent, mirthless laugh. "My name is ash and memory. It is of no consequence. Your name, however… that is a lie. The name they call you is a lie." The figure paused, letting the words hang in the frosted air. "Does the lie sit well with you, Jon Snow? Or does the question of your mother burn in you, late at night when you are alone?"
The question struck Jon like a physical blow. It was the question that had haunted his entire life, the one he dared not ask, the one his father would never answer. The sword in his hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.
"What do you know of my mother?" he demanded, his voice cracking.
"I know everything," the voice of ruin whispered. "Just as I know of your father. The honorable Lord Stark has kept his secrets well, to protect you. But secrets are a poison. They fester." The figure took one final, silent step, until it stood just on the other side of the small pool. The cold it radiated was so intense Jon could feel it burning his skin. "My identity matters little. Would you not rather know your own? Would you not rather know her name?"
The world seemed to narrow to the space between them. The growling of Ghost, the rustle of the weirwood leaves, the distant sounds of the castle—it all faded away. There was only the pit of darkness beneath the hood and the question that had defined him. All his life, he had been Jon Snow, the bastard. A name that was an absence, a void where a mother should be. This creature, this terrifying specter, was offering to fill it.
He couldn't speak. The words were trapped in his throat. He could only give a single, sharp nod.
The hooded figure seemed to straighten, a sense of ancient, terrible satisfaction emanating from it. The voice, when it came again, was no longer a rasp, but a clear, cold pronouncement, a statement of fact that shattered the world.
"Her name was Lyanna," the shadow said, and Jon's heart stopped. "Of House Stark. Your father's sister."
Jon staggered back, his mind reeling. No. A lie. It has to be a lie. His aunt… but the king was here to mourn her. His father… the sorrow he carried…
Before he could even process the first blow, the shadow delivered the second, its voice laced with the pride of a forgotten dynasty.
"And your father… was not Eddard Stark. Your father was Rhaegar. Of House Targaryen. The last dragon. And you, boy… you are no bastard. You are Aemon Targaryen, the First of His Name, the true heir to the Iron Throne."