Chapter Text
Jon
The yard was quiet, dew still clinging to the packed earth where they sparred. The chill of the north hung in the air, their breath misting faintly as they moved. Grey Wind prowled along the fence line, pacing with restless energy, ears pricked at every clang of steel. Ghost sat apart, as silent as his name, snow-white fur gleaming, eyes like live coals fixed on his master’s hand.
In Jon’s grip was no ordinary blade, but a legend—Dark Sister. Its smoky sheen seemed to drink in the light, the rippling pattern of Valyrian steel alive even in stillness. Jon turned it once, and the blade sang, the weight so perfectly balanced it felt more like an extension of his arm than a sword.
Robb circled him with a grin, practice sword in hand. His auburn hair caught the firelight, his cheeks flushed from exertion. “Jon, it looks near too light for you to hold. Are you sure it’s truly Valyrian steel?”
Jon gave the blade an easy flourish, the air whispering against its edge. “Light, aye—but strong. Sharper than anything forged in the North. Here. Take it.”
Robb hesitated, almost reverently, before accepting. He hefted Dark Sister in both hands, eyes widening. “Gods. You’re right. It’s lighter than a longsword, but it feels as if it could cut through mail like butter. Did Brynden Rivers really wield it all his life?”
Jon shrugged, watching his cousin’s awed face. “Brynden was no ordinary man. Nor was Aemon, to keep it hidden all these years. He said it was waiting…for someone.” His voice turned quieter, almost bitter. “I still don’t understand why me.”
Robb studied him, puzzled, then offered the sword back with care. “Why not you? You’ve steel in you, Jon. You fight better than I do. Better than most men I know.” His voice dropped softer. “Will you tell your father about it?”
Jon sheathed Dark Sister, the steel sighing as it slid into leather. “Rhaegar never answered a single letter I sent. Why should I bother now?”
Robb’s smile faltered. “Not even once?”
“Not once.” Jon’s tone was flat, though a shadow passed behind his eyes. “Perhaps I’ll write Grandmother. Or Viserys.”
The only sound then was Grey Wind’s low rumble as he nosed at Ghost, who ignored him with quiet dignity. Robb leaned back against the yard fence, rubbing his direwolf’s head absently, his eyes distant. “Being Lord Stark isn’t half as glorious as songs make it. Every day is smallfolk, disputes, land, food. Justice. Duty. No time for glory.”
Jon allowed himself a faint smile. “I’d not trade places with you for all the mead in Winterfell.”
Robb chuckled at that, but mischief returned to his blue eyes. “And yet you’d trade me for Dany. Don’t bother to deny it. You stare enough when you think no one’s watching.”
Jon flushed, swiping at him half-heartedly with the flat of his hand. “Says the man who turns redder than a beet when Argella smiles at him.”
This time it was Robb’s turn to color, spluttering, “That’s—different!”
They both broke into laughter, shoulders shaking, until even Grey Wind gave a short huff as if to join in. Ghost only tilted his head, silent and strange, as if puzzled by their mirth.
When the sound died, Robb’s voice grew thoughtful. “That egg of yours. Is it truly warm?”
Jon’s hand brushed his chest, as though the memory of its heat lingered there. “Aye. Warm. Alive. Every time I hold it, it’s like it’s breathing.”
“I don’t feel it,” Robb admitted after a pause. “To me, it is cold as stone.”
“Maybe it’s a Targaryen thing,” Jon said quietly. “Only Dany and I feel it.”
Robb tilted his head, considering, the light catching his eyes. “Makes sense. Only a dragon should feel another dragon.”
Jon nodded, but in the hollow of his chest the thought curled tight and bitter. But I am not a dragon. Not truly.
The night pressed heavy on Jon, his chamber dark but for the faint silver of moonlight seeping through the shutters. Ghost lay at the foot of his bed, silent as snow. Sleep dragged him down like a tide, and soon he was no longer in Winterfell.
He was running. The forest rose around him, black-barked pines and pale birches blurring past in streaks of silver and shadow. The air was sharp, alive with the scent of earth and frost. His feet beat the ground, but they were not his own—broad paws thundered beside him, and he felt the pull of muscle and sinew, the joy of the hunt. Grey Wind bounded to his left, Nymeria to his right, Summer not far behind. Their breath steamed in the cold night as they ran together, brothers and sister bound by blood older than men.
Ahead, a rabbit darted, its white tail flashing. Jon lunged, teeth closing on fur and bone, and he tore into warm flesh with the others. The taste of blood filled his mouth, copper-sweet, the rabbit’s scream fading into silence.
Then the world shifted.
The forest fell away. The wolves were gone. Jon stumbled forward and found no ground beneath his feet. He was falling, tumbling endlessly through blackness. Wind howled in his ears, but there was no air, only the roar of something vast, something unseen. He tried to cry out, but his voice was lost. From the dark came screams—high, shrill, desperate—and the distant bellow of a dragon’s roar.
He shut his eyes tight, and when he opened them, he stood not in the void but in a hall.
It was vast and cold, the air heavy with ash and iron. Before him loomed a monstrosity: a throne, but no seat of comfort. A mountain of melted swords twisted and jagged, as if they had bled into one another and hardened in a storm of fire. The Iron Throne. Its edges glimmered faintly in the torchlight, cruel and sharp, as though it longed to cut whoever dared sit upon it. Jon’s breath caught. This is not my place, he thought, yet his feet seemed rooted.
Footsteps echoed. Slow. Heavy.
He turned. A man approached—long of face, with hair dark as night and grey eyes that seemed to look through him. There was Stark in him, Jon knew at once. Beside him walked a boy, small and solemn, with silver hair and eyes the color of amethysts. A Targaryen, pale and grave. The child’s gaze was sorrowful, and Jon felt the weight of it in his chest, as though judged and found wanting.
The Stark lifted a hand, pointing past him. Jon turned, and the hall dissolved like smoke.
Stone closed around him. He was in the crypts of Winterfell, the chill biting his skin. Torches guttered faintly, shadows stretching long along the carved kings and lords of old. Before him lay a tomb—its face weathered, its features the very same as the man he had just seen. And beside the stone figure, carved smaller, was the boy.
Jon’s chest tightened. He did not understand.
A sound broke the silence. Low. Rumbling.
Jon turned, heart hammering. Out of the black crept a glow—two eyes, burning bright in the dark. A beast emerged, scales gleaming like obsidian in the torchlight, its maw opening with a hiss that became a roar. Heat washed over him as the thing reared, fire spilling from its throat. Green fire, terrible and bright. The flames engulfed him, searing his skin, blinding his sight—
He woke with a gasp, sweat soaking his shirt, his heart racing. The room was dark again, quiet save for the pounding of his pulse. But Ghost was watching him.
The direwolf’s muzzle was wet and red, blood clinging to his fur. His eyes glowed in the dark, unblinking.
Jon sat frozen, the echo of fire still burning in his bones.
The air of Winterfell at night was cold enough to bite the lungs, but Jon welcomed it. Better the bite of the air than the fire of his dreams. He walked alone through the sleeping castle, Ghost padding silently at his heel, pale fur near invisible under the moonlight.
Some dreams he cherished—the ones where he ran with Grey Wind, Summer, and Nymeria, the taste of blood and snow sharp in his mouth, the joy of the pack in his heart. But the others…those he dreaded. The ones where the wolves vanished and dragons came, roaring, devouring, burning. He always woke with the heat still clinging to his skin, his breath ragged as if smoke had filled his lungs.
He made his way toward the godswood, the whisper of leaves calling him to the old heart tree. Yet something else pulled at him, and he halted before the entrance to the crypts. The yawning black mouth of it gaped, as if waiting. He stared long and hard, the memory of the dream pressing close. The Stark in the hall, the boy beside him. The tomb.
“What if it’s real?” Jon whispered to himself.
“Jon?”
The voice startled him. He turned, hand brushing the hilt of Dark Sister out of instinct, only to find Daenerys standing a few paces away. Her hair gleamed like silver in the torchlight, unbound, spilling down her shoulders. Her eyes searched his, wide and unsettled.
He frowned. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted softly, folding her arms as if against a chill. “Something felt wrong. I thought a walk might quiet me.”
Jon said nothing for a moment, then turned his gaze back toward the crypts.
“And you?” she asked, stepping closer. “What drives you from your bed in the dead of night?”
Jon hesitated, then gave the truth. “A dream. A strange one.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Dragons again?”
“Yes…and no.” His voice dropped low. “This time there was a man. A Stark. He stood before the Iron Throne. And beside him, a boy with silver hair and violet eyes. He pointed to a tomb in the crypts.” Jon exhaled sharply. “When the beast came, it burned me.”
Daenerys studied him with care, as though weighing each word. “And who was he, this Stark?”
Jon shook his head. “I don’t know. An ancient lord of Winterfell, maybe. He had the look of us.”
Her lips curved in thought, a shadow passing across her face. “Only two Lords of Winterfell ever walked the Red Keep and returned north alive. Your uncle Eddard Stark…and Cregan Stark, the Old Wolf.”
The name hung between them.
Jon’s eyes flicked back to the black archway of the crypts, his heart tightening. Could it have been him? The man of his dream had borne that same cold, hard dignity. It was not Ned Stark he had seen. Then it was Cregan.
At the mouth of the crypts Ghost stood waiting, red eyes glowing in the dark. The direwolf’s silent vigil only sharpened Jon’s resolve. He took a step forward.
“I’ll know for certain,” he muttered.
Daenerys tilted her head, watching him. “You mean to go down there now?”
Jon glanced at her, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “If the dead are to trouble my sleep, better I face them waking.”
For a heartbeat she only looked at him, then she nodded once, hair catching the moonlight. “Then I’ll go with you.”
Side by side, they crossed into shadow, Ghost slipping ahead like a pale wraith. Behind them the castle slept, unaware of the two young souls drawn toward the depths where Winterfell’s kings and lords lay, and where dreams and prophecy blurred into truth.
The crypts swallowed them in silence, each step echoing faintly against stone. Their torch cast long shadows that leapt and twisted on the walls as Jon led, Ghost padding ahead with noiseless certainty. The air grew colder the deeper they went, damp with the weight of centuries.
They passed the tomb of Lord Rickard, hands folded in stone, his features carved sharp and stern. Brandon lay beside him, his likeness younger but no less proud. Jon’s throat tightened.
Further still stood Edwyle Stark, his great-grandfather, a lord whose tales Old Nan once whispered by the hearth. Jon brushed the dust from the name with his fingers, and for a moment he thought he could almost see the faces of all those who knelt before him—lords, kings, kin.
They descended deeper. Ghost’s pale fur gleamed in the firelight as the direwolf padded ahead, his eyes twin embers in the dark. He stopped suddenly, stiff, hackles bristling, before an older tomb shrouded in shadow.
Jon stepped closer, lifting the torch. The stone was cracked, the face weathered by time, but the features remained: a long face, stern eyes, hair falling like shadow. Recognition jolted through him. The man from my dream.
He looked around instinctively, half-expecting the silver-haired boy to stand carved at his side. But there was no second statue, only this lone figure, crowned with dust.
Daenerys came to stand beside him, her breath misting faintly in the cold. She reached out, brushed a swath of grime from the stone with delicate fingers, and leaned closer. Her violet eyes caught the torchlight as she read the faint letters carved deep.
“Here,” she said softly. “Cregan Stark.”
Jon’s heart thudded. So it was true.
Daenerys tilted her head, studying the likeness with something between awe and unease. “Why would you dream of him, Jon? And how did Ghost know to bring us here?”
Jon swallowed hard, his mind chasing answers that would not come. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “I…I don’t know.”
For a while, they stood in silence, torchlight flickering across the old wolf’s face. Jon’s dream replayed in his head—the Iron Throne, the boy, the beast of fire. He shifted uneasily.
Daenerys broke the silence. “Cregan Stark served as Hand to Aegon the Third after the Dance. They called it the Hour of the Wolf.” Her voice was steady, almost reverent. “He ruled in the king’s name, swift and cold, with justice that bit as sharp as winter. The realm feared him.”
Jon lowered his head. “I’d forgotten the tale. I learned it once, long ago…but it slipped away.”
Her lips curved faintly, a shadow of a smile. “You’d be surprised how much I’ve read, Jon. Winterfell’s history is rich, long, full of blood and honor both. Do you know how many kings once ruled from these halls before bending the knee? This place saw dynasties rise and fall.” She glanced at him, teasing gently. “Your castle has more kings buried beneath it than the Red Keep ever crowned.”
Despite himself, Jon chuckled, the sound soft in the vast silence. “I believe it.”
He looked again at the stern face of Cregan Stark. The dream seemed to weigh heavier now.
At length he sighed. “We should return.”
Daenerys nodded, her silver hair brushing her cheek as she turned. She gathered her cloak tighter, but before they could take a step, Ghost moved.
The direwolf lowered his muzzle and began to dig, claws scraping stone and earth behind the statue. Dust rose, the sound harsh and jarring in the stillness.
Jon’s breath caught. “Ghost,” he whispered, his voice low, as if afraid to disturb the dead. “What are you doing?”
The direwolf ignored him, pawing harder, as though some instinct older than men drove him on.
The silence of the crypt pressed on them like a weight. Jon and Daenerys had tried to leave more than once, but every time they turned their backs Ghost stayed behind, pawing stubbornly at the earth. When Jon called, the direwolf only whined low in his throat and scraped harder, claws striking sparks against stone.
At last, Daenerys folded her arms, violet eyes glinting in the torchlight. “He won’t stop. You know that.”
Jon exhaled, rubbing his brow. “He’s disturbing a dead Stark’s rest. My forebears would curse me for it.”
“And yet your wolf doesn’t seem to care about curses,” Daenerys said, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Perhaps he knows more than we do.”
Jon knelt, the cold biting through his knees, and dug his fingers into the loose earth Ghost had already torn up. It was damp, heavy, and cold beneath his nails. He muttered, half to himself, “If my uncle ever hears of this—”
“—he’ll think you’ve gone mad,” Daenerys finished for him, grinning. “Or worse, he’ll think you’ve taken to grave-robbing.”
Jon shot her a look, dirt streaking his cheek. “You could help.”
She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Why? He’s your wolf. Clearly, this is your destiny. Who am I to meddle?”
Jon groaned. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
He rolled his eyes and returned to digging, his hands and Ghost’s paws working in tandem. The sound echoed strangely in the crypt, as if the old stone itself were listening. Sweat beaded on Jon’s brow despite the chill, and his shoulders ached, but something urged him on—a tug beneath his ribs, deep and insistent.
Daenerys leaned against the statue’s base, torch in hand, watching him with a sly smile. “If you dig long enough, perhaps you’ll find a giant down there.”
“Then I’ll make it crush you for your wit,” Jon muttered, grunting as he pulled another clump of earth aside.
Ghost gave a low whuff and suddenly stilled, nose pressed into the soil. Jon froze. He reached down, brushing with his fingers—and felt it. Warm. Alive. Not the cold dampness of stone, but something that thrummed faintly, like a heart beating deep within.
His breath caught. He dug more carefully, and there it was: a shell, smooth and veined with faint light, half-buried in the earth. Jon cradled it out with both hands, dirt falling away in clumps.
Daenerys gasped. Her torchlight flickered across the surface—an egg, not unlike the one Aemon had given her. This one was darker, the sheen of blue with streaks of bronze catching in the light.
Jon rose slowly, cradling it, and Ghost sat back on his haunches, tongue lolling as if satisfied with his work. The direwolf’s red eyes never left the egg.
Jon and Daenerys stood there in silence, the torch crackling between them, the weight of what he held pressing heavier than stone.
At last Daenerys whispered, awe lacing her words, “Another.”
The hearth in Jon’s chambers roared, flames crackling as if hungry to consume the night itself. Within the blaze, two dragon eggs rested side by side—Daenerys’s silver-and-gold treasure, and the darker blue-and-bronze one Jon had unearthed with Ghost. Firelight danced across their shells, shifting their hues with every flicker: gold melting into molten radiance, bronze glowing like hammered copper, silver gleaming pure as starlight, and green deepening to the edge of black. Daenerys had wanted to place them both in her own hearth, but it was too small to contain them. So they came here instead.
Jon sat cross-legged near the bed, Ghost sprawled asleep at his feet, the direwolf’s breathing slow and steady. Daenerys knelt closer to the fire, her violet eyes reflecting its dance. For a long time neither spoke, only watching the eggs, the flames playing strange tricks on their surface.
At last, Daenerys whispered, her voice hushed as though afraid to break some fragile spell. “Do you think they will hatch?”
Jon rested his elbows on his knees, considering. “Aemon said they would. But not now. Maybe not in our time. Perhaps in our children’s, or their children’s after.”
She turned her head toward him, her gaze sharp with longing. “I would like them to hatch now. To see them as they once were—living, breathing. Not dreams, not tales.” A wistful smile curved her lips. “I dream of them often. Of flying. Of freedom.”
Jon said nothing at first. His own dreams were nothing like hers. Where Daenerys soared, his burned. Where she found wonder, he found fire and ash, screams in the dark. He stared at the eggs and felt the weight of them pressing on his chest. Finally he muttered, “My dreams are not like yours. If they hatched… I’m not sure I’d want to see.”
Daenerys studied him for a long moment, but she did not argue. She only turned back to the fire, her profile limned in gold, like a figure carved out of flame itself.
The warmth of the hearth seeped through the chamber. Jon stretched and rose, too heavy with weariness to linger longer. “Best you return to your room. If Mother finds you here by morning, she’ll send me to the Wall herself.”
That drew a laugh from Daenerys, soft but genuine. “Perhaps she’d send me with you.”
He managed a tired smile and shook his head, collapsing onto the bed. “Seven save me. That would be worse.” He tugged his blanket half-heartedly over himself. “Go on, Dany. Sleep.”
She only shook her head faintly, her eyes still on the fire. “I’ll stay a little longer. Just… a little.”
Jon was too weary to argue. The sound of the flames and Ghost’s breathing lulled him under quickly.
He woke with a start.
Heat pressed against his chest, not the warmth of fire but something more alive. His eyes snapped open—and froze.
A creature the size of a cat lay curled against him, scales gleaming midnight-blue beneath the torchlight, wings folded tight. Its eyes opened—golden and bright—and Jon sucked in a breath.
He jolted upright. The creature hissed, leaping from his chest to the bedpost in a shimmer of dark wings. Jon’s heart hammered, and his gaze darted wildly around the room—only to see another shape unfurling from beneath Ghost, who was only now stirring. Silver scales striped with gold caught the firelight, small claws scratching wood as the second beast clambered free, stretching wings like a sail.
Daenerys was curled on the floor, cloak drawn around her. At the noise she stirred, blinking, and then froze as she beheld them. Her lips parted in a gasp, hand trembling toward her mouth.
“Jon…” she whispered. “They—”
“I know.” His voice cracked with awe and terror both.
Ghost rose, hackles bristling, but he did not snarl. He only stood guard, tail low, watching the little monsters with his red eyes.
Jon staggered to his feet, the midnight one still clinging to the bedpost, the silver-and-gold hissing softly as it crept toward Daenerys. She reached out instinctively, and the creature pressed its nose against her palm. Her face lit, radiant in the fire’s glow.
“They’re real,” she whispered, half laughing, half crying. “Jon—they’re real.”
Before he could answer, the sound of feet in the corridor reached them. Raised voices, urgent, and then—knocking.
“Jon! Wake up!” Arya’s voice, high and eager. “You must come. You must see this!”
Jon swallowed, panic tightening his throat. “Go,” Daenerys hissed in a whisper, clutching the silver beast against her chest. “Stall her. I’ll hide them.”
Another knock, sharper this time. “Jon?” his mother.
The midnight beast gave a sharp, piercing screech that cut through the chamber like a knife.
The door burst open. Arya barreled in first, words already tumbling from her mouth, but they died as her eyes widened. “Gods…” she breathed.
Behind her, Lyanna stood framed in sunlight, her face pale, her eyes wide, fixed on the creatures crawling across the bed.
The silver beast chirped and curled tighter into Daenerys’s arms. The midnight one spread its wings wide, hissing.
Arya gasped in delight. “Dragons!”
But Lyanna only stared, stricken, her breath caught between wonder and dread.