The vast dream realm hung in perfect silence until a heavy breath shattered it.
Brynden Rivers stared at the monstrous beast before him and let out a low, genuine sound of awe.
The creature was enormous—bigger than any warship that ever sailed the Narrow Sea.
Every scale, every claw, every inch of that crimson body was a weapon built to kill.
He had no doubt that in a few minutes this dragon could turn King’s Landing into a smoking ruin.
“Korakshu…” Brynden’s single remaining eye never left the dragon.
“That name carries the weight of Daemon Targaryen’s mount and the old Valyrian god of war and slaughter. No better name for the beast that will burn the old world down and raise House Targaryen from its ashes.”
A fierce surge of life flooded the old man’s ancient body.
He could not remember the last time he had felt this alive.
The crushing weight of his long mission suddenly felt lighter.
Even if his bones gave out today, the bloodline would survive through the boy standing before him.
That certainty was better than any medicine.
For the first time in decades, Brynden Rivers felt young again—thirty years old, full of fire and purpose.
“I still don’t know your name, my dear grandnephew,” he said, a rare warm smile touching his lips.
His pale purple eye held the look of a grandfather studying his own blood.
“To the world I’m Jon Snow,” Jon answered without hesitation.
“My true name is Aenar Targaryen.”
Brynden repeated the name slowly, tasting it.
The smile deepened.
“Aenar. A fitting name for the king who will rebuild the immortal dynasty.”
He spoke of old history then—how the Exile Aenar had trusted his daughter Daenerys the Dreamer without question, sold everything, and led his people to Dragonstone with the last dragons, preserving the bloodline when Valyria fell.
Jon listened in silence.
The bond between them felt ancient and right.
Brynden’s vision suddenly blurred.
A wave of dizziness hit hard.
“Aenar, my time is short,” he said quickly.
“We can talk more later. Before I go, you must claim two things that belong to you. They are with Maester Aemon—Maekar’s son—at Castle Black. He serves there now.”
Jon nodded once, solemn.
Before he could speak, the dream world went black.
He woke still leaning against the tree in the cold camp.
The fire crackled.
What had felt like hours in the dream had been less than half an hour in the real world.
He stayed where he was, arms wrapped tight around the star-forged sword Lady Lyanna, hugging it to his chest like he was holding his mother’s spirit.
He chose to believe she was with him, blade ready for anyone who tried to hurt him.
Bloodraven’s last words echoed.
Two gifts.
He wanted to see the surprise with his own eyes.
“Only a few days left anyway,” he muttered, and closed his eyes to rest.
…
A single drop of bright blood fell from the sword tip onto the white snow, blooming like a red flower.
Jon opened his eyes.
Five corpses lay scattered around the clearing—northern men in coarse winter wool.
Each throat had been opened in one clean, fatal cut.
Their eyes were still wide with the shock of dying too fast to understand what had happened.
Blood steamed in the cold, then froze into dark red ice.
This was not Jon’s first kill.
It would not be his last.
He remembered the first time clearly—messy, stomach turning, breakfast coming back up.
After the first few, the sickness faded.
He had started to get used to it.
That was the dangerous part.
He knew it.
If he ever reached the point where killing felt casual or satisfying, he would be lost.
He would become the madman he refused to become.
So he kept the hunger on a short leash.
He wiped the blade clean on one dead man’s cloak, sheathed Lady Lyanna, and gave the bodies one last cold look.
Let the forest scavengers have them.
He was not wasting time digging graves for men who had come to murder a boy.
Jon swung onto his horse and rode on.
Northern horses were worth every coin—big, strong, thick-coated, and brave when it mattered.
The price of one good mount could build a smallfolk house.
He did not care.
Speed and reliability mattered more than coin right now.
Days had passed since the meeting with Bloodraven and the three wildlings.
Every time Jon slept he met the old man in the dream.
They planned like comrades—strategy, tactics, the shape of the war to come.
Bloodraven’s experience filled gaps Jon had not even known existed.
The old man’s counsel on the royal fleet had been especially sharp.
“Win Monford Velaryon of Driftmark,” Bloodraven had said.
“Prove you are Rhaegar’s son and he will kneel. Take thirty to forty percent of the royal ships without a fight. In one sea battle you can turn the Iron Throne’s own fleet against it.”
Jon had seen the truth in that immediately.
Dragons were the ultimate weapon, but they could not hold the realm alone.
He needed the old houses, their men, their ships, their loyalty—or at least their fear.
The dragon would break the stubborn ones.
The rest would hold what he conquered. This story is hosted at g.com.
The Kingsroad stretched ahead.
On the horizon the Wall rose like a frozen cliff splitting the sky.
Three hundred miles long.
Seven hundred feet high.
Built of ice in an age of steel and sweat.
Even Jon paused for a breath, struck by the sheer arrogance and will it had taken to raise it.
He pulled his hood low before he reached the gate.
No point letting old soldiers who had ridden with Ned recognize him.
His uncle’s raven should have arrived by now.
A guard on the wall shouted down.
“Who goes there? Name yourself!”
“Jon Snow of Winterfell.”
The heavy gate opened with a groan.
Jon rode through.
Castle Black was no real castle—more of a fortified camp pressed against the Wall.
No outer defenses worth mentioning, mostly wooden buildings already showing rot in the wet cold.
Still, the place ran with a kind of grim order.
Men in black moved with purpose.
Dozens of eyes turned toward the new arrival.
Most were flat and tired.
A few showed real interest.
Jon scanned the yard for Benjen.
His uncle had always been the cheerful one, tall and quick to laugh—nothing like the grim Eddard.
No sign of him yet.
Then a lean man in black walked straight toward him.
Jon watched him come.
Fifty or so.
Hard face, sharp features, wiry muscle like an old wolf that still had teeth.
Cold black eyes.
Black hair going gray at the temples.
Alliser Thorne.
In the timeline Jon had seen, this man had helped drive a knife into his heart.
A cold, private smile touched the corner of Jon’s mouth as Thorne approached.
Fate had a vicious sense of humor.
The same man who had once sworn to die for Rhaegar Targaryen was now walking toward Rhaegar’s son with murder in his future.
Jon kept his face calm and waited.