“You’re certain about this, nephew?” Aemon’s voice was rough with age and heavy with worry.
“You truly mean to take the Iron Throne?”
Even with a living dragon at his side, the old man knew the path would be paved with corpses and treachery.
He had lived long enough to understand what claiming that cursed chair truly demanded.
Jon lifted the cup Clydas had brought him and took a slow sip.
His eyes never wavered.
“I’ve been preparing since I was four,” he said quietly.
“There’s no turning back now. I either sit the throne… or I die trying. And I don’t intend to die.”
Aemon let out a long, weary sigh.
He turned toward his servant.
“Clydas, go to my bed. There’s a loose floorboard underneath. Pry it up and bring me the box hidden there.”
Clydas obeyed without question.
Under Jon’s curious gaze, the small man lifted a cleverly disguised plank and pulled out a plain wooden chest that had clearly been concealed for years.
“Forgive an old, blind, useless man for not being able to stand beside you on the battlefield,” Aemon said, his voice thick with emotion.
“But I hope these two things will serve you well in the days ahead.”
If he could have, he would have donned armor like the Dragonknight of old and ridden to war for his blood.
Time had stolen that chance from him.
This was the only gift he could still give.
Clydas opened the chest.
Inside lay a dragon egg and a sword resting on dark velvet.
The egg was breathtaking—silver scales shot through with vivid purple streaks, larger than any bird’s egg Jon had ever seen.
It looked like something forged by the gods themselves.
The sword needed no introduction.
Dark Sister.
Jon had felt its edge more times than he cared to count in the dream-realm under Visenya’s merciless training.
He stepped forward, wrapped his fingers around the hilt, and lifted the ancient blade.
Faint ripples of Valyrian steel caught the dim light as he turned it slowly, admiring the lethal beauty of it.
“It was made for a woman’s hand,” he murmured.
Aemon smiled, the expression surprisingly gentle.
“A sword’s only purpose is to kill. The hand that wields it matters less than the will behind it.”
Jon nodded.
He understood the deeper value.
Dark Sister, like Blackfyre, was more than steel.
It was living proof of Targaryen legitimacy.
In a world where ancient names still carried the weight of armies, such symbols could turn the tide before a single battle was fought.
He set the sword aside with care and reached for the egg instead.
The moment his fingers touched the shell, warmth bloomed against his palm.
Life pulsed faintly beneath the scales. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
It was alive.
Aemon’s voice was soft with old memory.
“My mother, Dyanna Dayne, chose it for me when I was still in the cradle. It never hatched for me.”
Jon looked up, a quiet certainty in his eyes.
“I can make it hatch.”
Aemon stared at him for a long moment, then let out a slow, aching breath.
“I’m too old, boy.”
Jon didn’t argue.
He knew the truth.
Permanent restoration of Aemon’s sight would require a blood price the old man would never accept.
Instead, Jon had given him something smaller but still precious: a few hours of clear vision each day, bought with nothing more than the blood of a rabbit.
In those precious hours, Aemon had poured his remaining strength into writing down everything Jon told him about hatching dragon eggs.
He refused to let the knowledge die with him.
…
Months later.
The training yard at Castle Black rang with the clash of steel.
Jon circled three young recruits, his voice sharp.
“You’re too stiff. You’re not wearing plate—use your speed. Attack like a viper when you see an opening. Fall back when you need space. Don’t just stand there like fence posts waiting to be hit.”
The three boys were barely more than children.
The youngest was twelve, the oldest fifteen.
They had been sent to the Wall for stealing food to survive.
Now they trained under a boy who fought like a man twice his age.
Jon moved like smoke between them.
When they rushed him together, he flowed around their strikes, deflecting one blade, dodging another, and rapping the flat of his training sword against the third boy’s ribs.
The watching brothers murmured in admiration.
From the walkway above, Jeor Mormont watched with narrowed eyes.
“That nephew of yours is something rare, Benjen,” the Old Bear said.
“A once-in-a-century fighter.”
Benjen Stark stood beside him, arms folded, pride plain on his face.
“He always was. Even Ned—who never hands out praise lightly—said the boy was Arthur Dayne and the Dragonknight reborn.”
Mormont grunted in agreement.
Benjen’s expression darkened.
“The North is getting worse. Wildlings are flooding south in numbers we haven’t seen in years. Even the animals are fleeing. It feels like they’re running from something.”
“Something that wants to kill everything in its path,” Mormont finished grimly.
Benjen nodded. Visit g.com for the full chapter.
“I’m riding for Winterfell and then south. We need more men. A lot more.”
Mormont didn’t argue.
They both knew the truth.
The Wall was too thin.
Something was coming.
In the yard, Jon lowered his blade.
“That’s enough for today. Go rest.”
The three recruits answered in unison, voices full of awe.
“Yes, ser!”
Jon gave them a short nod and walked away, heading straight for Aemon’s tower.
The moment he pushed open the door, a small silver shape dropped from the rafters and landed squarely against his chest.
Jon caught the hatchling without flinching and held it close.
The dragon was no bigger than a large puppy.
Its scales shimmered silver and purple, beautiful and strange.
It nuzzled against him with open affection, already far more energetic than any ordinary animal its size.
Aemon stood nearby, watching with clear eyes.
The temporary spell still held.
For these few hours each day he could see the world again, and the sight of the living dragon filled his face with quiet wonder.
“She’s like a five-year-old girl,” the old man said fondly.
“Endlessly curious and full of energy.”
Jon stroked the hatchling’s neck.
He already knew who would one day ride her.
The choice had been made the moment she broke the shell.
Aemon had spent his gifted hours writing the secrets of dragon hatching into a book only Targaryen blood would ever read.
He was determined that the next generation would never again face the world without dragons.
Jon looked at the old man and spoke gently.
“I have to go, great-uncle. There’s a war coming, and I need to make sure the North is ready. I have to convince Lord Stark to prepare.”
Aemon’s smile was sad but proud.
He reached out and gripped Jon’s shoulder with surprising strength.
“Be careful, child. If you ever need anything—anything at all—send word. I may be old, but I still have a few tricks left.”
Jon met his gaze and nodded once.
The warmth in his face faded, replaced by the cold, sharp resolve of a man already at war.
“I will,” he said.
“And when the time comes, I’ll come back for you. You’re not staying here forever.”
Aemon’s eyes shone with something fierce and young.
“I’ll be waiting,” he answered.