Jon woke early, just as the first light touched the sky.
Inside the time nexus, his days had been filled with relentless training.
High-intensity sword drills, dragon-riding techniques, and deep dives into ancient blood magic had become his new normal.
Visenya Targaryen, the first queen of Westeros, had held nothing back when she taught him the vast lost heritage of House Targaryen.
She had raged about the family knowledge that had vanished over the centuries—priceless texts and magical secrets burned in suspicious fires.
Jon knew exactly who was behind it.
The Faith of the Seven and the maesters of Oldtown.
Those two powerful, deeply rooted institutions had spent centuries quietly destroying anything that threatened their control.
Jon had already sworn to himself that when the time was right, he would make them pay in blood and fire.
Blood magic itself was a dark and horrifying art.
It could extend a caster’s life through human sacrifice, and if the caster was willing, it could reshape their body at the deepest level.
In the five-thousand-year history of the Valyrian Freehold, blood magic had sunk deep into the bloodlines of the forty dragonlord families.
Some descendants could move multiple swords through the air with nothing but thought.
Others possessed speed and strength far beyond any normal human.
Chimeras stitched together from different creatures were only the beginning.
The Doom had swallowed almost all of it.
Jon found the subject fascinating but not compelling.
His own gift—Foresight Vision—had already mutated far beyond the usual Targaryen “dragon dreams.” Even Visenya had admitted he was the most gifted Targaryen in five thousand years.
He could already see past, present, and future with almost no limits.
He yawned, stretched, and stepped out of the cave into the morning light.
The first thing he saw was Korakshu sprawled across the clearing, basking in the sun.
The dragon was enormous now—twenty meters long, with a wingspan twice that.
Two powerful hind legs, massive forelimbs that had become wings, a long flexible neck, and a triangular, fang-filled head crowned with short sharp horns.
A ridge of blade-like spines ran down its back from neck to tail.
Its body was covered in brilliant crimson scales that caught the light like polished armor.
It was still a juvenile, only six years old, but already the size of a forty-year-old dragon.
The growth rate was impossible by any normal standard.
Just like its rider.
“(Good morning,)” Jon said in pure High Valyrian.
Korakshu cracked one eye open, gave a lazy, high-pitched trill, and went right back to sunning itself.
Jon smiled at the dragon’s arrogance and walked toward the clear stream about a hundred yards away.
Nothing dangerous came near this clearing.
The dragon’s presence kept every predator far away.
He knelt at the stream, splashed the icy water on his face, and looked up.
Across the water stood a woman in a bright red dress.
She had full red lips curved in an elegant, fanatical smile and deep ruby-colored eyes that burned with intensity.
Long black wavy hair spilled over her shoulders and chest.
The red gown was impossibly clean despite the mud and thorns of the wolfswood.
A heavy ruby necklace rested at her throat.
Behind her stood dozens of men and women, all of them staring at Jon with the same wild, worshipful light in their eyes.
Jon felt the weight of fate settle over him like a noose.
He wasn’t afraid.
He simply felt the crushing certainty that he was being pulled deeper into a script he had never chosen.
In this woman’s eyes he was the chosen one—the hero promised by prophecy, the savior who would stand against the darkness.
In his own eyes he was still just a prisoner wearing a crown he didn’t want.
When she tried to speak, Jon turned his back on her without a word and walked away.
Kinvara watched the beautiful boy leave, her smile only growing brighter.
She gathered her red skirts and followed without hesitation.
Her followers—the Hands of the Sacred Fire—moved ahead of her, clearing a path through the brush with religious fervor.
“High Priestess… is he truly the Light’s chosen?” one of the red priestesses, Melina, asked quietly, worry in her voice.
They had crossed half the world to find the prophesied hero, yet the boy had looked at them with clear anger.
“Set your heart at ease, Melina,” Kinvara answered gently.
“The Lord of Light will burn away your doubts soon enough.”
Melina sighed.
The journey had been brutal.
They had burned through enormous amounts of magic to stay hidden while they infiltrated the North.
Her body was weak, her resistance to cold and heat nearly gone.
But her faith had only grown stronger the moment she saw the boy’s purple eyes.
When they reached the clearing, Kinvara’s breath caught.
The massive crimson dragon lay in the sunlight like living flame.
Another unmistakable sign from R’hllor.
Her followers gasped and many of them dropped to their knees, staring at Jon and the dragon with pure worship.
Korakshu did not appreciate the intrusion.
The dragon’s head swung toward the newcomers, a deep warning growl building in its chest.
Its jaws opened.
A bright red glow flared in its throat.
Jon placed a hand on the dragon’s neck.
“(Easy, Korakshu. These are not food. At least… not yet.)”
The dragon closed its mouth but kept glaring at the intruders.
Kinvara understood the High Valyrian perfectly.
She gave a calm order.
“Hunt a deer or some other large game and bring it back. Soothe the dragon’s anger.” Four of the Hands immediately slipped into the trees.
Then she turned to Jon, placed her hands together at her waist, and bowed with perfect respect.
“Allow me to introduce myself, Light’s chosen. I am Kinvara, High Priestess of the Red Temple in Volantis. I am the flame of truth, the light of wisdom, and the first servant of the Lord of Light.”
Jon looked at her with flat eyes.
“For now,” he said, “I am only Jon Snow.”
There was an unconscious authority in his voice now, the kind that came from spending too much time with Visenya Targaryen.