Year 300 AC
Beyond the Wall
Bran Stark sat cross-legged beneath the ancient heart tree, its bone-white bark gnarled and twisted with age. His eyes rolled back, irises glazing over milky white as he slipped into the emerald embrace of the greensight, his consciousness expanding across the tapestry of time. Visions shimmered and danced, transporting him to a fateful moment at the dawn of Robert's Rebellion. The weirwood's blood-red leaves rustled softly in the warm breeze of spring that had finally come to the Isle of Faces, a sacred refuge amidst the rippling waters of the Gods Eye lake. A beautiful maiden stood before a heart tree, the breeze undoing her neat hair to its natural wild mane of brown hair. Her dress a blue winter roses woven into her tresses and her maiden cloak stitched with the sigil of House Stark. A solemn prince replaced her cloak with another, draping a cloak of night-black and blood-red around her shoulders, the colors vivid against the ivory silk of her gown. In the hushed godswood, Bran bore witness to a union that would reshape the destiny of the Seven Kingdoms, a forbidden love blossoming amidst the lengthening shadows of war.
Bran's heart raced as the significance of the secret wedding crashed over him like a towering wave. Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar... married before the old gods. Jon was not his half-brother, Bran realized with a jolt, but his cousin. The rightful heir to the Iron Throne even if Aerys tried to remove Rhaegar from the succession line.
The weight of this revelation settled heavily upon Bran's young shoulders. He knew the truth would shatter whatever fragile peace that could be settled over the realm in the wake of the War of the Five Kings. The Baratheons, the Lannisters—they would never accept a Targaryen heir, especially one born from a union that had sparked a war.
Bran considered how Daenerys Targaryen and the mysterious Young Griff might respond when they learned about Jon's true parentage. Such information would surely spark additional conflict and chaos, even as the foreboding long night approached steadily, menacing to consume everything in its path.
I must keep this secret, for Jon's sake, for the sake of our family. Bran's resolve hardened like Valyrian steel. No one can know, not until the time is right. Not until Jon is ready to face his destiny.
He thought of his father, Eddard Stark, and the burden he had carried all these years. The sacrifices he had made to protect his sister's son, to keep him safe from those who would see him as a threat. Father, I understand now. I will honor your legacy. I will protect our family, no matter the cost.
Bran emerged from the vision, his body trembling with a mixture of awe and trepidation. The rustling leaves of the heart tree seemed to whisper secrets, ancient knowledge flowing through its roots and into Bran's very being. He knew his path was clear, even if it was shrouded in uncertainty.
Bran took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his newfound purpose settle upon his shoulders, I am the next three-eyed raven. I must guide Jon, help him understand his true heritage when the time comes. But for now, I will have to only watch and wait, keeping this secret close to my heart. He looked up at the heart tree, its carved face seeming to gaze back at him with knowing eyes. In that moment, Bran Stark understood that his destiny was intertwined with the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, and he would do whatever it took to protect those he loved.
As the vision faded, Bran pushed further, seeking the ancient magics that had once thrived in Westeros. He saw blurry figures, their faces obscured by time, wielding power that reshaped the world around them. In one moment, a barren desert transformed into a lush oasis, green tendrils sprouting from the sand. In another, a weirwood tree grew from a sapling to a towering giant in mere minutes, its blood-red leaves rustling in a nonexistent breeze.
Bran watched in awe, absorbing the knowledge of these forgotten arts. He could feel the magic thrumming through his veins, a whisper of the power that had once been commonplace in the realm. The figures moved with purpose, their gestures fluid and precise, as if conducting an invisible orchestra of nature itself.
Just as Bran was about to delve deeper, a familiar voice called him back. "Brandon Stark," the Bloodraven said, his tone stern yet gentle. "It is time to return."
Bran blinked, the visions dissipating like smoke in the wind. He found himself back in the cave, the roots of the weirwood tree entwined around him. "I was learning," he said, a hint of annoyance in his voice. "I could have stayed longer."
He leaned forward, his gnarled fingers gripping the arm of his weirwood throne. "Your power is a gift," he continued, his voice low and urgent. "But like all gifts, it comes with a price. The greensight will show you many things, some wondrous and some terrible. You must be strong enough to bear the burden of that knowledge, to use it for the good of the realms of men."
Bran frowned, not quite understanding. The Bloodraven sighed, his withered frame settling against the tree. "Much has happened while you were exploring the past, young Brandon," he said. "The blood of the First Men and the dragonlords have truly accepted each other for the first time."
Bran's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" he asked, his mind still half-lost in the visions he had witnessed.
The Bloodraven's lips curved into a cryptic smile. "Find your brother Jon," he instructed. "See for yourself the current situation. Consider it a test of your growing powers and a lesson in the importance of the present."
Bran hesitated for a moment, then closed his eyes once more. He reached out with his greensight, searching for the familiar presence of his half-brother. It took a moment, but then he found him, a blazing beacon in the tapestry of the world.
What Bran saw left him breathless. Jon Snow, or rather, a dragon of obsidian scales and eyes like molten fire, soared through the skies above the Wall. The dragon's form was immense, dwarfing even the mighty structure that had stood for thousands of years.
Bran watched as the dragon descended upon Castle Black, its wings stirring up a tempest of snow and ice. The men of the Night's Watch, Free Folk and the remains of Stannis' men scattered, their cries of fear and awe echoing through the courtyard. Bran saw Melisandre, the red priestess, fall to her knees, her eyes wide with reverence and disbelief.
Bran gasped, his eyes flying open as the vision faded. He stared at the Bloodraven, his heart racing wildly in his chest. "Jon," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and disbelief. "He's... he's a dragon. I saw him, soaring above the Wall, his scales as black as obsidian, his eyes burning like molten fire."
The Bloodraven nodded sagely, his ancient features inscrutable. "The blood of the Starks and the Targaryens flows through his veins," he intoned, his voice echoing in the stillness of the cave. "A union that was destined to change the fate of Westeros. The Pact of Ice and Fire has finally been fulfilled…in its own unique way to face the darkness that threatens to engulf us all."
Bran sat back, his mind reeling with the implications of what he had seen. He knew that the world he had known, the world of his childhood, was forever altered, that the arrival of Jon Snow, the dragon prince, would set in motion events that would reshape the very fabric of reality. The game of thrones, the petty squabbles of lords and kings, all seemed so insignificant in the face of the true threat that loomed on the horizon.
"How can I help him from so far away?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The ancient greenseer fixed Bran with his one red eye, his voice grave as he intoned, "Your brother's newfound abilities are not without consequence, young Stark. The flames that now rage in his veins threaten to engulf him utterly if he cannot master them. Jon must learn to command the inferno that dwells inside, lest it devour him from within."
Bran nodded solemnly as the Bloodraven's words sank in. He knew the weight of responsibility that now rested on his brother's shoulders - and the terrible price that came with such power.
"I understand," Bran said quietly. "The fire in his blood is a double-edged blade. It can strengthen him, but it can also destroy him if he loses control."
The Bloodraven inclined his head in agreement, his single red eye gleaming in the dim light of the cave. "Indeed. Your brother has been reborn, but he is still a man - still fallible, still vulnerable to the temptations of power unchecked. He must learn to master the dragon within, lest it master him."
Bran's brow furrowed with concern. "What must I do?"
"You have gifts of your own, Brandon Stark," the pale lord replied. "The greensight flows through your veins, the wisdom of the weirwoods whispers in your ear. You must use these abilities to reach out to Jon across the leagues between you. So you must fly."
Bran felt a flicker of uncertainty. His powers were still new to him, untested. But he knew he had to try - for Jon's sake, and for the sake of the realms of men.
"I will," he vowed, his voice low but resolute. "I'll find a way to warn him, to help him tame the flames before they consume everything he is. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
The Bloodraven smiled then, a strange, sad smile that held the weight of centuries. "Then go forth, young winged wolf. Find your brother in the shadows of sleep, and bring him back to the light. The fate of the world may depend upon it."
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Near Fist of The First Men
Gorren, his fiery red hair tousled and wild, shivered as the icy wind whipped through the makeshift camp, his thick furs providing little protection against the biting cold. He huddled closer to the flickering fire, his eyes darting nervously towards the darkness that loomed just beyond the circle of light. Since he could remember, the fear of the blue-eyed demons had haunted his every waking moment.
They had set out from their village with a group of four hundred, seeking refuge at Hardhome after whispers of its safety from the Walkers had reached their ears. But the journey had been perilous, and their numbers had dwindled to a mere hundred and forty souls. Gorren's heart ached as he remembered his mother, a fierce spearwife who had fallen defending her family against the relentless onslaught of the dead.
Now, only his father and younger sister Skara remained. Gorren watched as his father tried to maintain a brave face, offering words of encouragement and hope to the survivors. But the attacks had grown more frequent, and the weariness in his father's eyes betrayed the toll it had taken on him.
As Gorren pondered their dire situation, a sudden darkness engulfed the camp, deeper than the blackest night. A massive shape soared overhead, its wings blotting out the stars as it passed. The behemoth landed on a nearby hill, its presence sending a shockwave through the already tense atmosphere.
Without a second thought, Gorren sprung to his feet and raced towards the hill, his curiosity overpowering his fear. He darted through the dense forest, branches scratching at his face as he pushed forward, determined to get a closer look at the creature that had descended upon them as the camp sprang into panic. His heart pounded in his chest as he neared the edge of the tree line, the enormity of what he was about to encounter slowly sinking in.
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Near Fist of The First Men
Jon soared over the Wall, his obsidian scales glinting in the moonlight as he sought solace in the sky. The fire within him burned with an intensity he had never known, threatening to consume him from the inside out.
His thoughts raced, a chaotic whirlwind of confusion and despair, What have I become? The thought rattled through his mind like a prisoner in a cage. Father always said a man must know who he is. But what am I now?
Unable to bear the weight of his thoughts, Jon descended towards the Fist of the First Men, his massive wings stirring up a flurry of snow as he landed with a heavy thud that shook the ancient stones. Each labored breath sent plumes of smoke into the frigid air, the heat melting the ice around his snout. It did little to calm the raging inferno that seemed to spread with every passing moment, consuming him from within.
Control it. Control yourself. Jon fought against the raging inferno within. Stark blood runs though you. You still have a duty.
The dragon's blood sang in his veins, a seductive melody promising power beyond imagining. His enhanced senses detected a small figure at the clearing's edge—a boy with fiery red hair, no older than Bran had been when Jon last saw him.
A dark whisper slithered through his mind: Burn them all. Show them what power truly is. The temptation to simply let loose, to revel in watching everything incinerate... goading him to obliterate the entire vista. His restraint began to falter and Jon's jaws parted, heat building in his throat.
Then a second child appeared—a girl even younger than the boy, with the same flame-red hair.
The boy shouted at the girl to flee, his voice cracking with fear. In that instant, a bolt of understanding sliced through the murk of his reptilian urges, these pair clinging to each other before him must be brother and sister.
Arya. The name came unbidden, cutting through the dragon's influence. She reminds me of Arya.
A torrent of recollections swept through Jon's mind - Arya, wild and unconquerable even as a small child. His cherished sister, separated from him for countless seasons. He recognized with absolute conviction that he would rip the universe apart to recover her, to shield her from every danger. That unshakable connection of kinship, of pack, coursed deeper than the dragon's essence now flowing within his veins.
I was supposed to protect my siblings too. I failed them. I cannot fail now. I will not fail now.
With an effort that felt like pushing through stone, Jon forced the fire back down his throat. The dragon resisted, but the wolf was stronger. I am Jon Snow. The blood of the First Men flows in my veins. I am still a man, whatever form I wear.
After several agonizing moments, Jon regained control. He looked down at the children, seeing their terror, and felt a pang of shame. Carefully, he folded his wings against his body, trying to appear less threatening.
As he gazed down at the two small figures below, Jon wrestled to regain mastery over the beast within. After several agonizing moments, Jon regained control, forcing the dragon to submit to the ironclad Stark will that had always defined him.
Jon Snow took several deep, intense breaths, fighting to regain control over his draconic form. As the flames within him subsided, he found himself able to move his wings and claws with greater precision. He turned his gaze towards the two children before him, their eyes wide with terror as they clung to each other.
"Calm, I will not harm you" Jon said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. The children flinched at the sound, their fear only intensifying. Realizing his mistake, Jon slowly folded his wings, trying to appear less threatening.
Desperate to diffuse the situation, Jon decided to engage the children in conversation. "What are your names?" he asked, his tone as gentle as he could manage.
The boy hesitated, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps. Jon recognized that stance—he had done the same for Arya countless times—the desire to protect his sister warring with the instinct to flee.
"I will not harm you," Jon repeated, hoping that his words would be enough to convince them of his intentions.
After a long moment, the boy spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Gorren," he said, his chest heaving with each breath. He glanced at the girl beside him, his grip on her hand tightening. "And this is my sister, Skara." His eyes narrowed with suspicious courage. "Who are you?"
"Jon Snow." The name felt strange on his reptilian tongue, both his and not his. "Of the Night's Watch."
Though what good is a vow to wear no crowns when I now wear scales instead?
"What clan are you from?" he asked. "And why are you alone in these lands?"
The boy glanced at his sister before answering. "We...we're from the Hornfoots clan," he stammered.
Skara interrupted him, her voice high and anxious. "We're fleeing from the blue-eyed demons! Are you… are you one of them?" She stared at Jon with a mixture of fear and suspicion.
Despite everything, Jon felt a dark amusement. From bastard to Lord Commander to dragon, and now mistaken for a wight.
"No," he said. "I am no wight, nor Other. They are my enemies as well."
Jon studied the children more carefully, noting their gaunt faces and threadbare furs. Free Folk fleeing south, just as Mance intended. Their thin frames and haunted eyes told of a desperate journey.
"Where are your people?" he asked. "Two children shouldn't wander these lands alone."
Gorren stepped forward, placing himself between Jon and his sister. His small fists clenched at his sides, chin raised in defiance despite his trembling legs.
Gorren stepped forward, chin raised defiantly despite his trembling. "I won't tell ye where they are. Ye might be some trick of the cold ones."
Brave lad. Reminds me of Rickon—wild and fierce even as a small boy.
Jon felt a swell of admiration for the child's courage. Even facing a beast that could reduce him to ash with a single breath, the boy stood his ground to protect his people.
"That's brave of you," Jon acknowledged. "But unnecessary." He tilted his massive head toward the forest. "I can sense them nearby."
As if summoned by his words, a desperate cry cut through the night.
"Gorren! Skara!"
A wild-eyed man burst from the treeline, clutching a crude spear in frost-bitten hands. He faltered at the sight of Jon but recovered quickly, racing toward the children with single-minded determination.
"Get away from 'em, beast!" the man shouted, placing himself between Jon and the children.
More Free Folk emerged from the trees, their faces masks of terror and awe. Women clutched crude weapons while men pushed forward, forming a protective half-circle around the children.
Jon recognized the rising panic in their eyes—They see only the monster, not the man within. Just as the Watch saw only the bastard, not the brother.
"I mean you no harm," Jon called out, keeping his massive form still. "I am Jon Snow of the Night's Watch."
Stunned silence fell over the group. The man who'd first emerged—likely the children's father—gaped at him.
"Seven bloody hells," he whispered. "The dragon speaks with a crow's tongue."
Not a crow anymore. Not fully a man. What am I?
The wildlings murmured among themselves, suspicious eyes darting between Jon and each other.
"How does a crow wear a dragon's skin?" demanded a grizzled elder, his hand never leaving the bone handle of his knife.
Jon felt the weight of their stares, the question he had been asking himself since his transformation.
"I don't know," he admitted, the words heavy with truth. Some questions have no answers, as Maester Aemon would say.
A woman with hair as red as Ygritte's stepped forward. "Were you ever truly a man, crow?"
The question struck deeper than any blade. Jon remembered Ghost, how the direwolf's consciousness sometimes brushed against his own. Was this the same, only more complete? Or something else entirely?
A memory stirs—something Maester Aemon once said about his family, about dragons and dreams. About blood.
"Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Kill the boy and let the man be born." Is this what Maester Aemon meant? No, he couldn't have known... couldn't have imagined this. And yet... he was a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon.
"Aye," Jon answered. "Though I've... changed somewhat since then."
"That's putting it bloody mild," someone muttered from the back.
Jon observed the wildlings—their fear, their desperation illuminated by the pale moonlight. But fear—not just of him, but of what pursued them through the frozen wilderness. They need help.
"Your clan is in danger," he said. "The dead come, and you have little chance without aid."
The man who seemed to be the children's father tightened his grip on his spear. "What would a crow know of our troubles?"
"I've fought the dead," Jon replied, memories flashing through his mind. "I've seen what they do to those they catch."
He lowered his massive head, meeting the wildling's eyes. "I can help you."
A murmur ran through the small group. Suspicion warred with hope on their weathered faces.
"Help us how?" asked the red-haired woman, skepticism evident in her voice.
"I'll bring you food," Jon said. "And guide you to the Wall."
The father barked a harsh laugh. "An' what then? Yer crow brothers'll cut us down the mo' we step close."
They might try. But I am no longer just their Lord Commander.
"They will not harm you," Jon said, smoke curling from his nostrils. I may not know what I am, but I know what I must do.
"How you so sure, eh?" Grodill challenged.
"Because they no longer have a choice." Jon's voice took on a harder edge, his massive teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "Because the true enemy is coming for us all."
The wildlings exchanged glances, a flicker of hope kindling in their eyes.
"You'd do this fer us, truly?" Gorren asked, his young voice cutting through the silence. "Why?"
"Because winter is coming," he said simply. "And the dead come with it. The time for fighting amongst ourselves is past." Father would understand. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives—and our pack must now include all the living.
The father studied Jon for a long moment before slowly nodding. "Right then, Snow-dragon. We take yer aid, we do."
Relief washed over Jon. These people would live, at least a while longer. In this strange new existence, that small victory felt like purpose.
Perhaps this is why I was brought back, Jon thought. Not just to fight, but to unite. To be the shield that guards the realms of men—all men.
As the wildlings cautiously approached, Jon felt something settle within him—not peace, exactly, but resolve. Dragon he might be in form, but in heart, he remained Jon Snow.
I am still my father's son.
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A/N: Hope you enjoy the read and please leave a comment with your review! :)
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