The last thing Arthur Smith remembered was the screech of tires, the blinding glare of headlights, and the crushing impact that tore through his body. Pain. Darkness. Silence. And then… warmth. A strange, muffled warmth, as if he were floating in a cocoon of liquid fire. Voices echoed around him, distant and distorted, like whispers through a thick fog.
"Lyanna… my sweet girl…" a man's voice, deep and sorrowful, murmured.
"He has her eyes," another voice, softer and gentler, replied. "And his father's solemnity."
Arthur tried to speak, to ask where he was, but all that came out was a weak, gurgling cry. Panic surged through him as he realized he had no control over his body. His limbs were tiny, flailing weakly, and his vision was blurred, as if he were looking through a haze.
It took him days—or was it weeks?—to piece together the truth. He was no longer Arthur Smith, the 25-year-old strategic analyst from London. He was… a baby. A newborn, swaddled in furs, cradled in the arms of a woman with kind eyes and a solemn man with a long, stern face.
Winterfell. The name echoed in his mind like a thunderclap. He was in Winterfell. And the man holding him—that was Eddard Stark.
No. Not Eddard Stark. Ned. My… uncle.
The realization hit him like a tidal wave. He was Jon Snow. Or rather, Aemon Targaryen, the secret son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. The knowledge of his past life—of the books, the show, the wars to come—flooded his mind. The White Walkers. The Long Night. The Iron Throne. The Game of Thrones.
I'm in Westeros. And I'm him.
As the days turned into months, Arthur—now Jon—struggled to reconcile his memories with his new reality. He was a child, helpless and dependent, but his mind was sharp, his thoughts clear. He observed everything: the towering walls of Winterfell, the stern faces of the Stark household, the cold northern winds that whispered of ancient secrets.
He also learned of his place in this world. He was a bastard, the supposed son of Eddard Stark and some unknown woman. The whispers of the servants followed him wherever he went, their pitying glances a constant reminder of his status. But Jon knew the truth. He was no bastard. He was a Targaryen, the last hope of a dying dynasty.
Yet, for now, he was a child of Winterfell. And he would use this time to prepare.
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The Shadow of Lady Stark
Jon's earliest memories of Catelyn Stark were not kind. Her icy blue eyes would often linger on him, not with warmth, but with a mixture of disdain and unease. She never struck him, never raised her voice in his presence, but her coldness was a constant presence, like the chill of the northern winds.
At first, it stung. The part of him that was still Arthur—a man who had known love and acceptance—felt the weight of her rejection deeply. But as he grew older, he began to understand. Catelyn Stark was not cruel; she was afraid. She saw him as a threat, a living reminder of her husband's infidelity, a potential danger to her children's inheritance.
Jon couldn't blame her. In her place, he might have felt the same.
He avoided her when he could, staying out of her sight and keeping to the shadows of Winterfell. But there were moments when their paths crossed, and he would see the flicker of pain in her eyes. It was in those moments that Jon felt a strange kinship with her. They were both prisoners of their circumstances, bound by duty and secrets.
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The Quiet Wolf and the Silent Snow
Ned Stark was a harder puzzle to solve. The man was a fortress, his emotions hidden behind a wall of stoic silence. He treated Jon with a distant kindness, providing for him, ensuring he was educated and trained, but there was always a barrier between them.
Jon could see the guilt in Ned's eyes, the weight of the promise he had made to Lyanna. It was a burden Ned carried alone, and though Jon longed to tell him that he knew the truth, he held his tongue. The time was not right.
Instead, he focused on learning. He spent hours in the library with Maester Luwin, poring over maps and histories, absorbing every detail of Westeros's politics and wars. He trained in the yard with Ser Rodrik, his small hands gripping a wooden sword as he practiced his strikes. And he watched. Always, he watched.
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The Brotherhood of Wolves
It was Robb who brought light into Jon's quiet world. The heir to Winterfell was everything Jon was not: bold, outgoing, and brimming with the confidence of a trueborn Stark. Yet, despite their differences, the two boys formed an unbreakable bond.
They were inseparable, racing through the godswood, climbing the ancient walls of Winterfell, and sparring in the courtyard. Robb was the only one who could draw Jon out of his shell, who could make him laugh and forget, even for a moment, the weight of his destiny.
"One day, we'll ride south together," Robb said one night, his voice filled with the boundless optimism of youth. "We'll see the Eyrie, the Rock, even King's Landing!"
Jon smiled faintly, his mind already racing ahead. King's Landing. The Iron Throne. The dragons. The wars.
"Aye," he replied softly. "One day."
But his thoughts were far from the adventures of childhood. He had a mission, a purpose. He would grow strong. He would learn. And when the time came, he would claim his birthright—not for power, but for survival. For the living.
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The Seed of a King
By the time Jon turned seven, his talents were beginning to show. He was a natural with a sword, his movements precise and calculated, as if guided by an unseen hand. He devoured books on strategy and history, his mind weaving intricate plans for the battles to come. And though he remained quiet and reserved, his presence was undeniable.
The North was his home, but the world was his destiny.
And so, as the snows of winter fell upon Winterfell, Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen—watched and waited. The game was afoot, and he would play it better than anyone.