Timeline: 291 AC
The winds of winter howled through the godswood of Winterfell, carrying with them the scent of snow and pine. Jon Snow stood beneath the heart tree, his hand resting on the rough bark of the weirwood. The face carved into the tree seemed to watch him, its red eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Jon had always felt a connection to the godswood, but tonight it was different. The whispers of the old gods were louder, more insistent. They called to him, urging him to leave, to begin the journey that would define his destiny.
He had known this day would come. The dreams of the Three-Eyed Raven had grown more vivid, more urgent. He had seen the Long Night in his sleep—the endless winter, the armies of the dead, the fall of kingdoms. He had seen his own role in the coming war, and he knew he could not wait any longer.
The Letter
Jon had spent weeks preparing for this moment. He had gathered supplies—dried meat, bread, a waterskin, and a small pouch of silver coins. He had sharpened his sword and repaired his boots. And he had written the letter.
The letter was the hardest part.
He sat at the small desk in his room, a candle flickering beside him as he dipped his quill in ink. The words came slowly, each one heavy with the weight of the truth he had carried for so long.
"Lord Stark,
I know the truth. I am not your son. I am the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. I know this because I have seen it—in dreams, in visions, in the whispers of the old gods. I have a duty, not just to House Targaryen, but to all of Westeros. The Long Night is coming, and I must prepare. I am leaving for Essos to build an army, to find allies, and to reclaim what was lost. Do not search for me. I will return when the time is right.
Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen."
Jon folded the letter carefully and sealed it with a drop of wax. He left it on Ned Stark's desk, knowing it would shatter the man's carefully guarded secrets but trusting that Ned would understand.
The Farewell
Jon's departure was swift and silent. He left under the cover of darkness, his footsteps muffled by the falling snow. Ghost followed him, his red eyes glowing in the night.
He paused at the gates of Winterfell, looking back at the castle that had been his home for so long. He thought of Robb, of Arya, of Bran and Rickon. He thought of Sansa, with her dreams of knights and songs, and of Ned Stark, the man who had raised him as his own.
"I'll come back," Jon whispered, his breath forming a cloud in the cold air. "I'll come back for all of you."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Winterfell behind.
The Wall and Maester Aemon
The journey to the Wall was long and cold. Jon traveled by night, avoiding the main roads and the prying eyes of travelers. He hunted for food, slept in caves, and kept Ghost close at all times.
When he finally reached Castle Black, he was greeted with suspicion. The men of the Night's Watch were wary of strangers, especially one who arrived alone and unannounced. But Jon's Stark name earned him an audience with Maester Aemon.
The old maester was blind, his eyes clouded with age, but his mind was as sharp as ever. He listened in silence as Jon revealed his true identity, his hands trembling slightly as he absorbed the weight of Jon's words.
"Aemon Targaryen," Maester Aemon whispered, his voice filled with wonder. "You bear my name."
"I do," Jon said, his voice steady. "And I bear the burden of our house. I need your counsel."
For hours, they spoke of House Targaryen—its triumphs, its tragedies, and its mistakes. Aemon warned Jon of the dangers of pride and ambition, of the folly of his ancestors who had brought ruin upon themselves.
"Fire and blood are our words," Aemon said, "but they are not our destiny. You must be more than just a dragon, Jon. You must be a leader, a protector."
Before Jon left, Aemon gave him a final gift: Dark Sister, the Valyrian steel sword once wielded by Visenya Targaryen. The blade was light and deadly, its edge still sharp after centuries.
"This sword belongs to you," Aemon said. "Wield it wisely."
Beyond the Wall
Jon's journey beyond the Wall was fraught with danger. The cold was relentless, and the wildlings were always a threat. But Jon had Ghost, and he had the knowledge of the Raven. He moved swiftly, avoiding patrols and hunters, until he reached the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven.
Brynden Rivers was waiting for him, his body entwined with the roots of the weirwood. Around him stood the Children of the Forest, their ancient eyes watching Jon with curiosity.
"You have come," Brynden said. "And you are ready."
The Children of the Forest brought forth a dragon egg, its scales black as midnight and streaked with red. They explained that it had been stolen from Valyria a thousand years ago, a relic of a time when dragons ruled the skies.
"The egg must hatch," Brynden said. "But it will require a sacrifice."
Jon did not hesitate. He placed his hand on the egg, and the Children began their ritual. They chanted in a language older than time, their voices echoing through the cave. The air grew cold, then hot, as ice and fire clashed around Jon.
When the ritual was complete, the egg began to crack. A small, black dragon emerged, its eyes glowing with an inner fire. Jon felt a surge of power, a connection to the creature that went deeper than words.
The dragon was small now, but it would grow. And so would Jon.
The Transformation
The ritual changed Jon. His eyes, once a deep grey, now shone with a faint purple hue. Streaks of white appeared in his dark hair, a mark of his Targaryen heritage. He felt stronger, more alive, as if the blood of the dragon had awakened within him.
Brynden Rivers watched him with a knowing smile. "You are ready," he said. "But your journey is just beginning."