Timeline: 292 AC
The air beyond the Wall was sharp and biting, carrying with it the scent of snow and pine. Jon Snow moved silently through the dense forest, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. Ghost padded beside him, his white fur blending seamlessly with the snow-covered ground. On Jon's shoulder perched Ancalagon, his small black dragon, its eyes glowing with an inner fire.
The ritual in the cave of the Three-Eyed Raven had changed Jon. His eyes now shone with a faint purple hue, and streaks of white had appeared in his dark hair. He felt stronger, more alive, as if the blood of the dragon had awakened within him. But with this newfound power came a greater responsibility. The Long Night was coming, and Jon knew he had to prepare.
The Wildlings
Jon's first encounter with the wildlings came just a day after he left the cave. He had been following a narrow trail through the forest when he heard the sound of voices ahead. He crouched low, signaling Ghost to stay close, and crept forward to investigate.
A group of wildlings had made camp in a small clearing. There were about a dozen of them, men and women, dressed in furs and leathers. They were laughing and talking, their voices carrying easily through the cold air.
Jon watched them for a moment, considering his options. He could avoid them and continue on his way, but he knew that would only delay the inevitable. The wildlings were a part of the North, and if he was to unite the realm against the White Walkers, he would need their help.
He stepped into the clearing, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister. The wildlings turned to face him, their laughter dying away as they took in the sight of the young man with the dragon on his shoulder and the direwolf at his side.
"Who are you?" one of the wildlings demanded, a tall man with a thick beard and a spear in his hand.
"My name is Jon Snow," Jon replied, his voice calm and steady. "And I'm not your enemy."
The wildlings exchanged uneasy glances. They had heard stories of the bastard of Winterfell, but none of those stories had mentioned a dragon.
"What do you want?" the bearded man asked, his grip tightening on his spear.
"I've come to warn you," Jon said. "The Long Night is coming. The White Walkers are real, and they're coming for all of us. If we don't prepare, we'll all die."
The wildlings laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The Long Night?" one of the women sneered. "That's just a story."
Jon's eyes narrowed. He reached up and stroked Ancalagon's head, and the small dragon let out a roar that echoed through the forest. The wildlings fell silent, their eyes wide with fear.
"This is no story," Jon said, his voice hard. "In seven years, I will return to lead you south of the Wall. But you must prepare. Gather your people. Train your fighters. And when the time comes, be ready to fight for your lives."
The wildlings exchanged uneasy glances. Some of them nodded, while others scoffed and turned away. Jon knew it would not be enough, but it was a start.
The Bond with Ancalagon
As Jon continued his journey, his bond with Ancalagon grew stronger. The small dragon was fiercely loyal, its eyes always watching, its mind always connected to Jon's. He could feel its thoughts, its emotions, as if they were his own.
Ancalagon was growing quickly, its wings becoming stronger with each passing day. Jon spent hours training the dragon, teaching it to obey his commands and to use its fire in controlled bursts. It was a slow process, but Jon was patient. He knew that Ancalagon would be a powerful ally in the battles to come.
One night, as they camped beneath the stars, Jon had a vision. He saw the Long Night, the armies of the dead marching across the frozen landscape. He saw the fall of kingdoms, the death of millions. And he saw himself, standing at the head of an army, Ancalagon roaring in the sky above him.
When he woke, he knew what he had to do.
The Journey to Eastwatch
Jon's final destination was Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the easternmost castle of the Night's Watch. He needed to find a ship that could take him to Essos, where he could begin building his army and gathering allies.
The journey to Eastwatch was long and arduous. The cold was relentless, and the wildlings were always a threat. But Jon had Ghost and Ancalagon, and he had the knowledge of the Raven. He moved swiftly, avoiding patrols and hunters, until he finally reached the coast.
Eastwatch was a small, grim place, its walls battered by the wind and the sea. The men of the Night's Watch were wary of strangers, especially one who arrived with a direwolf. But Stark name earned him passage on a ship bound for Braavos.
The Departure
As the ship set sail, Jon stood at the stern, watching the shores of Westeros fade into the distance. Ghost stood beside him, his red eyes glowing in the moonlight. Ancalagon perched on the railing, its wings spread wide as it let out a roar that echoed across the water.
Jon felt a mix of emotions—sadness for the home he had left behind, but also hope for the future. He had a dragon, a direwolf, a sword, and a purpose.
The game was far from over, but Jon Snow—Aemon Targaryen—was no longer a pawn. He was a player.