296 AC
The chill of the North bit into Aemon Targaryen's skin as he soared through the night skies atop Ancalagon. The biting wind, the scent of pine and snow, and the familiar landscape below stirred something deep within him—a longing he had carried for years. The North was not just a place; it was a part of his soul, a tether to a life he had left behind.
But he was no longer Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was Aemon Targaryen, the Dragon Reborn.
And he had returned.
The Shadows Over the North
Aemon kept himself hidden, his presence cloaked in darkness and distance. He flew only at night, navigating the mountain ranges that bordered the North, using the cover of clouds and shadows to conceal Ancalagon's immense form. During the day, he remained nestled in the high peaks, where no wandering eyes could glimpse the black wings or hear the thunderous beat of his dragon's flight.
The North had changed in the years he had been gone, yet it remained eerily the same. The vast stretches of snow-covered forests, the icy rivers winding through valleys, and the ancient castles standing as silent sentinels over the frozen landscape—all of it was etched into his memory, unchanged by time.
As Aemon traveled, he visited familiar places, each one a ghost from his past.
The Fist of the First Men
His first stop was the Fist of the First Men, an ancient hilltop ringed by stones, where the First Men had once camped and fought. The place was steeped in history, a testament to those who had battled the elements and the unknown to carve a life in this harsh land.
Aemon stood atop the hill, the wind howling around him, and felt the weight of the past pressing down. He thought of the ancient bloodlines that had shaped the North, the unbroken line of Starks who had ruled from Winterfell, and how his own lineage now bridged the divide between dragon and wolf.
The North was more than just his past—it was his foundation, a land that had shaped him before he discovered his true identity.
The Wall and Castle Black
Aemon couldn't return to the North without visiting The Wall. The massive ice barrier stretched endlessly across the landscape, its sheer face gleaming under the moonlight. It was both a symbol of protection and isolation, a boundary between the known and the unknown.
He hovered high above Castle Black, watching the tiny figures of the Night's Watch move below. The men patrolled the grounds, oblivious to the dragon circling silently above them. Aemon felt a pang of nostalgia—memories of the stories he had heard about the Wall, of the legends that spoke of its purpose and the dangers beyond.
Though he had never taken the black, the Wall was a part of his Northern heritage, a symbol of the duty and honor that had shaped his upbringing under Ned Stark.
For a long moment, Aemon considered revealing himself, but the time wasn't right. The Wall would remain a silent witness to his passage—for now.
The Wolfswood and the Echoes of Home
Flying south from the Wall, Aemon skirted the edges of the Wolfswood, the vast forest that stretched toward Winterfell. The dense trees whispered in the wind, their ancient trunks standing as silent sentinels over the frozen ground. It was here, in these woods, that he had hunted with Robb, sparred with Theon, and walked in the quiet solitude that only the North could offer.
As he moved deeper into the forest, Aemon dismounted and walked among the trees, feeling the crunch of snow beneath his boots. The scent of pine and frost filled his senses, grounding him in the reality of his return.
In a clearing, he paused and closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. The North was not just a land—it was his childhood, his family, his past.
But it was also his future.
The Godswood of Winterfell
Finally, Aemon turned his gaze toward Winterfell. The castle loomed on the horizon, its grey stone walls blending seamlessly with the snow-covered landscape. The familiar sight filled him with a mix of warmth and dread.
Winterfell was home. But it was also the place where he had lived a lie, where he had been Jon Snow, the bastard who never quite belonged.
He couldn't reveal himself openly—not yet. The North was full of eyes and ears, and he needed to ensure his presence remained a secret until the right moment.
Aemon landed Ancalagon in the dense forests beyond Winterfell, using the thick canopy as cover. From there, he traveled on foot, moving like a shadow through the familiar woods. The scent of pine and snow, the crunch of frost beneath his boots—it all felt like a dream from another life.
The Message to Ned
Aemon knew he needed to see Ned Stark. But approaching the Lord of Winterfell openly would be dangerous. He needed to ensure Ned came to him willingly, without raising suspicion.
Using his warg abilities, Aemon connected with Ghost, his loyal direwolf who had remained in the North. Through Ghost's eyes, he navigated the castle grounds, slipping unnoticed through the shadows. The wolf carried a letter, written in Aemon's familiar hand, addressed to Ned.
The letter was simple but laden with meaning:
"Meet me in the godswood at midnight. Come alone. A nephew from the past seeks your counsel."
Ghost delivered the letter to Ned's chambers, leaving it on the windowsill before vanishing back into the night.