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Chapter 2 (They are just dreams, right?), Chapter 3 (The Ghost of Kyoshi), Chapter 4 (A Bastard's Bending), Chapter 5 (Fire and Farewells), Chapter 6 (Breath of Fire), Chapter 7 (The Road to White Harbor), and Chapter 8 (The Call of the Water) are already available for Patrons.
The modest home in Republic City stood bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon, its stone walls and wooden beams a testament to the harmony Aang had spent his life building. Inside, the air carried faint traces of incense and sea salt. The room was cluttered with relics of a full life: an airbender staff propped against the wall, a faded Fire Nation tapestry draped over a chair, a carved wooden seal from the Northern Water Tribe resting on a shelf.
Aang lay on a low bed in the center, his frail form swallowed by a thick blanket. His hair, once a bold arrow of youth, was now a sparse, gray wisp across his scalp, and his breathing came in shallow rasps, each one softer than the last.
Katara sat beside him, her silver hair pulled back, her face etched with the lines of age. She clutched his hand, her thumb tracing small, steady circles over his knuckles, as if she could anchor him to the world a little longer.
Around them stood their children—Kya, her cheeks damp with silent tears; Bumi, broad-shouldered and restless, his jaw tight; Tenzin, the youngest, his head bowed in quiet reverence. Near the window, Zuko lingered. Sokka paced a step near the door, leaning on a cane, its tip tapping faintly against the floor.
Toph was nearby, tapping the floor with her feet.
The silence broke as Zuko turned from the window. "Remember that Fire Festival, Aang?" he said, a rare smile tugging at his lips, crinkling the scar on his cheek. "You tricked me into dancing—worst moves I've ever seen. Thought I'd trip over your glider just to escape." A low chuckle rumbled from his chest, and Bumi let out a snort, his shoulders easing for a moment.
Sokka grinned. He tapped his cane once, then leaned forward. "Oh, and that moon spirit stunt—thought we'd lost you for good that time. Froze my boots off waiting for you to wake up, but you always came back, didn't you?" His voice lifted, light as ever, but it dipped at the end, and he rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away as if to hide the sheen in his eyes.
Katara's lips trembled. She leaned closer, her forehead nearly brushing Aang's. "The world will be fine, Aang," she said, her words a soft promise. "You've given it everything—peace, balance, a future. Rest now." Her grip tightened on his hand, her shoulders hunching slightly, as if she could will his heart to keep beating.
Aang's eyes fluttered open, half-lidded and cloudy, but a spark of his old mischief danced there for a fleeting second. His lips curved into a faint, trembling smile, and his fingers twitched beneath Katara's.
He leaned his head closer to Katara and told her. "I...have something...important...to tell you." Katara leaned closer, and the others quieted down as Aang smiled slightly.
"Will...will you...will you go penguin sledding with me?"
Katara almost giggled, but before she could give him an answer, she noticed. His chest was no longer rising and falling. She froze, her breath catching as she searched his face. The smile lingered on Aang's lips, serene and unbroken, his eyes closed as if in sleep. A tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and she pressed her forehead to his, a soft sob breaking free.
Sokka's cane lay forgotten on the floor as he stumbled forward, catching himself on the edge of Aang's bed. His weathered face crumpled. "You really did it this time, didn't you?" he whispered, voice cracking. "No coming back from the ice, no spirit water..." His hand found Katara's shoulder, squeezing gently. For once in his life, Sokka had no jokes to tell, no quips to lighten the mood. His best friend, his brother in all but blood, was gone.
Zuko pressed his palm against the wall, head bowed, his long grey hair falling forward to hide his face. "You changed my life," he murmured, his raspy voice thick with emotion. "You changed everything." His good eye glistened as he remembered a young monk offering friendship to a lost prince. "The world needed you then. It still needs you now." His fingers traced the rough stone of the wall, remembering countless adventures, shared meals, late-night conversations about peace and redemption.
Toph remained rooted to her spot, her unseeing eyes wide, feet pressed firmly against the floor as if trying to detect some trace of Aang's heartbeat that she might have missed. Her face was turned away from the others, but they could see her shoulders trembling slightly. "Typical Twinkletoes," she said, her voice rough and unsteady, "leaving without saying goodbye properly." Her hands clenched at her sides.
Kya moved to her mother's side, wrapping an arm around Katara's shoulders. Her healer's hands itched to do something, anything, but there was nothing left to heal. "Dad," she choked out, tears flowing freely now. "Remember when you taught me to catch clouds? You said they were just water waiting to dance..." She pressed her face into her mother's shoulder.
Bumi stood at attention. He was the only one of Aang's children without bending, but his father had never made him feel lesser for it. "You always said being different was a gift," he said hoarsely. His hand unconsciously touched the United Forces insignia on his uniform. "That everyone had their own path to walk." His composure cracked slightly, a single tear tracking down his weathered cheek.
Tenzin knelt beside the bed. The weight of being the last airbending master pressed down on him like a physical thing. "Father," he whispered, his usually steady voice wavering. "How do I..." He couldn't finish the thought. How do I carry on? How do I lead our people? How do I live up to your legacy? He felt a small hand slip into his—Kya, offering silent support.
The sun continued to set, casting long shadows across the room. Outside, a warm breeze stirred the wind chimes, their melody somehow sadder now. Republic City hummed in the distance, unaware that the world had fundamentally shifted.
.
.
The mist parted like curtains of silk, and Aang found himself standing in an endless expanse of shimmering light. His body felt light, lighter than it had felt for a decade and when he looked down at his hands, they were young again. He appeared as if he was in his forties, instead of his late sixties. In the distance, landscapes shifted and merged—the volcanic peaks of Roku's island, the sweeping plains of Kyoshi, the icy waters of Kuruk's North, and the misty mountains of Yangchen's temples.
"Welcome home, Aang."
The voice was warm and familiar. Roku emerged from the ethereal light, his Fire Nation robes flowing despite the absence of wind, his topknot ornament gleaming with the same gentle authority Aang remembered from their years of guidance.
"Roku." Aang bowed. He ran up to him, and the two shared a big hug before pulling away; then he noticed someone else appearing.
Kyoshi towered in her full warrior regalia, her painted face stern beneath her headdress, her fans folded but ready at her belt. She gave a curt nod, her expression unreadable behind the white makeup.
Kuruk appeared like an old friend who Aang hasn't seen for a long time, his Water Tribe armor worn comfortably like everyday clothes, spear resting loosely across his shoulders. He raised a hand in an easy greeting, a half-smile playing on his face.
Yangchen floated into view last, her Air Nomad robes pristine, her hands folded peacefully within her sleeves.
"You've served our legacy well," Roku said, placing a ghostly hand on Aang's shoulder. "The world has found balance under your guidance."
"Has it?" Kyoshi's voice cut through the misty air like one of her fans. She stepped forward, her metal boots silent on the ethereal ground. "Shall we discuss the years wasted before confronting Ozai? The mercy shown to Yakone? The unrest in the Fire Nation colonies that nearly sparked another war?"
"Kyoshi..." Roku began, but she raised a hand.
"We do him no favors with gentle lies. Every Avatar must learn from the mistakes of their predecessors."
Kuruk pushed off from his spear, which he'd been leaning on. "Give the kid a break, Kyoshi. He just got here." He winked at Aang. "Besides, not all of us can claim to have created an entire island by splitting a peninsula."
"That was necessary," Kyoshi said flatly.
Yangchen's gaze seemed to drift beyond their gathering, into the shifting mists. "I wonder," she mused, "who will carry our mantle next? The world has changed so much since my time. Since any of our times."
Aang looked around at his predecessors, feeling both at home and adrift. "What happens now?" he asked, still not used to the idea that he was now dead and he would be with his past Avatars from now on.
Roku gestured to the ethereal space around them. "Now, we wait. The cycle continues, as it has for thousands of years. The next Avatar will be born to the Southern Water Tribe, and we will watch, guide, and protect them as we have always done."
"Will the world be okay?" Aang couldn't help asking, Katara's final reassurance still echoing in his thoughts. "Without an Avatar, I mean. Until the next one is ready?"
"You left them a legacy of peace," Roku said confidently.
Kyoshi crossed her arms. "Peace is as fragile as a spider-fly's web. One strong wind..."
"The world managed a hundred years without an Avatar once," Kuruk pointed out, twirling his spear absently. "Granted, it wasn't pretty, but they'll survive sixteen or so years."
"You fostered understanding between nations," Yangchen added softly. "That is a foundation stronger than any one Avatar's presence."
Before Aang could respond, a brilliant light pierced the spiritual mists, brighter than the sun. The Avatars shielded their eyes, their spiritual forms wavering in the intense glow.
"Ah," Roku said as the light began to fade. "It begins. The next Avatar is—"
He stopped abruptly. The light had dimmed, but something was wrong. The spiritual connection that should have felt familiar, should have led to the Southern Water Tribe, instead pulled them toward... somewhere else.
They found themselves looking through newborn eyes at stone walls, at winter roses scattered across a blood-stained bed, at a man's grief-stricken face as he reached for a dying woman.
The Tower of Joy
The tower room smelled of blood and roses.
Ned Stark burst through the wooden door, his sword still dark with the blood of the Kingsguard below. The circular chamber was awash in the red light of dusk. Winter roses lay scattered across the floor, some crushed beneath his boots as he rushed forward.
"Lyanna!" The name escaped his throat, half relief, half terror.
His sister lay upon a bed of blood, her dark hair spread across the pillows like ink spilled on parchment. Winter roses crowned her pale face. Her skin was as white as fresh snow, save for the fever's flush high on her cheeks.
"Ned?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Is that you?"
He fell to his knees beside her bed, taking her blood-stained right hand in his. It felt too cold, too light, like a bird's hollow bones. "I'm here, little sister. I'm here now."
"Forgive me," she breathed, tears tracking down her temples. "Please..."
"Save your strength." Ned turned toward the door, his voice thundering off the stone walls. "HELP! SOMEONE BRING A MAESTER!"
Lyanna's fingers tightened on Ned's with surprising strength. "Listen," she pleaded, "there isn't time. You have to know..." Her voice caught, and she struggled for breath.
"Don't speak," Ned urged. "Help is coming."
"I married him," Lyanna pushed the words out between labored breaths. "Rhaegar. We... there was a septon. Witnesses. I loved him, Ned." Fresh tears spilled from her eyes. "The baby... his name is Aemon Targaryen. You have to protect him. Robert... Robert will..."
A soft cry drew Ned's attention. A wet nurse—he hadn't even noticed her presence in the room—stepped forward from the shadows, cradling a bundle wrapped in Targaryen crimson and black.
"Promise me," Lyanna begged as the wet nurse placed the child in Ned's arms. The bundle shifted, and two eyes opened to meet his—bright purple, unmistakably Targaryen. "Promise me, Ned. Robert will kill him. You know he will. Promise me..."
Blood soaked through the sheets, spreading like a crimson tide. Ned clutched both his sister's hand and his... his nephew... as Lyanna's breathing grew more ragged. Her grip on his hand weakened.
"I promise," he said fiercely. "I promise, Lya. I'll protect him. I'll keep him safe. I swear it by the old gods and the new."
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I knew you would." Her eyes drifted to the window, where the red sun was setting over the red mountains of Dorne. "I...I...Goodbye..."
Her hand went slack in his.
"Lya?" Ned's voice cracked. "Lyanna?" He shook her shoulder gently, then more forcefully. But his sister's eyes stared unseeing at the winter roses that had been her doom, at the sun setting on the end of her song.
The baby—Aemon—began to cry, a sharp wail that pierced the heavy silence of the death chamber. Ned pulled him closer.
Footsteps pounded up the tower stairs. Howland Reed appeared in the doorway, crannogman short but reed-strong, his eyes widening at the tableau before him: the Lord of Winterfell kneeling beside his dead sister's bed, cradling a newborn babe, surrounded by winter roses and bloody sheets.
"Ned?" Howland's voice was soft with horror and understanding.
Ned Stark rose slowly, his sister's son held close to his chest. When he spoke, his voice was as cold as the winds of winter, as heavy as the burden he would now bear.
"We must leave," he said. "And no one—no one—can ever know."
''' From the spirit realm, the Avatars watched the scene unfold, their expressions ranging from confusion to deep concern.
"Did she say Robert would kill the baby?" Kuruk asked, his normally carefree demeanor replaced by disbelief. "What kind of monster threatens an innocent child?"
Kyoshi's painted face remained impassive, but her eyes narrowed. "Some people will do anything for a price. A throne, power, revenge—these have inspired infanticide since time began."
The others glanced at her but chose not to inquire further about her apparent familiarity with such dark matters.
"Who is this Robert she speaks of?" Yangchen asked, turning to Aang. "Is he a warlord from your time I'm not familiar with?"
Aang shook his head, his younger face creased with confusion. "I'm as puzzled as you are. I've never heard of a Robert Baratheon or Targaryens or any of these other names." He gestured at the pool showing Ned cradling the infant. "I think we'll understand more once we figure out where exactly we are."
"Something is wrong," Kyoshi stated flatly, her fans clicking open and closed in her hands—a nervous habit she'd never quite abandoned. "This isn't right."
"What do you mean?" Roku asked, his golden eyes troubled.
Kuruk stepped forward, squinting at the scene in the pool. "She's right. The cycle should have continued in the Southern Water Tribe. The next Avatar should be born among my people." He gestured at the stone tower, the desert landscape beyond the window. "That's no igloo. Those aren't Water Tribe furs or clothing."
"Perhaps it's a remote settlement?" Yangchen suggested, though doubt colored her voice. "The world changed much during Aang's time."
"Maybe," Aang said, not sure yet what to make of this. '''
.
.
The sun hung low over the dusty Stormlands road, a sullen orange disc veiled by clouds of grit kicked up by the horses' hooves. Ned Stark rode at the head of the small party, his gray cloak flapping behind him. His stallion, a sturdy beast with a thick mane, plodded steadily, its head bowed under the weight of the small wagon it towed. The wagon creaked with every rut, its wooden frame groaning as it jostled Lyanna's body, draped in a thin sheet that fluttered faintly at the edges.
Beside Ned rode Howland Reed, his lighter frame hunched in the saddle, his green cloak blending with the patchy scrub lining the road. His narrow face was set in a scowl, his dark eyes flicking back toward the tower that had disappeared long ago into the distance. Wylla, the wet nurse, rode a few paces behind, her brown woolen dress patched and faded, clinging to her slight figure as she clutched a bundle to her chest—baby Jon, wrapped in a scrap of gray cloth, his tiny head nestled against her shoulder. The infant's cries pierced the stillness now and then, sharp and insistent, but Wylla shifted him gently, offering a breast beneath her shawl, and his wails faded to soft whimpers, then silence as he drifted back to sleep.
Howland's reins creaked in his grip as he turned to Ned, his voice filled with frustration. "We should've brought them north, Ned. Our friends—Garret, Willam, the others. Burying them by that cursed tower feels wrong. They deserved better than a shallow grave in the sand."
Ned kept his eyes on the road, his broad shoulders stiff beneath his armor. His jaw tightened, a flicker of grief crossing his weathered face before he spoke. "There was no place for them, Howland. The wagon's small—Lyanna's all it can carry. Better they rest there, beneath stones, than lie open for the crows to pick at." He glanced back at the wagon, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and his hand tightened on the reins, the leather creaking under his calloused fingers.
Howland's scowl deepened, his thin lips pressing into a line. He shook his head, his cloak rustling as he shifted in the saddle. "Still doesn't sit right. They fought for her—for you. And now they're just... left behind." His gaze drifted to Wylla, then to the bundle in her arms. Jon stirred, a faint coo escaping him, and Howland's expression softened for a moment before hardening again. He leaned closer to Ned, dropping his voice to a near-whisper. "And what about him? What's your plan, Ned?"
Ned's eyes flicked to the side, meeting Howland's briefly before returning to the horizon. "We ride to King's Landing. I tell Robert Lyanna's dead—he'll want to know, deserves to know. I'll say the boy's mine, a bastard. Swear my oath to him as king, then we ride north to Winterfell. That's the end of it."
Howland jerked his head toward Jon, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself and hushed it again. "You're taking him there? Ned, look at him—those eyes. Purple as a bruised sky. Someone's bound to notice, to wonder. What if they guess he's Rhaegar's? Safer to leave him behind, stash him somewhere quiet 'til we're sure."
Ned's horse snorted, tossing its head, and he pulled the reins taut. He turned fully to Howland now. "Not bringing him's more suspicious," he said. "If they ask where the babe is and I say he's not with me, they'll want to know why—where he is, who's got him. Questions I can't answer without unraveling everything." He paused, his gaze dropping to Jon, who slept soundly against Wylla's chest, oblivious to the weight of his existence. "I've thought it through, Howland. I'll tell Robert his mother's Ashara Dayne. She had violet eyes—close enough. folk'll believe it, or at least not care to dig deeper."
Howland stared at him, his mouth parting slightly, then snapping shut. He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging it down his scruffy beard, and let out a short, incredulous huff. "Ashara Dayne? Ned, you're betting a lot on folks not asking too many questions. Robert's no fool—not when he's sober, anyway. And if he's not convinced..." He trailed off, his eyes flicking to Jon again, then back to Ned, a flicker of unease in his pinched features.
"He'll be convinced," he said, his voice quieter now, almost a growl. "He'll mourn Lyanna, drink himself stupid, and laugh at me for siring a bastard. That's how it'll go." He glanced at Wylla, who kept her head down, her dark hair falling over her face as she adjusted Jon's blanket. "Wylla, you'll back me up if anyone asks. Say you were with me at Starfall, that Ashara's the mother. Understood?"
Wylla nodded quickly, her hands tightening around Jon, her voice a soft murmur. "Aye, m'lord. Whatever you say." Her fingers brushed Jon's cheek, and he nuzzled closer, his tiny fist curling against her shawl.
Howland shook his head again, slower this time. "If something goes wrong then I will be there to protect you."
''' Aang tilted his head, his orange robes fluttering as he bounced on his toes. "It's been two weeks since he was born," he said, his voice bright but tinged with confusion. "Two weeks, and no sign of bending anywhere—no one has used bending yet?"
Roku stood beside him. He clasped his hands behind his back, his fingers twitching as he nodded. "It is odd," he said. "We've passed two castles on this journey—crumbling heaps of stone, older than anything I've seen in our world. No pipes, no machines, no flags of the Fire Nation, Earth Kingdom, nothing. Just banners with strange beasts—stags, wolves. It's like we've stepped back centuries."
Kuruk lounged against an invisible wall, his blue tunic loose, his wolf-tail swinging as he scratched his chin. "This place looks nothing like home," he said. "No ice huts, no volcanoes, no earthbender walls. And King's Landing? Never heard of it. Sounds like some backwater hole nobody bothered to map." He smirked.
Aang nodded, his grin fading as he rubbed the back of his neck, his bare feet scuffing the mist. "Yeah, I've flown over every nation with Appa—never saw anything like this. Maybe it's some super isolated spot? Like, way out past the Si Wong Desert or something?"
Kyoshi stepped forward, crossing her arms. "You're all missing the point," she said, her voice cutting like a blade. "This little Avatar's in deep trouble. From what I've pieced together, this Robert Baratheon's the big chief here—king, whatever they call it. If he's not convinced this Ned Stark's the father, he might do something drastic. Kill the kid, maybe. People do worse for power." Her jaw tightened, a flicker of cynicism curling her lips as she glanced at the wagon, Lyanna's shrouded form barely visible.
Roku's frown deepened, his warm eyes darkening as he followed her gaze. "You think it could come to that?" he asked, his voice quieter.
Kyoshi shrugged, her fan stilling. "I've seen it before. Power's a hungry thing—swallows anything in its way. And those purple eyes? They're screaming trouble." She tilted her head.
Kuruk snorted. "Great. So our new guy's born into a nest of vipers, and we're stuck watching. Fantastic start." He flashed a grin, but it was tight, his fingers flexing as he glanced at Jon's sleeping form.
Aang swallowed, his hands clenching at his sides, his wide eyes darting between the others. "We've got to help him, right? I mean, if he's in danger—"
Yangchen who had been quite during now finally spoke. "I'm afraid there isn't much we can do Aang. The new Avatar is too young to protect himself."
"What about the Avatar State? Can that help him?" Aang asked, sounding a little desperate.
"Aang," Kyoshi said slowly, sounding a little annoyed. "He is just a baby, what exactly do you think will happen to him if he is suddenly forced into the Avatar State."
Aang's eyes fell, realising that there was nothing any of them could do to help the new Avatar.'''
As evening approached, the small party made camp in a sheltered hollow. Howland gathered wood for a small fire while Ned tended to the horses. Wylla sat with her back against a rock, the infant dozing in her arms.
"He's a quiet one," she observed as Ned approached, offering him a waterskin. "Hardly ever fusses unless he's hungry. Strong too, for one born in such circumstances."
Ned took a long drink before responding. "Stark blood," he said simply.
"What will you name him?" Wylla asked, adjusting the swaddling cloths. "He should have a name before we reach the capital."
For a moment, Ned was silent, staring into the distance as if the answer lay somewhere on the horizon.
"Jon," he said. "After Jon Arryn. My foster father."
Howland, returning with an armful of firewood, nodded approvingly. "A good name."
"Jon Snow," Wylla tested the name, looking down at the sleeping infant. "It suits him."
Ned reached out, gently brushing a finger across the babe's cheek. "Jon," he repeated, and for a brief moment, something like tenderness softened his normally solemn features. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the expression vanished, replaced by the mask of Lord Stark, Warden of the North.
"We should reach King's Landing within three days," he said, rising to his feet. "Once there, I want you to stay with Jon in whatever chamber we are provided in the Red Keep, Wylla."
"As you wish, my lord," she replied with a small bow of her head.
Ned turned to Howland. "You'll accompany me to the Red Keep." His jaw tightened. "We'll tell him she died of fever. Nothing more."
Howland nodded grimly. "And after?"
"After I swear fealty to the new king, we head north." Ned's gaze drifted to the crude wagon and its shrouded cargo. "It's time to bring Lyanna home."
The walls of King's Landing rose before them like a great beast of pale stone, scarred and blackened in places from the recent sacking. Even from a distance, Ned could see the holes in the battlements where trebuchet stones had struck, the hasty repairs visible as patches of fresher stone against the weathered fortifications.
"Halt!" The guard's voice carried from the Dragon Gate. "State your name and purpose!"
"Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell," Ned's voice rang clear in the morning air. "Here to see His Grace, King Robert Baratheon."
The guards straightened immediately, exchanging quick glances. One rushed to signal the gate's opening while another dispatched riders into the city. The massive doors groaned open, revealing the city beyond.
("This architecture," Yangchen murmured in the spirit realm. "Even in my time, we had nothing quite like this. It feels like we are a thousand years in the past.")
Five Baratheon soldiers fell in around their small party as they entered the city proper. Their golden cloaks were pristine. Ned's eyes tracked the damage as they rode: collapsed buildings, scorched walls, streets still showing dark stains that rain hadn't yet washed away.
The common folk watched their procession with hollow eyes. Some recognized the direwolf banner and whispered among themselves—the Wolf Lord, the one who'd quarreled with King Robert over the dead Targaryen children. A woman clutched her baby closer as they passed, and Ned felt the weight of Jon in Wylla's arms behind him grow somehow heavier.
("There are signs of intense fighting," Kuruk observed, his warrior's eye catching details. "But no evidence of bending damage. No melted stone, no earthbender barricades, nothing we'd expect to see."
"A war without bending," Aang added, looking troubled.
They wound their way through the city's meandering streets, climbing steadily toward Aegon's High Hill. The smell of smoke still lingered in some quarters. Ned, used to the clean air of the North, breathed shallowly.
"The city will bear these scars for years," Howland said quietly, guiding his horse closer to Ned's. "Tywin Lannister was thorough in his... loyalty demonstration."
Ned's jaw tightened but he said nothing. The argument with Robert over the Lannisters' brutality—over the tiny broken bodies wrapped in crimson cloaks—was still too fresh.
The Red Keep loomed above them now, its pale red stone catching the morning sun. As they approached the main gates, Ned noticed what Howland had already seen: every dragon relief, every Targaryen symbol, had been methodically destroyed. The three-headed dragon that once adorned the metalwork had been roughly hammered into shapeless bronze, leaving ugly scars in the metal.
("This systematic destruction of symbols," Kyoshi noted. "It's not just war damage. It's deliberate erasure."
"But erasure of what?" Aang wondered.
"Dragons, apparently," Roku replied dryly. "Though not like any dragons we know.")
The courtyard was a flurry of activity as they dismounted. Servants scurried about, workers continued repairs, and guards maintained their posts. The Baratheon stag flew everywhere the dragon once had, golden on black instead of red and black. Ned, Howland and Lady Wylla dismounted their horses once they entered the main courtyard.
Ned lifted Jon carefully from Wylla's arms. The babe stirred but didn't wake, his purple eyes remaining mercifully hidden.
"Howland," Ned spoke quietly, "show Wylla to whatever chambers they provide. Make sure she's comfortable." He paused, then added even more softly, "And keep watch."
Howland nodded, understanding all that wasn't said. He guided Wylla toward a waiting servant, while Ned adjusted his hold on Jon, ensuring the babe's face was partially hidden against his chest.
"Something is very wrong here," Yangchen said suddenly. "The spiritual energy... I don't feel any kind of spiritual energy. From what I remember even the most isolated area still had even the tinest spiritual energy, this places lacks of it. As if spirits didn't exist in this place."
"Could we be..." Aang hesitated. "Could we somehow be in a different world entirely?"
"Either we're beyond any known maps," Kyoshi stated bluntly, "or yes, we've somehow crossed into another world entirely. And given what we've seen..."
"Another world," Kuruk finished. "We already had our hands full with our own world, and now we are in a world that we know nothing about."
A steward approached, bowing deeply. "Lord Stark, His Grace is in The Throne Room. He's asked to see you immediately." The man's eyes flickered to the bundle in Ned's arms, then quickly away.
Ned took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. In his arms, Jon slept on, unaware of the lies about to be told in his name, unaware of the spirits watching through his eyes, unaware that he represented something unprecedented in not one world, but two.
The steward led the way into the Red Keep, and Ned followed, each step carrying him closer to the moment of truth.
.
.
The doors to the throne room swung open with a ponderous groan that seemed to reach deep into Ned's bones. Two Baratheon guards flanked him, their yellow cloaks bright against the somber stone of the hall. Light streamed through high windows, illuminating motes of dust that danced in the air like snow.
Ned hesitated at the threshold. This was where his father had burned while Brandon strangled himself trying to reach a sword to save him. This was where Aerys had laughed while the Starks died. The same floor, the same walls, the same throne.
But not the same king.
Jon Snow stirred in his arms, making small noises of discomfort. Ned adjusted his hold, drawing the infant closer to his chest as he strode forward. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall, which was mercifully empty save for a handful of courtiers lingering near the walls, watchful and silent as crows.
"Ned!"
The booming voice broke the silence. At the far end of the hall, a massive figure was descending from the Iron Throne—a monstrosity of blackened metal that rose some two meters from the dais, forged from the thousand swords of Aegon's enemies. Robert Baratheon, newly crowned king of the Seven Kingdoms, took the steps two at a time, his jeweled crown sitting awkwardly on his black hair.
Even in fine velvets and silks, Robert looked more like a warrior than a king. His beard, trimmed shortly in the southern style, did little to soften his expression of eagerness.
"Where is she?" Robert demanded before he'd even reached the bottom step, his voice carrying the length of the hall. "Where's Lyanna?"
Ned swallowed, the familiar weight of grief settling in his chest. There was no gentle way to say it. "Lyanna is dead."
Robert froze, one foot still on the bottom step. His face fell like a stone dropped from a tower, the eagerness draining from his features. "Dead?" he repeated, as if the word itself were foreign to him.
"A fever took her," Ned said, the lie bitter on his tongue. "By the time I reached her, it was already too late."
Robert's blue eyes turned bright with unshed tears. He looked away, taking deep, shuddering breaths that made his broad shoulders rise and fall. For a moment, Ned thought he might crumble right there on the steps.
"Your Grace," came a softer voice from the side of the throne. Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and foster father to both Ned and Robert, approached with measured steps. His face, lined by his sixty-six years, was solemn with sympathy. "I am deeply sorry for your loss, Ned. Lyanna was... she was a remarkable young woman."
Ned nodded, grateful for the older man's steadying presence. Jon Arryn had raised him from boyhood at the Eyrie, had taught him honor and duty when he was too young to understand their weight. If anyone in this viper's nest of a city could be trusted, it was he.
Robert's grief transformed suddenly into rage. He roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling: "I should kill him again! Seven hells, I wish I could kill Rhaegar Targaryen a thousand times for what he did to her!"
The outburst startled the infant in Ned's arms. Jon awoke with a start and began to cry, his thin wail cutting through the tension in the hall.
Both Robert and Jon Arryn turned toward the sound, noticing for the first time the bundle Ned carried. Robert's rage gave way to confusion as he stared at the child.
"What's this?" he asked, gesturing toward the crying infant. "Whose babe are you carrying, Ned?"
Ned took a breath, steeling himself. "My son."
Robert's jaw dropped. Jon Arryn raised a single bushy eyebrow, his keen eyes studying Ned's face.
"Your...?" Robert began, then barked a laugh of disbelief. "You? Honorable Ned Stark fathered a bastard?" His astonishment quickly transformed into delight. "By the gods! Who was she, Ned? Which woman finally got your dick wet outside your marriage vows?"
Ned's expression remained cold as northern snow. "I would rather not speak of it."
Robert stepped closer, peering at the now-quieting child. His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed the infant's most distinctive feature. "Purple eyes," he remarked, glancing up at Ned with sudden curiosity. "Don't see that color much outside of..."
"Ashara Dayne," Ned said quietly, the reluctance in his voice not entirely feigned. "He's her son."
Robert's face split into a broad grin. "Ashara? The beauty from Starfall?" He clapped Ned on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Well done, Ned! Well done indeed! Half the realm wanted to bed that woman, and you actually did it!" He laughed again, the sound booming throughout the hall. "Quiet Ned Stark, who would have thought?"
Ned didn't share in the mirth, his face remaining impassive. The child in his arms had settled.
Robert's laughter faded as he noticed Ned's lack of response. A new question formed on his face. "But why do you have him? Why isn't the boy with his mother?"
"He's my son," Ned replied firmly. "I intend to raise him myself."
Both Robert and Jon Arryn looked taken aback. The Hand of the King studied Ned with increased intensity, as if trying to read the truth behind his gray eyes.
"At Winterfell?" Jon Arryn asked. "What will Lady Catelyn say to this?"
A flash of guilt crossed Ned's face. "Whatever she wishes. But the boy is my blood. He will be raised as such."
An uncomfortable silence fell over the three men. Ned could feel the weight of Jon Arryn's gaze, too perceptive by half. The old man had always been able to sense when his foster sons were hiding something.
"Well," Robert said finally, breaking the tension, "a man takes responsibility for his seed. I respect that." He clapped Ned on the shoulder again, more gently this time. "So, what shall you do now, Lord Stark?"
"I came to swear my oath to you," Ned said. "And to bring Lyanna home. We'll leave for Winterfell in the morning."
"So soon?" Robert's disappointment was palpable. "I'd hoped you might stay awhile. Help me rule this bloody kingdom."
Ned shook his head. "The North has been without his Lord for too long. And winter is coming."
Robert sighed heavily. "Always with the dire warnings, you Starks." He glanced at the Iron Throne with obvious distaste. "Very well. We'll have the ceremony this evening. You can swear your fealty, and then..." his voice softened slightly, "then you can take her home."
Ned nodded, grateful for this small mercy at least. "Thank you, Your Grace."
"Seven hells, don't call me that," Robert growled. "Not you. I get enough of that from these southern lickspittles." He gestured vaguely at the courtiers who had been pretending not to eavesdrop.
Jon Arryn stepped forward. "I'll have chambers prepared for you and your... companions," he said, his eyes flickering briefly to the child. "You must be weary from your journey."
"Thank you, Lord Arryn," Ned replied formally, though his eyes conveyed more personal gratitude.
As Ned turned to follow the steward who had appeared to guide him to his quarters, Robert called after him. "Ned! What have you named him? The boy?"
Ned paused, looking down at the infant whose purple eyes had closed once more in peaceful sleep. "Jon," he said. "After Lord Arryn."
The older man's weathered face softened with genuine surprise and emotion. "I... I am honored, Ned."
Robert nodded approvingly. "Jon Snow. Has a good sound to it." He smiled, unaware of the weight those two simple words would carry in the years to come. "Jon Snow of Winterfell."
''' In the spirit realm, the Avatars observed the exchange with various degrees of understanding and confusion.
"So this Robert is indeed the king," Roku mused, stroking his long white beard. "A new king, it seems, given the way they speak of this Rhaegar person in the past tense."
"A king filled with rage," Yangchen noted, her serene face troubled. "Did you see how quickly his grief transformed to violence? 'Kill him a thousand times,' he said. Such hatred doesn't bode well for stability."
Kuruk leaned forward, studying Robert's flushed face. "He's a warrior thrust onto a throne, not born to it. I've seen this before—men who can win battles but can't govern peace."
"And he clearly has no idea who Jon really is," Aang added, looking relieved. "This deception is dangerous. If he hates this Rhaegar so much that he'd want to kill him a thousand times, what would he do to Rhaegar's son?"
"Exactly what Lyanna feared," Kyoshi stated flatly. "He'd kill the child without hesitation."
"The old man—Jon Arryn—he suspects something," Roku observed. "Did you see how he watched Lord Stark? He knows there's more to this story."
"He does," Kyoshi agreed, "but he seems protective of both men. A mentor figure, perhaps?"
"What I don't understand," Aang said, "is why Jon's eyes are so important. In our world, purple eyes wouldn't cause such concern."
"In this world, they're clearly a marker of bloodline," Yangchen explained. "Notice how quick Lord Stark was to mention this Ashara person when the eye color was noted. Purple eyes must be distinctive to certain families here."
"The throne itself tells us much," Roku added grimly. "Did you see that thing, it looks more like a monster turned into a throne, I don't understand why someone would want to sit on that thing. This is a harsh world we've found ourselves in."
"And our young Avatar is at the center of their game of succession," Kyoshi concluded. "Born to one house but claimed by another, his very existence a threat to a king's peace of mind."
"We need to learn more," Aang insisted. "About this world, these houses, this conflict. If we're to guide Jon properly, we need to understand what he faces."
The others nodded in agreement, their spectral forms gathered close around the pool that showed the infant Jon Snow.
"For now," Yangchen said softly, "he is safe in Lord Stark's care. That, at least, is a blessing."
"Let's hope it remains so," Kyoshi replied, her painted face grim.
.
.
The heavy iron gates of King's Landing groaned shut behind them, sealing off the city from Ned's view. He didn't look back. There was nothing in that red castle he wished to see again—only memories best left undisturbed and a friend who was now a King.
The Northern army stretched before him in a long column—direwolf banners snapping in the brisk southern breeze, horses and men alike eager to return home. Lords Umber, Karstark, Manderly, Glover, and the rest rode near the front, their own smaller retinues marching behind Ned's personal guard. Howland Reed rode beside him, silent as always. Behind them came Wylla, the wet nurse, with Jon bundled securely against her chest.
"Lord Stark," called Lord Wyman Manderly, urging his horse forward. The large man's face was flushed with the effort of riding, but his small eyes were shrewd. "Your sister's body should reach Winterfell before we do. The ship I arranged would have made landfall at White Harbor a week past."
Ned nodded his thanks. "I've sent word ahead. A statue is being prepared for the crypts."
"A fitting tribute," Greatjon Umber rumbled from his massive destrier. "Lady Lyanna deserves her place among the Starks of old."
The mention of Lyanna brought a fresh wave of grief, but Ned kept his face composed. He had wept once, alone in his chambers after Robert's coronation feast. That would be enough. Winter was coming, and Starks did not have the luxury of extended mourning.
As they traveled north, the landscape gradually transformed. The lush greenery of the Crownlands gave way to the rockier terrain of the Riverlands, then to the swampy mysteries of the Neck. With each passing day, the air grew sharper, the nights colder. When they finally crossed the Neck, the first snowflakes began to fall—summer snow, a welcome sight to northern eyes.
"Look, my lord," Howland said one evening, gesturing to where Wylla was showing Jon his first snowfall. The infant's tiny hand had escaped his swaddling, reaching up toward the white flakes with apparent fascination.
"He knows he's coming home," Ned said softly.
Howland's green eyes studied Ned's face. "Home to Winterfell, yes. But what about Lady Catelyn? Have you considered what you'll tell her?"
Ned's expression hardened. "The truth—that Jon is my blood and will be raised alongside my trueborn children."
"And if she resents the boy?" Howland pressed gently.
"Then she resents him, I cannot make her love him," Ned replied, though the thought pained him. "But he stays. I've made my promise, Howland. I'll not break it, whatever the cost."
The crannogman nodded, apparently satisfied. "He has the look of a Stark, at least. More so every day."
It was true. Though Jon's eyes remained that distinctive Targaryen purple, his face was already showing the long Stark features. In time, perhaps, the eyes would be the only hint of his true paternity—a secret Ned intended to carry to his grave.
'''In the spirit realm, the five Avatars watched the scene with varying degrees of relief and concern.
"Well, at least the young Avatar is finally safe," Aang said, as they observed Jon's wide-eyed wonder at the falling snow. "Away from that king and his court."
Kyoshi snorted, crossing her arms over her armored chest. "He's not 'safe,' merely removed from one immediate threat. Just because a king didn't kill him doesn't mean someone else won't."
"Must you always expect the worst?" Kuruk groaned, leaning on his hunting spear. "Don't talk like there's an assassin lurking behind every tree. The boy's surrounded by an army, for spirits' sake."
"Now that the immediate danger has passed," Yangchen interjected cutting through the bickering, "we must address more pressing matters."
"Such as?" Aang asked, turning to his predecessor.
Yangchen's usually calm face was troubled. "We must discuss the fact that we find ourselves in an entirely new world—one we know nothing about. A world that has apparently never heard of bending. Where the Avatar himself might not even be able to bend at all."
A stunned silence followed her words.
"Not bend?" Kuruk repeated incredulously. "But the Avatar must bend. It's... it's what we do!"
"How can the Avatar maintain balance without the elements?" Aang asked, his voice small with worry.
Roku, who had been quietly contemplative, suddenly spoke up. "I believe Jon Snow—or Aemon Targaryen, whatever his true name may be—can learn to firebend, at the very least."
The others turned to him in surprise.
"How can you be so certain?" Aang asked.
Roku stroked his long white beard, his golden eyes thoughtful. "Because I can sense it in him. The new Avatar has fire in his blood—quite literally. The spark is there, waiting to be kindled."
"You think he can bend fire in a world where bending doesn't exist?" Kyoshi asked skeptically.
"I do," Roku affirmed. "And if he can bend one element, I see no reason why he couldn't master the others. The Avatar Spirit itself carries the knowledge of the elements—it's not dependent on the world around it."
The others considered this, hope cautiously rekindling.
"But there's still a fundamental problem," Kuruk pointed out, suddenly serious. "If this world has no knowledge of bending, where will he find masters? How can he learn to control even one element if there's no one to teach him?"
The question hung in the air like a dark cloud. None of them had considered this obstacle.
"We could teach him," Aang suggested after a moment, brightening at his own idea. "We've all mastered our native elements. Between us, we have all the knowledge he needs."
Kyoshi let out a derisive snort. "And how exactly do you propose we do that? It will be years before Jon can even communicate with us, and even that ability is something Avatars are usually taught. We can appear to him briefly in dreams or moments of extreme spiritual connection, but not like a master who can teach for hours each day."
"Kyoshi's right," Yangchen said gently. "Our ability to interact with him is limited. And without proper training, he might never develop the spiritual awareness to see or hear us clearly."
Roku sighed, the sound like a distant wind. "The situation is indeed challenging. But not impossible. Remember, the very first benders learned from the original sources—dragons, badgermoles, the moon, the sky bison. They had no human masters."
"So you're suggesting what?" Kuruk asked. "That we somehow get him near a dragon? Good luck finding one in this world."
"No," Roku replied patiently. "I'm suggesting that the knowledge is within him—within us—already. We must find ways to awaken it."
"Through dreams, perhaps," Yangchen mused. "Or moments of meditation. If we can reach him in the spiritual realm, even briefly..."
"It won't be enough," Kyoshi insisted. "Bending requires physical discipline, not just spiritual guidance. A few cryptic dreams won't teach him proper forms or breath control."
"Then we'll have to be creative," Aang said, his expression determined. "Maybe we can influence his instincts, help him discover bending on his own through necessity or emotion."
"Like how you first airbent," Roku nodded. "Or how many Avatars discover their abilities in moments of danger or strong feeling."
"It's still a poor substitute for proper training," Kyoshi maintained, "but I suppose we have no better options."
Yangchen's face became resolute. "Whatever difficulties lie ahead, we must find a way. I believe there is a reason the Avatar cycle has brought us to this world. Balance is needed here, perhaps even more than in our own realm."
"Then it's settled," Aang said firmly. "We'll do whatever we can to guide Jon—to teach him bending and help him discover his purpose as the Avatar in this new world."
"It won't be easy," Kyoshi warned, though her tone had softened slightly. "The boy faces challenges none of us ever imagined. No recognized authority as Avatar, no understanding of the elements, and a heritage that would get him killed if discovered."
"When has it ever been easy to be the Avatar?" Aang asked with a small smile. "I was the last airbender. Roku had to oppose his childhood friend. Kyoshi created an island to protect her people. We've all faced impossible odds."
"And now, so will he," Roku concluded, looking down at the infant who was still reaching for snowflakes, unaware of the ancient spirits watching over him or the remarkable destiny that awaited him. "May the spirits grant him strength for the journey ahead."
As the Northern army continued its march through the increasingly snowy landscape, Jon Snow slept peacefully against Wylla's chest, dreaming infant dreams filled with strange images of fire and air, earth and water.
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