After proving his skill in training, Jon is summoned by Maester Aemon, who cryptically speaks of Rhaegar's dreams. He hints that Jon is more than a bastard and that "a dragon's blood runs in his veins."
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Jon sat alone in the rookery, watching the crows flit between their perches, their black eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight. The day's training had left his muscles sore, but his mind was restless. The lessons were pointless—he was already better than the other recruits. But skill with a blade meant nothing when the men around him only saw a highborn bastard who thought himself their better.
Ghost lay beside him, his head resting on his paws, his ears flicking at the occasional caw of the birds.
A creak of wood made Jon turn.
Samwell Tarly stood in the doorway, shifting nervously. "Jon… Maester Aemon wants to see you."
Jon frowned. He had never spoken to the old man before. He pushed himself up and followed Sam through the dimly lit halls of Castle Black, Ghost padding silently behind them.
The maester's chamber was warm, lit by a flickering hearth. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes and dusty scrolls. Maester Aemon sat at a heavy wooden table, his milky-white eyes staring at nothing. Despite his frailty, there was something sharp about him, as if his mind remained untouched by the years that had withered his body.
"Come closer, Jon Snow," Aemon said, his voice soft but firm.
Jon stepped forward, uneasy under the old man's blind gaze.
Aemon did not look at him—he couldn't—but Jon felt studied all the same. "Tell me, Jon, what do you know of dragons?"
Jon hesitated. "Only what the stories say. They lived long ago. Balerion, Meraxes, Vhagar… The last dragon died a hundred years ago."
Aemon smiled faintly. "So the world believes." He turned his head slightly. "And what do you know of Rhaegar Targaryen?"
Jon stiffened. He had heard the name before, always spoken in whispers. Rhaegar, the crown prince. Rhaegar, the man who started a war.
Rhaegar, the man who stole Lyanna Stark.
Jon clenched his jaw. "He was a prince. He died at the Trident."
Aemon nodded slowly. "Yes. And before he died, he spoke often of dreams. Of a song of ice and fire." His fingers traced the spine of an old book. "Rhaegar believed he was meant for something greater. He thought himself the prince that was promised. But prophecy is a tricky thing. One can never be sure who is truly chosen."
Jon frowned. "What does this have to do with me?"
The old man tilted his head. "You remind me of someone."
Jon blinked. "Who?"
Aemon's lips curled in the faintest smile. "Someone I knew long ago. A boy born into duty. A boy who would not break, no matter how heavy the burden. A boy who had the blood of dragons, even if the world did not know it."
Jon's breath caught in his throat. Aemon's blind eyes seemed to stare through him, through his very being.
"I am no dragon," Jon said stiffly.
Aemon only chuckled. "No? Perhaps not yet."
The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. Finally, the maester reached for something beneath the table, pulling out a long, wrapped bundle. He ran his fingers over it, as if remembering something distant, then set it before Jon.
"Take it."
Jon hesitated, then unwrapped the cloth.
A sword lay within, black as night, its hilt carved like a dragon's wings. It was lighter than Longclaw, but something about it felt ancient, like the weight of history itself rested in its steel.
"That blade belonged to Visenya Targaryen," Aemon said softly. "She called it Dark Sister."
Jon's heart pounded. "Why are you giving this to me?"
Aemon sighed. "Because it does not belong in a dark room, forgotten. It belongs to someone who will use it. To someone with the will to wield it." His sightless eyes turned toward Jon again. "It belongs to you."
Jon stared at the sword in his hands, at the rippling Valyrian steel.
For the first time since he had come to the Wall, something inside him shifted. A deep, unshakable feeling settled in his chest.
He did not know why, but when his fingers closed around the hilt, it felt like coming home.
Jon could not stop staring at the blade in his hands.
Dark Sister.
He had heard the name before, whispered in Old Nan's stories. A sword carried by Visenya Targaryen, the warrior queen who had helped forge the Seven Kingdoms in dragonfire. It was older than the Wall itself, a weapon from an age of conquest and kings.
And yet, here it was, resting in his grip.
"This isn't mine," Jon said, his voice quiet, almost uncertain. "I have no right to it."
Aemon's blind eyes seemed to pierce him all the same. "Who decides what a man has a right to, Jon Snow?"
Jon clenched his jaw. "This was a queen's sword. A dragonrider's sword. I am no dragon."
Aemon chuckled, a dry sound like wind through dead leaves. "No? Perhaps not in name." His frail fingers traced the wooden table. "But names are only dust in the wind. Blood remembers. Steel remembers."
Jon looked down at the blade again. The Valyrian steel rippled in the dim light, dark and hungry. It felt lighter than Longclaw, faster. It felt… right.
But it couldn't be.
"I took my vows," Jon said, gripping the sword tighter. "I am a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. I have no past, no future, no name but the one I was given."
"And what name is that?" Aemon asked softly.
Jon hesitated.
"Snow," he said finally.
Aemon nodded. "Snow, yes. A name for those without names." He leaned forward slightly, the dim firelight casting deep shadows on his wrinkled face. "And yet, what is a name but a whisper? A word given by men who do not know the truth?"
Jon swallowed. "What truth?"
The old man smiled faintly. "That some names are written in fire long before we are born."
Jon frowned. The air in the room felt heavier somehow, as if the walls themselves were listening.
He turned the blade in his hand, watching how the steel caught the light. It was different from Longclaw, more slender, built for quick strikes and deadly precision. He had always preferred speed over brute strength. This sword—his sword—felt like an extension of his arm.
And that frightened him.
"I can't accept this," Jon said, forcing himself to set the blade back on the table.
Aemon tilted his head. "Why?"
Jon struggled for an answer. "Because it doesn't belong to me."
"Then who does it belong to?"
Jon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't know.
Aemon folded his hands. "Tell me, Jon. When you held it, did it feel wrong?"
Jon looked at the blade again. His fingers twitched.
"…No."
Aemon nodded, as if that answer had already been known.
"Then perhaps," the old man murmured, "it was always meant to find its way to you."
The fire crackled in the hearth. Jon felt the weight of the sword even though it was no longer in his hands.
Blood remembers. Steel remembers.
Ghost stirred at his feet, lifting his head, his red eyes unreadable.
Jon reached forward, slower this time. His fingers closed around the hilt.
He expected to feel the cold bite of the metal, the unnatural chill of Valyrian steel.
Instead, it was warm.
He exhaled sharply.
Aemon smiled. "Keep it well, Jon Snow."
Jon tightened his grip.
He wasn't sure why, but in that moment, he felt something shift inside him—something deep, something unspoken.
Something that had been waiting.