[Chapter Size: 3800 Words.]
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Third Person POV
Winterfell, 298 AC.
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Lord Stark froze upon hearing that—how could he possibly know?
"Don't be so surprised, I only seek the truth and I've already confirmed it, Lord Stark." The words of the white cloak broke the silence there.
Lord Stark still looked at him, unsure of what to say. He knew that Jon and this man had only met once, in a battle on the high seas, so he wondered if Ser Barristan Selmy had discovered it with just one look at Jon.
"You may say he is your son, but when I saw him, I saw my old prince in him, no matter how much his coloring resembles yours... despite his green eyes... He has the face of Rhaegar, of my prince." Barristan Selmy spoke in an oddly calm tone.
"Your youngest daughter inherited a surprising beauty. But she still bears your features, as do your other children—this cannot be said of Jon. I observed each of your children; at last, I just confirmed all this by looking at his face." He added, so Lord Stark wouldn't deny it.
Lord Stark narrowed his eyes at the white cloak. "And what do you plan to do with this information?" he asked cautiously, his tone leaning toward a threat.
"I won't tell anyone about this, not even the king I am sworn to protect, even if it goes against my vows... I intend to remain silent." He revealed.
"Why?" Lord Stark didn't seem satisfied with that answer.
"Because... because I don't want Rhaegar's bloodline to be destroyed, Lord Stark. He was the best heir to the Iron Throne and the best lord a sworn knight could ask for—not the barbarities everyone shouts to the seven winds to please King Robert." He admitted, knowing those words could very well put his neck beneath an executioner's sword.
"I ask this for personal satisfaction. I truly wanted to know if Rhaegar's blood still lives. I'm relieved that a son of his is still alive after all this time." Barristan Selmy said.
"Besides, his blood is stronger than ever. The whole known world has heard of Jon Arctic and his stories. Rhaegar would be very proud of his son."
Lord Stark remained silent while the knight continued speaking, seeming relieved, as if a great weight had been lifted from his heart at that moment.
"I understand..." Lord Stark, in the end, did not deny it, while the man kept his gaze fixed on the sacred tree behind him, his eyes closing as a silent tear began to run down his face.
"..." Lord Stark said nothing, slightly surprised by the knight's reaction.
And they remained there for a while, in silence, while the man continued to look at the heart tree as if he could now die in peace. At the same time, shame might have been consuming him.
'I am now sworn to King Baratheon.' He said inwardly, then turned his attention to Lord Stark.
"May I ask a favor of you." He said, and Lord Stark only nodded.
"Can you tell me about the boy? All I have are stories of his achievements and the wars he has fought. All I hear in the capital is how everyone tries to deal with him, how he is a threat that must be eradicated, though no one knows how to deal with him." Ser Barristan Selmy asked.
"You swear this conversation will not leave this place?" Lord Stark did not initially want to speak about it, but he sensed sincerity in the man.
He already held the secret in his hands, one that Lord Stark hadn't even had the chance to deny the more the man spoke. Jon resembled his father, and perhaps this man hadn't been the only one to notice—especially considering how many nobles Jon had visited during his first journey.
"Very well... But if it brings you comfort, Jon is not the only living child of Rhaegar..." At that point, it no longer mattered. And Lord Stark said it out of respect for Rhaegar's family, which this elderly knight belonged to.
"The girl survived as well. She still lives." He said, while the man stood stunned, asking for more information. Lord Stark gave him exactly what he had asked for and continued speaking about Jon.
The journey of his nephew.
Meanwhile, in Arctic, all three of the main Targaryens happened to be together at that moment by coincidence.
"I'm impressed." Jon said, looking up at the ceiling.
"It took them about three days, but it's finally finished." Daenerys said with a satisfied smile.
Above them was a large black circle drawn with another red circle within it. A dragon spun in the center, with three heads—one nearly biting its own tail, completing the circle, which symbolized the sigil of House Targaryen.
It was the Three-Headed Dragon.
Daenerys had the idea to build a place where the history of House Targaryen could never again be forgotten.
She did this not only for herself, Jon, Rhaenys, and Aemon—being the last living members of the main Targaryen bloodline—but also to show the history of their house not only to the children from the Targaryen wives but to the other children Jon had fathered, so they would know where their father came from.
She wanted all the children to know their origins, their history, their strength, their bond with dragons, and the accomplishments of their ancestors. Inspiring the new generations.
Rhaenys was there as well. Only the three of them were together, while their children stayed with the other wives. Since Jon wanted to check on the completed site, they decided to go with him—they wanted a moment alone with their husband.
There wasn't just the round sigil itself, but also representations on the floor, and all kinds of depictions of House Targaryen, like the old dragons sculpted from clay and stone throughout the place.
All along the corridor, there was a huge explanatory plaque and even paintings that Ygritte had drawn together with Rhaenys, who eventually took up the habit of drawing with the red-haired queen, as Jon described the images from his green vision perfectly.
There, written entirely in Valyrian, was the full history of House Targaryen, like a kind of museum. When Daenerys had brought the idea to Jon, he saw nothing wrong with it. He had all the historical information about the house of dragons in his mind, so he transferred it to a book they used to build the place.
"The Three-Headed Dragon..." Jon commented in a calm, thoughtful tone.
They were strange words to him.
He hadn't been raised to be a Targaryen, and he had never truly thought of himself as one—even after learning about his true origin and heritage. Still, they were strange words for someone who had developed Arctic.
Not that he hadn't seen royal children being taught history through the green vision, but those words had never given him a sense of belonging.
It was then that Jon felt someone touch his hand. It was Rhaenys, looking at him.
"The Three-Headed Dragon," she said in an obvious tone as she approached, kissing his shoulder. She was wearing a tank top, and Jon felt her soft lips on his skin. He turned his gaze to her and smiled at that moment, awakening something he hadn't even realized was right in front of him—maybe this was the answer to that phrase.
"I think you're right," Jon said, smiling at his wife, squeezing her hand, and looking at his second wife. He placed a hand on the Valyrian girl's waist and pulled Daenerys toward him.
"The Three-Headed Dragon," he repeated, kissing her forehead, and she returned the gesture with a smile.
Perhaps those words couldn't give Jon the feeling of belonging he expected from his lineage. But surely, the two women in front of him didn't deny the obvious.
The Dragon needs Three Heads.
That was how House Targaryen would rise again. Despite not using the name and Jon having more than two wives, it would still be a stronger and more powerful house than ever before. And perhaps, one day, Jon would take back what already belonged to his family in the South.
Not for himself. He already believed he had everything a man could wish for in his life in Arctic. After all, more lands meant more problems and more responsibilities.
But for his children.
Jon wasn't a fool. He had once been a child and knew exactly how he used to think, remembering the desire he had to own Winterfell—until Rob's words at the time, saying he was a bastard and could never have Winterfell, threw him into a harsh reality. Winterfell would never be his.
He used to feel jealous of Robb back then. Not that he could blame himself—he was just a child learning the ways of the world.
But would his own children think the same? What would his grandchildren, and their children after them, think upon learning that their family once conquered the Seven Kingdoms, and now they, though a realm more powerful than any other in the world, were hiding behind the Wall?
Jon already knew that war would be inevitable. Even if he said he thought it was enough, maybe it wouldn't be enough for others. The shadow of war would come in the future, whether he led it or not.
They had powerful armies, technology to dominate the seas, and dragons—who would stand still, not reclaiming lands that had belonged to their family for nearly three centuries?
Besides, the South would bother them however they could, always trying to sabotage them, knowing their strength. So peace wouldn't come, and Jon had already accepted that.
That's why Jon had to make a decision, and he made that clear to his uncle when he went to Winterfell. Lord Stark didn't yet know what decision to make, and Jon hoped his uncle would at least remain neutral, because he didn't want to have to fight them. At the same time, whoever the future Lord Stark might be, Jon would act, whether it meant fighting the North or not.
"Come, you've been too busy these days and haven't even had time to see this place," Daenerys pulled him from his thoughts.
He had no choice but to follow her, as she grabbed his hand. Rhaenys, beside him, also held his hand.
The dragon needs three heads, and Jon wondered if he now looked like Aegon the Conqueror in that moment, walking through those halls with his two Targaryen wives.
Jon walked through the hall, observing the paintings, the sculptures, and the messages written in pure Valyrian. Aegon's Conquest, the era of Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conciliator. The prelude to the Dance of the Dragons, and then the Dance itself, along with all the consequences that followed during that time.
Alongside the reigns of the later kings, both their triumphs and their failures were all carved out so people could learn from them. Jon had made that clear—he wouldn't paint any king in rosy hues; he would leave their mistakes visible for others to learn from.
At the time of the Blackfyre Rebellion, Jon couldn't help but study closely when he saw the name "Blackfyre" carved into the stone, detailing its history. It wasn't because he bore the name of the sword, but that name unsettled him, and he couldn't say why. They were just ghosts of the past.
Then came the later kings, until finally they reached the Rebellion of Robert Baratheon, during which Daenerys and Rhaenys couldn't hide their disdain.
Jon didn't quite know what to say, after everything he had seen in his vision from that time. But one thing was certain: there were debts the southern houses owed to them, and they would pay for their crimes against House Targaryen.
"I think that's enough. Let's wait for our children to come here. I want to hear your speeches to them, how you like to talk about our family's conquests to our babies," Jon said, hoping his children would get excited about the paintings, the sculptures—especially the ones of the adult dragons, painted in accurate colors. They lived up to the Dance of the Dragons, and even some sculptures of smaller dragons represented what was left after the civil war.
They moved on again, passing through, while Jon couldn't help but stop at the sculpted dragons. There were fewer than twenty that House Targaryen had during the Dance. But one of them caught Jon's attention—the one he would soon be facing.
"Jon, I don't know what's going to happen, but no matter what you have to do, just come back alive, alright?" Rhaenys said, unable to keep those words to herself as she saw him staring at the statue of Cannibal, while Daenerys remained silent, but he could feel her hand tightening around his.
"Yes," Jon simply answered, staring into Cannibal's fierce gaze, its emerald eyes watching him as if alive, ready to unleash its fire upon him—if he could even be burned.
Burned, he likely could not be. But surely, a bite from that dragon would have torn his body apart.
With that, Jon left the place, walking out of the museum Daenerys had named the Hall of the House of the Dragon.
They walked outside, while Jon led them to where all his wives were with their children. Jon spoke briefly with them. He said he would be leaving later that morning.
A sound of crying rose among so many babies, with Ygritte holding the little baby with black hair and violet eyes — Laena.
"Take Laena, Jon," Ygritte said.
Jon had no choice but to take his little daughter, just a few moons old, as she stopped crying.
"How do you do it..." Ygritte murmured; she couldn't get the child to stop crying, but the father had that effect on the girl.
"She's connected to me..." Jon remarked with a smile, looking at the little violet eyes staring back at him.
He spent some time caring for the girl and returned the sleeping child to her mother.
Jon left the castle shortly afterward and made his way to Mance Rayder's home, entering calmly after greeting the man.
"I'm surprised you're here today. Your message was quite clear—that you'd be leaving Arctic today when the sun was at its peak," Mance commented.
His days had never been as busy as they were now. Learning to write in other languages, among other things he never imagined he'd have to study in his life, was wearing him down, but he was managing to be quite responsible in his role as Arctic's Civil Minister. With the help of other ministers, he was adapting well.
"I came to see how your wife is doing with your son... and I also came to see my fiancée," Jon said, while inside the house he could see Della holding a baby—Mance's son, born just a few days ago.
With Jon's help, Della had a smooth birth, while Val seemed to forget she lived at the castle, staying there with her sister, helping care for the baby.
She appeared to have some experience after living with so many newborns at the castle and spending time with them. She now seemed to be teaching Della.
"You're here," Val stood up, while Jon smiled at her and looked at the child being gently rocked.
"I hope there's no problem," Jon asked casually to Della, who gave a small smile.
"There's nothing to worry about, King of Arctic. The boy is strong, and I couldn't be better," she said.
"So you're leaving," Val said beside him.
"Yes. I just want to speak with my uncle. And maybe I want to say goodbye to my fiancée," Jon replied.
"You said you'd leave at noon. I was going to the castle," she grumbled.
"It's alright. Well, either way, I'm heading north of the city," Jon said.
"You'll be at the castle, right?" Val asked, and Jon nodded before leaving, exchanging a few more words with Mance about his role and how he was trying to reorganize the entire population for war.
Jon rode one of his direwolves, followed by his royal guards—or rather, barely followed, as he shot ahead—until he reached the army's training grounds.
It wasn't just Arctic's military force there, but all sorts of people. It was a little complicated seeing children and even elders carrying weapons. It wasn't something Jon wanted them to be taught, but it was what they needed to learn.
Death was coming to Arctic, and everyone needed a way to defend themselves. If Arctic's walls couldn't hold back the enemy, then there would be no discrimination in who they tried to kill.
Every child, adult, and elder had to at least know the basics and have a weapon to defend themselves from the undead.
When Jon arrived, everyone stopped at the sight of him. He exchanged a few encouraging words and asked them to continue their training, then moved on to another part of the military area, where he found his uncle Benjen wearing a Valyrian steel armor with wolves carved into it—the same armor Jon had once given Lord Stark when he was just a child, nearly ten years ago.
He was family, and he dressed like any other of his kin. Beside him were also members of the Night's Watch, whom he had freed from forced prisons so they could work together in drills, fighting off the remnants of the dead.
They had all decided to stay, after Benjen made it very clear what their oath meant and that the coming of the Second Long Night was near. Either they would hide behind the Wall, leaving Arctic to do all the work, or they would fight as well and honor their oath.
The request was brought to the Lord Commander, and in the end, he authorized them to remain.
"Jon," his uncle called, while Ducken stepped aside to let him speak with the king.
They exchanged a few brief words.
"Jon, be careful," he couldn't help but murmur in the end. "I know that dragon is important, but if it's scarce, life isn't worth the risk. You're more important than any dragon," he said.
But Jon was resolute.
"You should have a bit more faith in Eragon... and in me, his rider. Don't you know I inherited a lot of my mother's skills?" Jon joked, trying to lighten the mood.
"Your mother rode horses, Jon. Not dragons. Horses!" he muttered.
"When you're a Warg, that doesn't matter, uncle. Anyway, are you training?" Jon asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow about his uncle's Warg abilities. He had potential, but the Wall had no proper training for it.
"You mean drinking heart tree nectar the Children of the Forest gave me the other day? Awful! Now I have strange dreams and taste raw meat in my mouth every morning," he complained, as Jon grinned.
"Well, well, then it's working. The first time is rough, uncle, but soon you'll be as powerful as Arya," he said playfully, starting to turn away.
Jon's royal guards finally arrived, having just now caught up to their king, who had once again darted off toward the city. They could only sigh—at least he wasn't flying a dragon, which would have made it impossible to follow him at all.
Jon entered the castle, and just as he stepped in, he saw the imposing vision of his dragon: Eragon, fully clad in perfectly placed plates of Valyrian steel.
He looked like a massive metallic monster.
Only his wings were left unarmored, for obvious reasons, while every other part of him bore magical inscriptions that Jon had personally carved.
It was Eragon's war armor. The dwarves had reluctantly fitted it across his entire body, and Eragon had to endure it since the early morning, with three hours of careful fitting from dawn.
"We'll be leaving soon, Eragon. By day's end, you'll take that armor off," Jon said, knowing the dragon didn't enjoy wearing it. It was uncomfortable for him, but he needed to get used to it. This would be his battlefield armor from now on.
No dragon had ever worn armor in the history of this world. Eragon was the first—especially with one that shattered any known concept of value, crafted entirely from Valyrian steel, with tons upon tons of the rare metal, its worth incalculable.
Jon returned to the castle, where his children bombarded him with questions, now that their father would be leaving soon—even though they had already asked the same questions in the days before.
Jon remained there, having lunch with his family, while Val also entered the kitchen at that moment and joined them. When the time came, they went to the courtyard, where he said goodbye to each of them. His family was growing, and there were even more children on the way in the wombs of some of those women.
Jon didn't mind having many children. And the mothers, seeing there was no danger in childbirth—the kind any woman outside of Arctic would face—were at ease, especially with Jon there to heal them, making even the pain of labor feel like a mild sensation.
Besides, it also benefited the mothers themselves, as they were in contact with cells more powerful than any potion Jon could make. None could equal the cells of a newborn growing inside a mother's womb. It granted them exceptional vitality.
With his farewells complete, he turned around, now wearing his Valyrian steel armor, the symbol of Arctic emblazoned in the center and Blackfyre at his belt. Eragon also carried many Valyrian steel weapons, in case Jon needed them. He had a small pouch holding all kinds of supplies for the journey.
"Try not to get seen by the kneelers, Jon!" Val shouted to him, and he couldn't help but laugh. Val was far more sociable than before, and Jon appreciated that.
In any case, he quickly climbed onto his dragon, while Eragon raised his wings, feeling the weight of the armor around him. But at the same time, he knew it was just a small additional burden—one he could easily handle.
He began to rise into the sky, the metal so smooth it reflected the sunlight, creating a massive mirror. It even made people shield their eyes from the reflected light, as Eragon ascended, looking like a crystal of Arctic in the middle of the day, heading southward.
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