The change began in silence.
Jon Snow stood before the ancient ruin, frost in his beard, gold still simmering beneath his skin. The wind had grown colder, but he no longer felt it. His senses had transcended flesh. He heard no birdsong. No wind. Only vibration — the humming of ley lines, the tension of reality.
And as he passed a still pool, deep in the northern woods, he saw his reflection shift.
The black in his hair had begun to fade.
First, at the temples — silver streaks like frost creeping into dark soil.
Then across the roots, slow but inevitable. It wasn't sudden, it wasn't shocking. But it wasn't natural . Not age. Not stress. It was something deeper.
A mark.
A sign .
And he understood.
The old blood — Valyrian, ancient and fire-forged — had been tempered by his exile. Strengthened by the Warp. Refined through loss and sacrifice and purpose. He was no longer merely the last Targaryen. He was the next .
The rebirth of a bloodline meant to rule — not through madness or dragons alone, but vision .
The blood of the dragon still flowed in him.
But now it burned with something far more terrible .
It came to him like instinct.
A voice, not external — not daemonic, not whispered — but from within.
Aegon. Not Jon. Stark no longer. Snow no longer. The dragon must rise. Not alone.
The Warp didn't merely expand his mind — it anchored his clarity.
He saw what Daenerys had become — and what she could have been.
And he saw what had to be done.
The Seven Kingdoms were broken. Fractured. Clinging to old gods and older lies. Westeros was no realm of peace. It was a tomb — and the kings and queens were merely worms feeding on the rot.
No more compromises. No more half-measures.
There must be a new order.
He would rebuild House Targaryen.
But not as it was.
Not fire and blood for conquest alone.
But for unity .
Purpose.
Permanent.
And when that thought settled in his mind — the sky answered .
Far to the south, across frozen mountains and black waters, something stirred .
A shadow passed over the Shivering Sea.
Great wings like veils of night. Scales of obsidian and flame. Eyes, slitted gold.
Drogon.
He had flown far since the fall of King's Landing. Carried her body into exile, into myth. The dragon who wept.
But time passed.
And he felt it .
The blood.
The soul igniting in the North like a flare through the void.
The bond of old Valyria, reforged in exile.
He turned in the sky — a living star of death — and flew north.
Towards him.
Jon felt it before he heard it.
A ripple through the Warp. Like a predator waking. Like thunder hiding behind sunlight.
He was gathering wood for a new pyre — not for death, but for marking time. He had begun carving runes into stone — runes not of the North, not of the old gods, but symbols he should not have known .
The language of the Mechanicum. Of Mars. Of the Emperor's servants.
And yet his hands moved with certainty.
Ghost lifted his head, ears flicking. Eyes locked on the southern sky.
Then came the wind.
And the scream.
No pain.
Not angry.
Recognition.
Jon turned slowly.
The clouds parted — and the shadow fell.
Massive. Winged. Divine.
Drogon.
He crashed down into the frozen clearing like a comet, snow exploding outward, ice cracking beneath his talons. A furnace in the shape of a beast. His chest heaved with the memory of fire, his eyes locked on Jon with ancient fury.
The last time they had seen each other — Jon had held Daenerys' body.
Drogon had mourned her.
Had flown away.
Now he returned — not as a beast of vengeance…
...but as a witness .
Jon stepped forward.
The dragon growled low, like distant thunder.
Ghost snarled beside him, hackles raised.
Jon lifted one hand — and for a moment, nothing moved.
Then:
Flame rippled in Drogon's throat.
But he didn't breathe it.
He knelt.
Not in submission.
But in understanding.
Jon stepped closer.
Their eyes met — man and monster.
No. Not a monster.
Brother.
The bond flared — not just Targaryen magic, not just dragon's blood — but something deeper. The warp recognized the beast. And Drogon, in his own instinctive mind, recognized Jon not as rider...
…but as Emperor .
And when Jon laid his hand upon Drogon's snout, the air itself bent .
Golden fire danced along Jon's fingers, not burning, but reshaping.
His hair shimmered — strands of silver threading deeper now, pulsing faintly in the firelight. Not white like Daenerys. Platinum . The color of molten steel under moonlight.
And Drogon exhaled.
Not in anger.
But in peace.
That night, Jon stood before the fire.
Ghost curled beside him. Drogon slumbered near the ruins, his breath rising like steam from a sleeping volcano.
Jon stared at the flames, arms crossed over his chest.
He had not spoken aloud his intention.
But the forest had heard .
The world was listening now.
"I will restore House Targaryen," he said at last. Voice calm. The final.
Not as a man hungry for power.
But as a god accepting responsibility .
"I will build what Daenerys could not. Not through slaughter. Not through fire alone."
He looked up.
"Through truth ."
His gaze sharpened — toward the South.
Toward Winterfell. Toward the Vale. The Reach. King's Landing.
"They called me exile," he whispered. "Let them."
He felt the warp burn in his bones.
"I am the Prince that was promised — not to destroy night, but to end the long lie ."
Drogon stirred behind him — and the fire grew brighter.
Jon extended one hand — and the flame danced in his palm, not consuming, but obeying.
This was no longer the broken bastard of Winterfell.
This was the spark of an empire reborn.