The ford was full of chaos. Steel sang a bloody song, and men screamed. Horses shrieked as they drowned in mud and blood.
Jon's arms burned, but he found the rhythm in the chaos, a furious clash full of parry and strike. The Mountain, Gregor Clegane, was a shadow looming over him, a brute force of nature, each blow meant to shatter shields and split bodies. Yet Jon was not a shield, nor was he a bone. He was quick and lithe. Dark Sister matched perfectly in his hands, a black steel hymn. She danced around the brute's heavy guard, tasting blood at his joints and the gaps in his armor.
The Mountain roared, swatting at him like a bear at a wasp. Jon ducked and weaved, his wolf's eyes eyeing with cold resolve. Ghost's snarl echoed his own, the direwolf tearing the throat from another knight, a red mist blooming in the air.
Then, the moment came.
Gregor swung downward with all his monstrous strength, a final blow to end the fight. Jon stepped in, twisting past the stroke, his sword going deep into the giant's neck. The black steel landed where other swords had not reached, and Gregor bellowed, staggering. Thick, dark blood spilled hot and heavy across his gorget.
Jon did not stop.
He moved with a fury that was no longer entirely just his own. He wrenched Dark Sister free, dropped it into the muck, and with a savage cry, he plunged his fingers into the torn flesh.
Gasps rang across the ford. Men froze mid-battle as they saw the boy, hair pale as snow and eyes burning red as weirwood leaves. He tore with inhuman strength. Flesh split and blood flowed. With one final, guttural cry, he ripped the Mountain's head from his shoulders, the spine tearing free with a wet, grating sound.
Gregor Clegane's body crumpled like a felled tree, blood spraying across the mud. Jon held the dripping skull aloft for a heartbeat, blood on his face, before dropping it into the ground.
The battle was done.
Thoros of Myr stared, his sword slack in his hand, muttering half a prayer to R'hllor, half a curse. The surviving men of Beric's company—less than half of the six-score who had come—watched in horror and awe. The Mountain's men, leaderless and broken, scattered like leaves before a storm.
Together Jon and Thoros pressed the fight until the last of Clegane's raiders were dead or fled. Ghost padded back, his white fur slick with gore, and sat at Jon's side as though nothing were amiss.
By dusk, the survivors gathered in weary silence, tending wounds, binding arms, burying the dead. Fires crackled along the ford, sending sparks into the darkening sky. The stench of corpses hung heavy, but the living endured.
Beric Dondarrion sat apart at first, his one good eye fixed on the boy who had fought like a demon. The longer he stared, the more he saw—the high cheekbones of his face, the white hair, the natural capability to command and those eyes—red as heartwood, burning with a fire both strange and terrible and all of it proved the unmistakable stamp of dragon blood.
When at last the wounded had been tended and silence fell over the camp, Jon sat apart by the fire. He said nothing, only stared into the flames, his wolf curled close.
Beric approached.
Thoros, sharpening his blade, stiffened. His hand gripped the hilt, ready to spring, thinking the knight meant to strike at the boy. But Beric only lowered himself stiffly to sit by the fire, his cloak reddish with dried blood. His voice was calm, but it carried weight enough to make men stir from where they lay.
"Tell me true, lad." His one good eye fixed on Jon. "Are you a Targaryen?"
The words cut through the camp like a blade. Men shifted, wounded and weary though they were, their eyes on the boy who had slain the Mountain as though it were nothing. Thoros's mouth opened, then closed. Even the fire seemed to crackle quieter as if waiting to hear the answer.
Jon lifted his gaze, and looked at the man sitting beside him. He remembered him from his last life, another war—how he had fought alongside against the darkness beyond the Wall. How he had died. The weight of that memory pressed on him, he knew he had been hidden long enough.
"Yes," Jon said at last, his voice steady as stone. "My name is Aemon Targaryen. Son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark of Winterfell."
Silence followed.
Thoros's lips parted, but no prayer came. He had thought the boy sent by his Red God, was a chosen vessel for some fate he could not yet see. To hear he was dragonspawn… it shook him. Yet when Thoros looked at him now, he could not doubt it. The boy's words carried the ring of truth, as if his very gaze compelled everyone to believe it.
Around the fire, the battered men who lived looked at one another, disbelief and awe passing between them. Some muttered half-formed prayers. Others only stared, as though seeing history come alive before them.
Then Beric Dondarrion, the lightning lord of Blackhaven, got up and bent his knee and lowered his head. His voice carried clear and steady.
"In the name of House Dondarrion, I pledge my sword and my life to you, Prince Aemon Targaryen."
The words broke the silence.
Thoros rose, his sword in hand. For a heartbeat, he looked uncertain. Then, with a slow breath, he knelt as well, pressing his brow to the hilt. "If the Lord of Light brought me to you, then I cannot deny His will. I swear myself to you, Aemon, trueborn son of Rhaegar."
One by one, the wounded men followed. Some could not rise from their bedrolls, but even so they pressed fists to their hearts, or whispered vows through bloodied lips.
Jon did not move. He only watched them, his jaw tight, his hand resting on Ghost's white fur. He had not sought their fealty, nor their awe. Yet here it was, laid before him in the remains of a bloody ford.
The son of Rhaegar Targaryen sat by the fire, the weight of oaths heavy in the night, and for the first time he felt not only the truth of his true name, but the burden it carried.
Unknown to any, this was the start of a friendship so legendary, it would be etched in gold in the Records of the Citadel.