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Snow drove hard against the Wall that night, flurries lashing at stone and ice like white knives, though the season was yet autumn. Jon Snow stood on the windswept walkway, black cloak snapping behind him, and thought that winter had already come for men like him. He had been Lord Commander once, in truth and in name, but those days had broken with the Wall, and with it the brothers who had sworn to stand their lives upon it. Now he was less than commander, more than exile, and not quite king—something in between, and far more alone.
Still, the Wall stood. Scarred, melted in parts, rebuilt in others, but it stood, and so did Castle Black. Duty, Jon reminded himself, though his heart muttered back: And what duty now, with no Watch left to command?
A horn call broke his thoughts, distant from the east. Not the deep, booming roar of wildling warhorns, nor the hollow call of the Others that once haunted his dreams. This was the thin, high note of Eastwatch's horns—summoning riders, reporting a sight upon the shore.
Jon descended the steps two at a time, boots clanging on iron. Dolorous Edd met him in the yard, huddled in his cloak, snow caught in his whiskers.
"Riders from Eastwatch," Edd said, voice grim as ever. "They send for you. A ship's come ashore, smashed to kindling in the storm. Survivors, they say. Half-dead, half-mad. One among them asks for you, by name."
Jon frowned. "For me?"
Edd shrugged. "Or for some ghost that wears your face. I can't say. But Eastwatch swears it true. Will you ride?"
Jon's answer was already upon his lips. "Ready the horses."
The ride east was cruel and cold. A hard wind came shrieking from the sea, carrying the stench of brine and rot. Jon remembered the long watches of boyhood, standing upon the Wall with Ghost at his side, dreaming of the far lands beyond. Now, each gust cut through his furs and left him aching. He thought of Bran's words—of shadows rising in Valyria, of thrones in peril, of fire twined with shadow. Every breath of wind felt like a whisper from that vision, some unseen tide drawing closer.
By the time Eastwatch came into view, his party was half-frozen, their horses lathered with sweat and ice. The castle perched like a wounded gull upon the cliffs, its towers black and salt-streaked. The smell of burning pitch carried from the yard, and the sound of voices—too many, too loud.
The shipwreck lay upon the rocks below. Jon glimpsed its ribs jutting from the sea, wood split and blackened by fire or storm. Wreckage littered the shore: casks, ropes, a torn sail tangled with seaweed. Men picked among it, hauling bodies—some living, some stiff as driftwood.
The castellan of Eastwatch, Ser Harwyn Pyke, met Jon at the gate. A broad man, hard in face, once of the Iron Isles. His beard was silvered, his eyes salt-bright.
"My lord Snow," he said, dipping his head with something like respect. "The storm did for her. A galley of Lys, or so I judge by her build. Twenty souls came ashore. Fewer now. Some died in the night, coughing up brine. But there's one…" His gaze lingered, wary, as if uncertain of his words. "A woman. Strong enough to curse me when I bound her wounds. She names herself Velaryon."
The name struck Jon like a mailed fist. Velaryon. Old blood, the blood of Driftmark and Dragonstone, close kin to the Targaryens. And Lys, too—land of coin and courtesans, of sellsails and whispered magics.
"Where is she?" Jon asked.
They found her in the hall, stretched upon a cot by the hearthfire. Even in ruin she had a presence, like a figure carved of pale marble and then shattered by storm. Her hair was silver-gold, tangled and salt-streaked, clinging to her shoulders. Her eyes, when they opened, were a piercing sea-grey, sharp enough to cut through smoke and shadow.
She struggled to rise as Jon entered, but pain took her. She bit it back with a soldier's will. "You are… Snow." Her voice was hoarse, but steady. "Jon Snow. Lord Commander. I was told you lived."
Jon studied her, wary as he ever was with strangers bearing high names. "I am Jon Snow," he said at last. "And who calls me by name? You?"
"I," she breathed. "And those who knew… what I was meant to seek. My name is Elenya Velaryon. Of Driftmark by birth. Of exile by truth. I have crossed half the world, and near drowned the rest, to find the Wall and the man who holds it."
Her words troubled him, as Bran's had. The world seemed suddenly filled with those who sought him, who named him for some destiny he had never chosen. Jon Snow, bastard of Winterfell, had been made Lord Commander, and then a ghost returned from death. But sought as some answer to riddles? That was another cruelty.
"You crossed half the world for me?" he said, his voice quiet.
"For more than you," she replied. "For what you guard. For what is coming."
Later, when the hall emptied and only the fire kept them company, Jon pressed her further. She spoke of her house—once proud, bound to dragons, now broken and scattered by war. Her father had bent knee to no man, fled across the Narrow Sea when Daenerys Targaryen's war ended in ash and blood. In exile, they had turned to trade, to desperate bargains with Lysene merchants, until treachery and storm scattered them again. She alone survived the wreck, though she named brothers and kin who had perished.
"Velaryon blood is not so easily drowned," she said, though her eyes betrayed the grief behind her words. "We were the oars of Driftmark once, the sails of Blackwater Bay. We carried kings upon our decks. And now? We are carrion upon foreign shores."
Jon thought of his own blood, half Stark, half unknown, never whole. He thought of kingship, the weight he had neither sought nor wanted. He felt her gaze upon him, fierce and unyielding.
"You think me a ghost," she said, as if she had plucked the thought from his mind. "But I have come with warning, not with claim. There is a shadow stirring in Valyria. Old things walk again. Ships vanish in calm seas, men burn without fire, whispers travel on the wind. I have seen it, Jon Snow. My father feared it. And those who served the Dragonlords once will serve again—whether flesh or shadow."
Her words chilled him more than the sea wind ever could. He remembered Bran's vision: a shadow rising, a throne of ash, fire twined with darkness. He remembered Ghost, restless at night, pacing as if he smelled some far threat.
"You came to me," Jon said, "because Bran saw it too."
Elenya tilted her head. "Because fate seems to gather about you like stormclouds. Call it Bran, call it fate, call it the will of gods. But I know this: the storm that drowned my kin will drown the world, if we do not act."
That night, Jon lay awake in Eastwatch's chambers, staring at the rafters while snow hissed against the shutters. Ghost lay at his feet, eyes gleaming red in the dark.
He remembered her face by the fire, proud despite her wounds, her words laced with warning. He remembered the name—Velaryon—stirring some old chord, some link to dragons, to fire, to power.
Why me? he thought. Why always me?
But in his heart he knew. The Wall had been built for men like him, and for nights such as these. Whatever shadows rose in Valyria, whatever thrones burned in the South, the fight would find him, as it always did.
And when morning came, he would ride back to Castle Black—with Lady Elenya Velaryon at his side
The Tower of the Hand had once been burned to ruin by wildfire, rebuilt in haste, scorched again, and finally raised anew under Queen Daenerys's brief reign. Now its walls stood clean and pale, though not without cracks, as if the stones themselves had not forgotten flame. Tyrion Lannister sat at the great oaken table that had once been his father's, a goblet of Arbor gold in hand, watching dust dance in the shafts of sunlight.
King's Landing was quieter these days, but not gentler. A silence like rot had settled in its alleys. The markets bustled still, but the people bartered with anxious voices. Too many soldiers without banners roamed the city, broken men who had survived too many wars. Tyrion often thought the city was like a bloated corpse, sweet on the surface but rotting underneath.
And now Bran Stark had returned to it.
The boy—no, the man, the king who was not a king—sat in his chair of weirwood and iron at the far end of the chamber. His eyes, clouded with distance, seemed to peer through walls and bones. Tyrion had known lords and kings aplenty, but never one who seemed less interested in the here and now.
"You look half-dead," Tyrion said, breaking the silence. His words carried their usual armor of jests, though his tongue felt heavy. "Or perhaps all dead. Have you come to haunt me, Bran the Broken?"
Bran's gaze shifted toward him, slow as a raven turning on the wind. "Dead things walk, Tyrion. Not always in flesh."
A shiver touched Tyrion's spine despite the warmth of the chamber. He masked it with a gulp of wine. "A cheery thought. Just what I needed to accompany my drink. Tell me, then—what do the dead whisper? Do they want for wine too? If so, I fear our cellars will never suffice."
Bran did not laugh. He rarely did. "I saw shadows rising from the sea. Not Greyjoy sails, but older things. From beyond smoke and fire. A darkness stirred in Valyria. It reaches here."
Tyrion set down his goblet, fingers drumming the rim. "Valyria." The word tasted of ash. He remembered Daenerys, her dragons, her fire. He remembered too many tales of that cursed place—the Doom, molten rivers, stone men creeping through fog. He had always thought of Valyria as a story better left to children and maesters. But Bran Stark did not speak in fables.
"What exactly did you see?" Tyrion asked carefully.
"Fire that is not fire. Men that are not men. And one who would crown himself in flame."
Tyrion leaned back. "A riddle. Of course. I half expected you to say it plainly, but where would the sport be in that?"
"The world is not plain," Bran replied. "Nor are the things stirring now."
Tyrion rubbed at his temple. He had no love for prophecies; they stank of fools' hopes and madmen's truths. Yet Bran's voice carried a weight that silenced mockery. "And what does this mean for us? For Jon?"
Bran's eyes unfocused, as though he saw through leagues of stone and air. "Jon is bound to it. His blood calls to the shadows. They will seek him."
There it was again—the constant refrain. Jon Snow, Jon Stark, Jon Targaryen—half-brother, half-king, half-wraith of a man who refused crowns. Tyrion pitied him, in a way. The realm would never let Jon be only Jon.
He poured himself another cup. "Then I suppose we should keep him alive. Gods know he's hard enough to kill, though not for want of trying."
Bran did not smile.
The chamber grew colder. Or perhaps Tyrion only imagined it.
In the rafters above, unseen in the shifting gloom, a pair of eyes watched. The spy was lean, quiet as a cat, and clever enough to know what words were worth gold. He had slipped into the Tower with coin and shadows, crouched among the beams while Hand and Seer spoke.
He did not understand all the words—Valyria, shadows, crowns—but he understood enough. Jon Snow. Darkness rising. Crowns of fire. He clutched the memory like a dagger.
The Bastard of House Frey would pay well for this. Maeric Frey, they whispered, son of a forgotten line, but ruthless, hungry. Freys had always been rats, scurrying to gnaw at the bones of greater houses. Yet rats often lived where lions and wolves perished.
The spy waited as Tyrion rose, limping toward the window.
Outside, the city lay sprawled in sullen haze. The Blackwater glimmered, sluggish and foul. Beyond, the sea stretched east, toward ruins Tyrion had once dreamed of seeing. He had sailed to Pentos, Meereen, Slaver's Bay—but never Valyria. He had wanted it once. A place of wonder, dragons soaring above palaces of stone. But the Doom had made it something else.
Now Bran said its darkness reached even here.
Tyrion sighed. "Tell me, Bran. Do you ever tire of being right? I find it tiresome for you."
Bran's expression did not change. "The realm must be warned. But they will not listen."
"They never do," Tyrion muttered. He thought of Cersei, of Tywin, of Daenerys burning the city. Men never listened, until the fire consumed them. Perhaps that was all history was: fools ignoring the warnings until ashes lay in their teeth.
Still, he would act. He always did. If nothing else, he was good at survival, and survival meant turning whispers into weapons.
"Very well," he said aloud. "We'll keep this between us, for now. Speak of shadows too soon, and the lords will laugh, or worse, panic. Let them squabble over their chairs and crowns. Meanwhile, we prepare."
Bran inclined his head, as though he had expected nothing else.
The spy slipped away, silent as dust. His thoughts burned with greed. Frey would want to know. The Bastard would see it as opportunity. If the Starks feared shadows, if Jon Snow was hunted by them—then power could be seized in the chaos.
The game of thrones was never over.
And now, perhaps, it would be bloodier than ever.
The godswood of King's Landing was no true godswood. The heart tree was a pale weirwood, transplanted long ago, its roots shallow in southern soil. Yet Bran sat beneath it as though it were Winterfell's own, white branches arching over him like the bones of giants. The hush of the leaves carried whispers only he seemed to hear.
When he closed his eyes, the world fell away.
The ravens came first. Thousands, black wings blotting out the sun. Their cries pierced the air, a thousand voices, a thousand truths. He followed their flight, soaring through leagues of sky until the land below grew molten and broken.
Valyria.
Bran had never seen it, not with his waking eyes, but through the weirwood's sight the ruins lay before him—vast and cracked, rivers of stone turned to rivers of fire, mountains that smoked like dying beasts. The sky above was a shroud of ash.
He drifted closer.
And then he saw them.
Not men. Not truly. Figures wrought from fire and shadow, their forms shifting as if never fixed. They walked upon the ruined streets, their eyes like molten coin, their mouths whispering in tongues older than Westeros. One bore a crown—not of gold, but of flame that did not burn.
He would crown himself in fire.
The vision deepened. Bran saw the blackened waters beyond the peninsula, where wrecks of ships floated half-swallowed. Something moved beneath those waves, vast and scaled, but wrong—dragons twisted into shapes men had never named, their wings tattered, their bodies as much shadow as flesh.
One turned its head toward him. Its eyes were pits without end. Bran felt himself pulled, falling into them—
And in falling, he was somewhere else.
Snow. Endless, cold, biting. A frozen shore where a shipwreck lay shattered.
Jon.
Bran saw his brother—no, his cousin—standing amid broken timbers. In Jon's hand gleamed a shard of something like scale, black yet shimmering with faint light. As he held it, Bran felt the pull of the same shadows. The scale was not dead. It remembered fire.
Jon turned, as though sensing Bran, and their eyes met.
"Not yours to carry," Bran tried to say. But his mouth did not shape words.
The shadows writhed. Behind Jon, the sea grew black, and from its depths rose shapes—men without faces, crowned in flame, calling in tongues Jon could not understand.
Jon lifted Longclaw. His breath smoked in the air. He looked weary, yet unyielding.
Then the vision broke again.
Bran hung in darkness. Voices swirled around him.
"Blood of kings…""Blood of dragons…""Blood for fire…"
He saw thrones of ash, each one carved with screaming faces. Upon them sat no men, only shadows wearing crowns of fire. And above all, a tower of molten stone, rising endlessly, where a voice thundered:
"The last Targaryen must burn, or rule."
The words echoed, heavy as doom.
Bran felt himself pulled back, through fire, through ash, through wings and roots. The godswood returned, the heart tree looming above. His chest heaved, though he had not run.
Tyrion stood a few paces away, goblet in hand, watching him warily. "You were gone longer than usual. I was beginning to wonder if you'd left me to the mercy of my own thoughts. A cruel fate, I assure you."
Bran's voice was hoarse. "The shadows are rising. They want Jon."
Tyrion's mouth twisted. "They always want Jon. Crowns, swords, thrones, shadows. If I were him, I'd flee to some quiet village and let the realm destroy itself." He sipped his wine, though his eyes flickered with unease. "But he won't, will he?"
"No," Bran said. "He never does."
Far below, in the city's underways, the spy hurried through torchlit tunnels, clutching the tale like treasure. He would bring it to Maeric Frey.
The last Targaryen must burn, or rule.
The game was changing.
And in the distance, across black seas and broken lands, Valyria stirred.
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