297 AC, 6th Moon
I woke before the sun.
The room was dark, the kind of dark that clings to your skin like damp wool. The air smelled of stone and old wood, warmed faintly by the hot springs that ran beneath the keep. I lay still, staring up at the ceiling beams, listening to the silence. No footsteps. No voices. Just the groan of Winterfell settling into its bones.
And then the memories came.
Not dreams. Not fragments. Memories—clear and sharp, like blades freshly honed. Fourteen years of them, flooding into me all at once. I saw my life unfold behind my eyes, every moment etched in ice and fire.
I remembered the first time I saw Lord Eddard Stark. My father, though not truly. He had held me in his arms, solemn and silent, his eyes the color of winter. I never knew my mother. Ned never spoke her name. I asked once, and he told me, "You are my blood, Jon. That is enough." But it wasn't. Not then.
I remembered growing up in the shadow of Robb. My brother, though not truly. We were born within weeks of each other, raised side by side. We trained together, fought together, laughed together. But I was always the Snow. The bastard. The one who sat lower at table, who stood behind in line, who was never quite enough. Catelyn Stark's eyes haunted me. Cold and distant, like the frost on the godswood leaves. She never struck me, never shouted. But her silence was a blade all its own.
I remembered Maester Luwin's lessons. The histories of the Seven Kingdoms, the tales of the First Men and the Andals, the old gods and the new. I soaked them in like snow on stone. I knew the names of every Stark king, every Targaryen prince, every battle fought in the North. I knew the Wall, and the Night's Watch, and the stories of the Long Night.
I remembered the yard. Ser Rodrik's voice barking commands, the clang of steel on steel, the sting of bruises and the taste of blood. I was good. Better than most. But never praised. Never chosen. Robb was the heir. I was the shadow.
I remembered Arya. Wild and fierce, more wolf than girl. She never cared that I was a bastard. She called me her true brother, and I believed her. She fought with sticks and chased cats and cursed like a stablehand. I loved her for it.
I remembered Sansa, moving through Winterfell like a lady from a song—graceful, poised, untouched by the snow and stone the rest of us knew. Her auburn hair caught the light like autumn fire, her cheekbones high and sharp as a queen's crown, and her eyes held the clarity of a godswood pool. The books spoke of Tully beauty, but they never captured her. She was elegance made flesh, every gesture shaped by courtly training, every word soft and measured.
I remembered Bran, climbing where he shouldn't, smiling like the sun on snow. Rickon, too young to understand the world. And Theon Greyjoy, always smirking, always mocking. He wanted to be Robb. He wanted to be me. But he was a prisoner dressed as a lord.
I sat up slowly, the blanket falling from my chest. My body felt... different. Not sore, not stiff, not the usual ache of a boy growing into his limbs. I felt strong. Alive. Every muscle moved with purpose, every breath came easy. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood. No dizziness. No hesitation. I was awake in a way I had never been before.
I crossed the room to the bronze mirror that hung beside the door. The boy who stared back at me was familiar, yet changed. Fourteen years old, with the lean build of a Stark and the dark curls of a Snow. My hair was thick and unruly, my jaw beginning to sharpen, my eyes... my eyes were grey, but deeper now. Like storm clouds gathering over the Wolfswood. There was something in them—something ancient. Something watching.
I touched my chest, feeling the steady thrum of my heart. It beat like a war drum, slow and powerful. I could feel the blood in my veins, hot and restless. Wolf blood, I knew. Stark blood. But there was more. Fire. Dragon. I didn't know how I knew, but I did. The truth of my birth whispered to me in dreams and fragments. Rhaegar Targaryen. Lyanna Stark. A song of ice and fire.
And then there were the boons.
I could feel them inside me, like gifts wrapped in shadow. The first was skill—fighting skill beyond anything I had ever known. I didn't need a sword in my hand to know how to use it. The knowledge was there, etched into my bones. I could picture every stance, every strike, every counter. I could fight blindfolded and still see the path to victory.
The second was magic. Not the tricks of maesters or the fire of red priests. This was older. Wilder. It pulsed in me like a second heartbeat. I could feel the wind outside the walls, the frost creeping across the stones, the whisper of leaves in the godswood. I closed my eyes and reached inward—and the world slowed. I could feel the castle breathing.
The third was stamina. Endless, tireless, unyielding. I could run for days, fight for weeks, endure the cold of the Wall and the heat of dragonfire. My body was a forge, and I was the flame.
I dressed in silence, pulling on my tunic and breeches, fastening my cloak with the direwolf clasp Robb had given me last winter. My boots were worn, but they fit well. I moved through the halls like a shadow, my footsteps silent on the stone.
Winterfell slept.
The castle was vast, a maze of towers and courtyards, bridges and battlements. I passed the Great Hall, its doors shut tight, the hearths within cold. The tapestries on the walls told stories of old kings—Brandon the Builder, Torrhen Stark, the King Who Knelt. I paused before one, tracing the threads with my fingers. The direwolf stitched in silver thread seemed to watch me.
I crossed the courtyard, snow crunching beneath my boots. The sky above was a tapestry of stars, the moon hanging low and pale. The walls of Winterfell loomed around me, ancient and strong. The outer wall was thick, the inner wall thicker still. Beyond them lay the winter town, quiet and dark, its wooden stalls and muddy streets waiting for the sun.