297 AC, 6th Moon
The wind was quiet that morning. Not still—Winterfell was never still—but quiet, like the hush before a storm. The sky was the color of old iron, and the snow had stopped falling sometime in the night. I walked alone, my cloak drawn tight, boots crunching softly over the frost-laced stones. The castle slept behind me, its towers dark, its courtyards empty. I moved through the First Keep, past the lichyard, and down toward the ironwood door that marked the entrance to the crypts.
The door was old, heavy, and cold to the touch. I pressed my palm against it and felt the chill seep into my bones. It opened with a groan, and I stepped into darkness.
The air was colder here, thick with dust and memory. The stone steps spiraled downward, narrow and worn smooth by centuries of feet. I descended slowly, the torch in my hand casting long shadows against the walls. The crypts of Winterfell were older than the castle itself, some said. A place of kings and wolves, of secrets buried deep.
I passed the tombs of the Kings of Winter, their statues carved in solemn likeness, iron swords laid across their laps to keep their spirits bound. Direwolves curled at their feet, snarling in eternal silence. The deeper I went, the older the names became—Brandon the Burner, Theon the Hungry Wolf, Rodrik Stark with his broken sword. Their eyes seemed to follow me, carved from stone but watching still.
And then I reached her.
Lyanna Stark.
Her statue stood beside Brandon's, flanking their father Rickard. She was the only woman with a likeness carved in stone, a break from tradition. But Ned had loved her too much to leave her faceless. Her features were delicate, her eyes solemn, her hair flowing like river reeds. A bouquet of dried winter roses lay at her feet, their petals brittle and pale.
I knelt before her.
"My mother," I whispered.
The words felt strange on my tongue. I had never spoken them aloud. For fourteen years, I had been Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. But I remembered now. I remembered everything. Her voice, soft and fierce. Her laughter, like wind through leaves. Her love—for Rhaegar, for me. A love that had sparked a war, that had burned kingdoms and broken oaths.
I did not hate her.
I did not hate him.
They were my parents. And I loved them.
The rebellion had taken much—lives, honor, peace. But it had given me life. I was the blood of the wolf and the dragon. Stark and Targaryen. Ice and fire. I was proud of it.
I did not hate the Baratheons, nor the Arryns, nor the other houses that had risen against the crown. The Mad King had given them reason. Fire and madness had consumed him, and Robert had fought the war and won. He had killed my father, yes—but he had fought with steel, not poison. I could not hate him for that.
But I saw what he had become.
A glutton. A whoremonger. A king who drank and hunted while the realm bled. He had bankrupted the crown, fed the wolves of debt and war, and left the future to rot. I did not hate him. But I did not admire him.
I came to this world with power. With strength. With purpose.
The apocalypse stirred beyond the Wall. I could feel it—cold and ancient, a hunger that would not be sated by castles or crowns. And here, in the South, the lords fought over land and pride, blind to the storm that crept closer with each passing moon.
I would be king.
Not for glory. Not for vengeance. But to stop the stupidity. To protect the realm. To find my happiness.
I rose from Lyanna's tomb and turned to leave.
But something held me.
A pull. A whisper. A calling.
It came from deeper within the crypts, beyond the known tombs, past the statues and swords. I followed it, torch in hand, my footsteps echoing against the stone. The air grew colder, the walls narrower. I passed empty alcoves, reserved for future Starks. And then I saw it.
Cregan Stark.
The Wolf of Winterfell. The Old Man of the North. His statue was tall, broad-shouldered, with a sword across his lap and a direwolf at his feet. His eyes were carved like storm clouds, his beard thick and wild. He had ruled during the Dance of the Dragons, had marched south in the Hour of the Wolf, had held the realm in his grip for six days and passed judgment on kings.
I felt the pull again.
It came from beneath his tomb.
I knelt and placed my hand against the stone. Magic stirred within me. I whispered words and the stone shifted. Slowly, silently, the tomb opened.
Inside, wrapped in velvet and shadow, lay an egg.
A dragon egg.
I stared, breath caught in my throat. It was dark red, the color of blood and fire, with tiny scales that shimmered like polished garnet. It pulsed faintly, as if alive. I reached out and touched it.
Warm.
Not hot, not burning. But warm, like a heartbeat. Like something waiting to wake.
I lifted it carefully, cradling it in my arms. It was heavier than I expected, solid and ancient. I could feel its power, its promise. A dragon. My birthright.
I whispered another, and the tomb sealed shut once more, as if untouched.
I turned and made my way back through the crypts, the egg hidden beneath my cloak. The torch flickered, casting dancing shadows against the walls. The statues watched me pass, silent and still.
I emerged into the courtyard just as the sun began to rise. The sky was streaked with pale gold, and the castle stirred with life. Servants moved through the halls, the kitchens lit fires, and the yard echoed with the clatter of swords.
I slipped into my chambers and shut the door.
The egg lay on my bed, pulsing softly.