The North, Winterfell, The Great Keep
As the morning sun pierced through the thin veil of mist, the towering Great Keep of Winterfell slowly stirred from its somber slumber. This fortress had stood defiant against the elements for millennia; some whispered that the roots of Winterfell were as ancient and deep as the history of Westeros itself.
With the rhythmic tolling of the bell tower, the servants of the castle shook off their sleep. The early risers were already a blur of activity, weaving through the long corridors and up the winding stone stairs.
"Morning, Jon!" "Good morning!" "Up early again, I see!"
As he walked, the castle folk greeted Jon Snow with a familiar warmth. Though none addressed him as "Lord," his status as the Duke's acknowledged bastard kept the servants from ever crossing the line into true disrespect.
The Great Keep of Winterfell was a massive, drum-shaped tower. The guards at the entrance gave Jon a sharp nod of recognition before allowing him to pass into the heart of the keep.
As Jon ascended the stairs, a cold, sharp gaze suddenly struck him like a blade. He looked up to find a beautiful, red-haired woman of middle years descending toward him. Her features were elegant, her high cheekbones and pointed chin complemented by a regal, poised bearing that radiated the quiet power of a highborn lady.
Lady Catelyn of House Tully, originally of the Riverlands, was known for her kindness to most, yet she could never find it in her heart to be gracious toward Jon Snow. To her, he was the living splinter in her heart—a constant, walking reminder that her husband had once betrayed their sacred vows.
Jon felt a familiar pang of conflict regarding his aunt-by-law. In his mind, he knew he had no objective reason to hate her, yet the years of humiliation and subtle stings stored in the original Jon's memory continued to echo in his soul. However, the thought that he might soon never have to endure that icy mask again brought him a sense of sudden, quiet relief.
"Good morning, Lady Catelyn."
"Mmhmm..."
As was her custom, she offered nothing more than a non-committal hum before sweeping past him. Jon didn't linger; he hurried toward the lord's solar. He was beyond the point of hesitation. The old Jon Snow might have suffered in silence until the King's arrival, but the soul now inhabiting this body could not endure another moment of stagnation. He felt like a dragon coiled within a wolf's den, desperate to take flight and rewrite the stars.
Lord Eddard Stark, having just finished dressing for breakfast, encountered the hurried young man in the corridor.
"What is it, Jon? Has something happened?"
Eddard looked to be a man of fifty, his face a map of stern lines and northern gravity. In Jon's memories, this was the only face the man ever wore—solemn, rare to smile, and burdened by the weight of the North.
"I... Lord Eddard. I have something to tell you. Something meant for your ears alone."
Jon's eyes flickered instinctively toward the doorway, where an elderly man stood. The man wore the grey robes of a Maester, his bald head gleaming in the dawn light like polished stone. Maester Luwin watched the two Starks with a look of undisguised curiosity.
Ned paused, visibly taken aback by the uncharacteristic, almost courtly formality in Jon's tone. It was a sharpness he wasn't used to seeing in the boy.
"Jon? Very well. Maester Luwin, if you would excuse us."
"Jory! You two stay at the door. If anything is needed, I will call. See that we are not disturbed."
Though Ned was clearly baffled by the boy's behavior, the sheer gravity etched into Jon's face compelled him to follow through. He gave his orders to Luwin and the captain of the guard, Jory Cassel.
"As you command, Lord Eddard," Luwin replied, bowing slightly. He cast one last puzzled glance at Jon before withdrawing.
Click.
As the heavy door settled into its frame, Jon let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Ned stood in the center of the room, watching the boy with a mix of concern and burgeoning curiosity. He led Jon toward the hearth, where a low fire crackled, and motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite his own.
"I had a dream," Jon began, his voice low as he carefully measured each word.
"A dream?"
"I saw many things. I learned the truth of this world... and the truth of my own blood, my dear Uncle."
Ned's reaction was instantaneous. At the mention of the word "Uncle," he bolted upright, his chair scraping harshly against the floor.
"What did you say?!"
"How... how could you possibly know that? No, Jon, listen to me. It was just a nightmare. You are my son. Your mother was Wylla—"
"My mother was Lyanna Stark," Jon interrupted, his voice terrifyingly calm as he remained seated. He had moved past the initial tremors of nerves. "And my father was..."
"Rhaegar Targaryen."
Crash!
The mask of the stoic Lord of Winterfell shattered. Ned recoiled as if struck, his legs catching the heavy chair and sending it toppling over. The falling furniture clipped a small side table, sending a bowl of fruit clattering across the stone floor.
"Lord Eddard!"
Thump, thump, thump...
Jory's panicked voice came muffled through the thick wood of the door.
"Stay out! No one is to approach this room until I give the word! That is a command from the Warden of the North! Do you understand?"
"Y-yes, My Lord!"
The guards outside shared a bewildered look, but they knew Ned Stark's word was law. They retreated down the hall, giving the room a wide berth. After all, Jon Snow was family, and Ned was one of the finest warriors in the realm; they had little reason to fear for his safety.
"Haaa... tell me," Ned exhaled, his voice trembling as he forced himself to regain a shred of composure. "What kind of dream did you have?"
"If you are willing to listen, I will tell you everything, piece by piece. It is a long story—so long I can hardly believe it myself—and yet it feels more real than the stone beneath our feet. It feels like a life I have already lived."
Jon's shoulders shook, betraying the storm of nerves beneath his calm facade. He knew that the words he was about to speak would dismantle the world as Ned Stark knew it.
"Go on," Ned whispered. He felt a cold dread pooling in his stomach; a premonition that the quiet life he had built on a foundation of lies was over.
Jon began to weave the tale. He spoke of the Lannister siblings and their golden-haired infamy. He spoke of Bran being shoved from a high tower to silence a secret.
"Robert's children... all of them are Lannister bastards?"
"Robert killed by a boar?"
"I... I die in King's Landing?"
Jon's storytelling was unrefined, but he hit the marks that mattered. At first, Ned protested, his loyalty to Robert making him lash out in denial. But as Jon provided specific details—details that aligned perfectly with things Ned already suspected or knew to be true—the older man fell into a stunned, haunted silence.
He thought of Robert's bastards he had seen over the years, their dark hair a stark contrast to the golden brood in the capital. The pieces of the puzzle were clicking into place with a sickening regularity.
"And you say... you believe this 'Great Other' that can kill dragons is not dead? That it 'skinchanged' into Bran's body?"
Ned's voice was thick with emotion. The idea of his second son becoming a Greenseer and eventually a King was overwhelming, but Jon's "embellishments" about the shadow of a hidden enemy added a layer of sinister urgency to the tale.
"I haven't slept since I woke last night," Jon said, his lie becoming more fluid with every sentence. "These aren't dreams, Uncle. They are memories. I believe Bran left them for me—as a final safeguard before he lost himself to whatever is controlling him."
Jon's nervousness had vanished, replaced by the practiced ease of a man who knew his audience. He knew that if the fate of the Stark family wasn't enough to move Ned to action, the weight of "saving the world" certainly would. He had to protect this man—the only one who could validate his bloodline.
"Do you... do you truly believe in these memories?" Ned asked after a long, suffocating silence.
"I know the kind of man you are, Uncle. I know that when these events begin, you will act as your honor dictates. And I know that your honor will make you merciful... and that mercy will be your death at the hands of the Lannisters."
Ned winced as if slapped. He wanted to argue, to defend his principles, but as he looked at the boy—at the Targaryen prince hidden in a wolf's skin—he realized with a hollow certainty that the story Jon told sounded exactly like the man he was.