Bronn
The Reach
290 A.C
The morning was cold, surprising for a summer morning, especially in the Reach. Yet that all too familiar scent of fresh flowers continued to drift through the air. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he could have sworn he was covered in soot. The night had been rather pleasant, taking only a few hours to sleep before the journey that laid in front of him. It would take about a month to travel from here to the westerlands.
Quickly changing, Bronn made sure to take some of the seeds he'd been enjoying for the past few months. Sunflower seeds they were called, but he didn't know why as when he tried planting one it didn't turn into a flower resembling that of the sun, but instead just withered up and died. Quite strange really. Still, they were delicious. Nutritious too apparently.
After snacking down the seeds, he made his way over to his companion, who seemed to sleep in a lot.
"Oi fucker." Bronn spoke softly, kicking his friend in the shoulder. "Come on. Time to go, white hair."
Rhaegar groaned, rubbing the corner of his eyes. Slowly, he sat up, yawning and wiping some of the dirt off his arms. "For the last time Bronn, my hair was silver, not white." Picking up his things and standing up, his long, now raven black hair cascaded down past his shoulders, almost to his forearms. "If my hair ever turns white, promise you'll kill me."
"Don't make me promise that. Chances are I'll go through with it." Bronn reached down, grabbing his dagger and placing it into the sheave. "You ready to go?"
Rhaegar looked over at him incredulously.
"I haven't even had breakfast."
"Don't need breakfast."
"You know I can see the sunflower seeds on your shirt, right?"
"Shit, really?" Bronn began wiping the seeds off his shirt, with haste too. "It doesn't matter. These woods are full of game. We'll find a real breakfast in no time."
Rhaegar snorted. "We're too close to Highgarden, we'd be lucky to find a sparrow in this part of the woods."
As much as Bronn hated to agree with him, he had a point. The past few days they'd struggled to find any meat in these woods, through no fault of their own. Bronn had heard of the wealth of Highgarden. He wasn't surprised to discover most of the money they made was off of trading. So that no doubt meant there would be all kinds of men hunting in these woods, looking for meat or seeds or plants. Of course, this had made it near impossible to find any game. They'd spent hours looking for any food but the only thing they had found was an abandoned wagon in the woods, which Rhaegar found rather odd and dangerous, meanwhile, Bronn saw it as a sign from whatever made-up arseholes lived in the sky. That food and ale had lasted them only three days after they realised just how famished they were.
To think they were here on a job. More like a death sentence. Then again, it's not every day some rich lord asks you to protect him from wildlife and such. And the pay was good too. Too good as Bronn asked the man, finding out there were vicious animals in these parts of the woods, though the sudden surge in such vicious creatures was still unknown. Once they got their payment, they'd spent the next few days in the area surrounding Highgarden, in case any of these vicious animals decided to come and attack them while on the road, so that they could easily just waltz over to Highgarden and request for help.
"True, but I'm sure we can find something. Are we not the same lucky bastards that found gold under that waterfall back in the Riverlands."
"That doesn't count. We weren't looking for it." Rhaegar sighed. "For some strange reason, it's much harder to find something when you're looking for it."
"Can't we just go try?" Bronn groaned.
"No. We're running low on coin, and as you said, what worth is a poor man?"
"Pretty sure you said that." Bronn tilted his head.
"Does it matter? At the rate we're going, we'll be out of food, money and have no choice but to crawl to the lion's den. That is no such thing I'll do." Rhaegar said through gritted teeth.
Bronn backed down, sensing the anger in his travelling companion's tone. It was understandable for him to have a grudge against the Lannisters. He couldn't imagine having everything taken from him. He understood Tywin Lannister's reasoning, wishing not to be slaughtered by the new king, but killing children? You could sink no lower than that.
"Fine then. We'll head back towards the Riverlands and make our way up to the north, join the night's watch and spend the rest of our days as celibates, eating shit from unwashed bowls and wandering around aimlessly until we get struck with a wildling arrow, piss ourselves and die."
Rhaegar squinted slightly, letting a small sigh out. "Isn't that what we're doing right now?"
Bronn shook his head as Rhaegar chuckled. "You're not getting to me." Rhaegar continued to laugh as they put their things on their steeds. "Not getting to me."
As they rode away, Bronn looked up to the sky and his breath shortened.
"What the fuck?"
Rhaegar looked up to the sky and his face paled. Bronn sat atop his horse, watching as his friend shook, fear in his eyes. He'd never seen him like this, not since he first met him.
What did it mean? Why did it scare Rhaegar?
"Are you okay?" Bronn asked.
Rhaegar shook his head. "Of course I'm not. Ash is falling from the sky."
Jamie Lannister
Kings Landing
290 A.C
Jamie hated wandering these empty halls. It wasn't the fact that they were empty, but that he was lost. After all of these years, from living here with his father to the kingsguard, and yet he doubted he'd seen the entire keep.
Maybe it was the late start, but something about today seemed different. The sky outside was no longer its normal blue or even the deep yellow that was so often seen during the sunrises, but a mix of red and grey. Though it was still early in the morning, it seemed like this would be the appearance of the sky for the rest of the day.
It was the most wondrous thing to see when he woke. The flakes floating down from the sky, landing in the water and flooding the keep like snow would, but this was not snow. No, this was soot, ash, whatever you wanted to call it. It was almost like the sky itself was on fire. In the past hour, he'd heard whispers of servants and maids. Rumours, of course. Not to say that they weren't interesting.
Some said the ashen sky meant the gods were angry, others said they were pleased. The most interesting one, however, was that the dragons had returned. Interesting but untrue. Had they been right on that one, he would have run to Casterly Rock to inform Tyrion, who no doubt would be beside himself with glee.
What I wouldn't give to see my little brother smile again. Jamie thought to himself, a remorseful smile on his face. Since that whole business with his father and that girl, Tyrion needed something to be happy about, even if it just was a rumour.
But was it though? The very idea of fire breathing beasts roaming the sky, causing ash to fall on their heads as they spat fire at one another. Something about it made him think, his stomach tingling.
Still, the thought of dragons didn't distract him from the mess he'd found himself in. Though he wasn't really to blame. If he was given enough time off guarding a whoremongering king, he would know every nook and cranny, every rat in every hall, and every speck of dirt in the red keep by heart. But yet he was a joke. To the fat shit, he called a king and to the rest of the seven kingdoms.
After all this time, they called him kingslayer. The man with no honour. If they knew what had happened in the throne room that day, they would fall to their knees, pleading for forgiveness. He wondered if he would have been praised, which was the last thing he wanted. You get praised for winning a tourney, for winning a duel. Not for doing the right thing though.
He smiled to himself as he thought back on the man who told him that. Ser Arthur Dayne, the sword of the morning. It was a shame what happened to his mentor. Slaughtered in the middle of nowhere by the honourable Lord Eddard Stark. That was no way to go. Not a legend like that. Not on the run. Arthur deserved to go out during the battle of the trident, or the sack of king's landing, protecting Rhaegar or his family. Not Lyanna Stark.
Oh, how Robert had cried himself to sleep during his first year as king. What a way to disgrace his sister. Crying over a corpse when the most beautiful woman in all the seven kingdoms was laying in bed next to you.
Speaking of the devil. Jamie grimaced as a drunk Robert stumbled down the halls, the Lord Commander chasing after him, an expression on his face not unlike Jamie's.
"Kingslayer!" Robert cried, leaning against the wall. "I need you for a moment!"
Robert wasn't exactly what Jamie would call fat, but he was getting up there. When he'd seen Robert walk into the throne room for the first time, his eyes widened. He was built like a bull, strong and tall, and Jamie could see why he was being referred to as the demon of the trident. However, when they brought in the bodies of the Targaryen children, he felt disgusted at the lack of emotion Robert found in the corpses of babes.
Robert let out a small hitch in breath as the bodies of the children lay on the floor. "Thank you Tywin."
"Robert!" Eddard cried out. "You can't condone this!"
"What's done is done, Ned."
"No Robert. I won't accept this. Those are the words of cowards, like him." Ned pointed at a silent Tywin Lannister. "Is this what you've become? A coward?"
Robert stood up, meeting Lord Starks eyeline. "This is war, Ned. This is justice for your father! For your brother!"
Lord Stark had a shocked expression on his face as he heard, Robert's vengeful tone. "Aerys Targaryen killed my family, not Elia or her young."
"We just won this war, Ned. You knew the consequences."
"Don't tell me you're okay with this! The murder of babes!"
Robert turned back, a dangerous look in his eye. "I see no babes. Only dragonspawn."
He remembered that day every time he saw Robert sitting on the throne, or saw him piss himself, drunk. Over the years the man that once stood tall, the man that toppled the greatest dynasty the world had ever seen, had turned into a fat oaf.
As he now looked into the eyes of his disgrace of a king, he saw that day yet again.
"Yes, your grace?" Jamie asked.
"I need you to come with me." Robert belched, ale in his beard. "Have those girls sent up, Ser Barristan. The ones with the perfume. You know the ones."
As Robert waddled away, Jamie thought to himself of what could have been. Had it been Rhaegar that had won the battle of the trident, he would have been proud to serve his king. To die for his king. He doubted he would find any glory or respect in dying for Robert. He wondered what would have become of Rhaegar, had Lyanna Stark died, but he had lived. What little he knew of the crown prince, he seemed like a good enough man. So when he heard that he'd kidnapped the very same girl he'd named the queen of love and beauty, he knew something was off. Would he have lived to be a great, yet sorrowful king? Or would he fall down the same path as Robert?
Thoughts like these often wandered his mind, leaving him worried about the future, and what challenges would throw themselves at Jamie. He knew thinking about the past wouldn't change the ways things were now, but as he stood in front of Robert's door, as the king he had chosen whored and drank, he looked back on the thought from earlier, wondering what the implications would be if they were true. But he shrugged them off. The dragons were long dead, no harm to anyone. Nothing could come back from the grave.
Arthur Dayne
The Kingsroad
290 A.C
"Gods this ash is everywhere!" Oren cried out, brushing it off himself. "What the fuck happened?"
"No idea." Arthur frowned. "Who was on watch?" He asked a passing brother, who shrugged.
They'd situated themselves on the side of the kingsroad. Hopefully far enough out from all kinds of bandits and idiots who wished to attack them and the "new recruits.". They'd gathered only 13 men from both the black cells and volunteers in total, which was a damn shame. The last time he'd been to King's Landing, they'd managed to get almost 30 men. Not even half.
"Oren, where's Yoren?"
Oren snorted after hearing him say the words in that order. "Pissing into the lake." He chuckled making Arthur sigh.
Arthur didn't know much of how he got here. The last thing he remembered was collapsing to his knees during his battle with Ned Stark. He woke, exactly where he died. Lost and confused, he cried out for help, but none came. The next few years had gone by so quickly, and he only remembered snippets. He remembered King's Landing, where he saw the stag being wed to the lioness. He remembered crying in an alley, once he'd heard what had happened to the Targaryens. And he remembered a black cat, fierce as ever, coming out of the alley and staring at him with those big eyes.
Had Rhaenys died in pain? He thought to himself upon seeing the cat. Did the cat know the little girl he lived with was dead?
He remembered the next few weeks like they were a fading dream. He rode to Castle Black and became a sworn brother. A wandering crow, as they called them. Other than that, he had no recollection of the time between his death and resurrection, if you could even call it that.
The man standing in front of him was not a man of great nobility or honour. The man in front of him was Oren Edgelock, the fourth son of Lord Seglen Egdelock, a small house from the stormlands. The man that stood in front of him was a drunk. The man that stood in front of him was irritating. But the man standing in front of him was loyal. He was smart, and as such, hadn't found his head on a spike yet. However, he came awful close only yesterday, causing the man they called the Hound distress, which he had been told, was not something anyone would wish to do. Back at the wall, Oren had been given his own nickname; Oren the Black Rabbit, like the white rabbit on a red field, like his house sigil.
He'd seen Oren fight many times, and he was surprised at how good he was. Fast and tactical, he almost caught Arthur off guard. He would have liked to have seen the two men fight, but he found himself not wishing death on a man like Oren.
He found Yoren, fishing bits of ash out of the lake, hands full of the stuff.
"Any idea what caused it?" Arthur asked.
Yoren shook his head. "Not a clue. Some of the boys been spreading rumours. Some think a sign from the gods. Others think dragons."
Arthur, who had previously been watching a fish trying to swim upstream, whipped his head around at those words.
"Dragons?" Arthur said with a hint of nervousness in his voice.
"Rumours, and nothing but." Yoren stood up, turning to face Arthur, who was looking a bit pale. "Don't tell me you believe it's dragons?"
"Who knows?" Arthur said, standing straighter. "The world must be bigger than just Westeros. There must be dragons somewhere."
Yoren just chuckled at his words and Arthur let out a slow sigh of relief. He'd come this far without being found out, and as each day went by, his fear grew. Fear that he would slip up and have someone find out who he really was.
Were that to happen, he would have no choice but to run. Run to Essos, where he could protect the remaining Targaryens. He often thought to himself why he wasn't there already? The last of Rhaegar's kin and he'd abandoned them. Why?
"We should be heading back. There's a long ride back to the wall." Yoren walked past Arthur.
"Yoren," Arthur called after his friend.
Yoren stopped, looking back at Arthur, clutching his belt. "Aye?"
"What do you believe?"
The wandering crow raised his eyebrow, before pondering on Arthur's question. "I believe… in truth I have no idea. You?"
"Same, though the prospect of dragons sounds interesting."
Both men smiled at the thought. Dragons roaming the sky once more, and Arthur felt his heart beat a little faster.
"It does." Yoren walked over to Arthur, putting his arm around him. "I heard you saved Black Rabbit's life back in King's Landing. Why on earth would you do that?"
Rhaegar Targaryen
The Reach
290 A.C
The ash scared him. Not because of the way it fell, but the implications of what it could mean. Last night was the easiest he'd ever slept, and he doubted he'd be given that same allowance tonight.
Despite the easy sleep, he had faint recollections of his dreams, and he felt true fear for the first time since he'd woken up on that riverbank.
The room was dark. Pitch black, and yet he could make out shapes, that of his hands and the rest of his body, but only slightly. Where was he?
"Hello?" he cried out, to no response. "What's going on?" He yelled, voice breaking. This was no ordinary dream, he felt the cold air on his face, the darkness straining his eyes, as they desperately tried to find his surroundings. He felt the blood dripping from his eyes, as they began even more strained. Was that normal? No, it wasn't. His blood was cold, cold as ice as it slowly ran down his face. It was like they were tears.
As he pushed himself up, he felt the entire world shake, as though it was full of rage. He knew that he wouldn't stand a chance against the rage of the gods if that's what was happening.
He looked at the place became brighter, the features of it and himself becoming clearer. He first looked to himself, and saw the blood on his hands, the darkest shade of red. It dripped slowly from his fingers, pooling on the sand below him.
He was in no room, but instead the shores of Dragonstone, the home he'd known for the last few years of his life. He heard a woman scream. The scream of pain and life. Upon hearing the scream, he raced up the steps, only to find him by the woman's bedside. He saw those violet eyes, and long white hair, and collapsed by her side.
"Mother," he said in a voice that was not his own.
"Rhaegar?" she whimpered, tears dripping from her eyes as she cupped the boys head.
"Mother? It's me. Viserys?" his brother choked through tears.
The sound of thunder was sudden and loud, but his mother's dying howl was much louder than that of the waves crashing against the castle. As one scream went, another came. Amongst the sobs of Viserys, the cries of the newborn Targaryen echoed the halls of Dragonstone.
"My prince, we must go." A man Rhaegar recognised as Willem Darry put a hand on Viserys's shoulder. "You and your sister."
Viserys continued to cry as did his sister.
Rhaegar moved from his mother's side, looking down at his sister. She had the same shade of eyes as their mother.
"Can I see my sister?" Viserys wiped away the tears, but Rhaegar could see his brother was still broken. As he cradled the girl in his hands, Viserys looked at his mother than his sister.
"Daenerys," Viserys said softly.
"What?" Ser Willem asked.
"My sister. Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen."
Rhaegar wept for his mother, this time the tears salty as they reached his lips. He put a smile on his face, however. Seeing his brother step up, he felt some pride in that.
"I'm proud of you, brother." Rhaegar smiled.
Viserys stopped cradling his sister as looked up, meeting Rhaegar's eyes, he let out a gasp, and Rhaegar did the same.
The world dissolved, and he found himself being pushed down, harshly. It didn't take him long to realise that he was drowning. He kicked and panicked as the light at the top of the world began to grow further and further away.
He felt the hand grab onto his ankle, dragging him to the depths, he reached out for help and a hand grabbed it. Pulling up towards the surface, he saw the face of fire. It burned deep, and Rhaegar felt his heart beat intensely.
The face opened its mouth and Rhaegar closed his eyes, the tears of blood returning, as he was consumed by the firey figure. He expected death but found none. Instead, he woke in the smouldering remains of a city. One he didn't know.
In front of him was a stone. A large stone, decorated with black and red, and it took him a moment to realise he was staring at a large dragon egg. The only thought running through his mind, that he wanted to wake up, no needed to wake up, was replaced with a deep desire to hold the egg. To warm the egg. To wake the egg.
Taking careful steps, he approached the egg. The egg was rough, sharp and the longer he touched it the more it seemed to warm. The warmth inside growing warmer and Rhaegar's stomach tingled, making him feel sick.
He continued to hold the egg, despite the feeling in his stomach, despite the fact his eyes bleed as heavy as a river, and despite the fact, his veins grew red.
That's when he felt the egg begin to burn. The red flame in his veins flooding into the egg, making him cry through gritted teeth.
The blood was gushing now, but he never ran out of it, he didn't find himself grow tired, but instead, he felt the fire within him rage. The egg began to grow, at first larger than himself than larger than the smouldering path they sat on. Rhaegar never let go, pushing himself further and further, until the egg cracked, his blood running from it.
It was sudden, but the egg burst open and Rhaegar was once again consumed by the fire, though it did not scold him. The fire warming his body, and he heard the voice.
"We shall fly! For we are dragons!" The deep voice that he did not recognise boomed.
Despite this, Rhaegar took to the sky. He didn't know how, but he flew amongst the clouds, gliding peacefully among other dragons.
"Let's show the world that dragons do not burn!" The deep voice cried out yet again.
Rhaegar and the other dragons all let out flames, burning the sky, setting the clouds aflame. The clouds burned, turning to ash, but no fire harmed a dragon.
As Rhaegar flew into the flames, he saw himself, the black and red armour, the dying breath and his final word. He felt himself die, only to feel another life begin, miles away.
He felt a dragon egg hatch for the first time in over a hundred years. He felt the dragon call for him, for his help. He felt the dragon grow angry, grow stronger, grow bigger.
And then he felt the dragon breathe life into him. Breathe life into Rhaegar Targaryen. The Last Dragon.
He woke with a sudden jolt. Panting heavily, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He did not check to see whether it was a blood tear or not, he instead rest his head back onto the ground and drifted back to sleep, dreaming this time of a beautiful woman with dark brown hair, and a garland of blue roses sitting on her head. He smiled as he has remembered her laugh, her smile, her strength. As he slept the blood tears were washed away with real ones.
Benjen Stark.
The Wall, Castle Black
290 A.C
The wall was quiet today. Not because of the group that had been sent out, but because men were whispering to each other rather than yelling. It was already noon by the time the raven arrived. The message was hard to read and he cursed Yoren's horrendous handwriting, wishing for him to at least try.
After re-reading it multiple times, he shook his head. Ash falling in the south? Perhaps he had read the letter wrong, which was very likely. If this was true, then what could it mean? A sign from the gods?
He hadn't been the only one to receive a raven on the issue. Several others had gotten scrolls telling of the ashen sky.
Making his way over to Lord Commander Mormont's keep, he watched as the recruits from the Riverlands fought, the clashing of wooden swords being heard through the courtyard. It was odd to hear so little noise, but most of the men still here were men of the north, and being from the North, they were concerned, news from the south affecting them.
We Northmen are a superstitious lot. He thought to himself, a grin forming on his face, which he quickly removed upon reaching the Lord Commanders keep.
Going inside, he saw the Lord Commander reading a scroll from Yoren. As per usual, the Lord Commander looking exhausted.
"You hear about the south?" Benjen asked, placing his hands on the table.
The Lord Commander nodded, putting the letter aside. "Aye. It appears the South has a lot of ash to clean up."
"Does it not worry you?"
"Of course it worries me." Mormont sighed. "Though I don't see what we can do about it. We don't even know what caused it, and I doubt we ever will."
Benjen grit his teeth, looking at the Lord Commander. He was right, but it still left a feeling of unsteadiness in him.
"What are we to do until then? These boys are worried."
Mormont looked at him surprised. "Over a little ash?"
"It would appear that way."
The Lord Commander shook his head in disbelief. "I half expected more from these boys."
"They're scared. As am I. No one knows what's going on." Benjen frowned.
Lord Commander Mormont sighed. "I'm sorry. Have you read these reports from beyond the wall?" He handed Benjen several letters. "The wildlings are moving closer to the wall, day by day, and we have no idea what it is they're running from."
"Running?" Benjen looked up from the letters, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean, running?"
"We've captured no less than fifteen wildlings in the last few moons. They all say they're running, heading south for safety." Jeor grimaced. "There have been claims. Sightings of…"
"What?" Benjen asked, already knowing the answer.
"The claim to have seen the dead. The Others risen once more."
Benjen shuddered at the thought. The White Walkers marching south, to bring an end to mankind once and for all. He thought back to the tales Old Nan used to tell him and Lyanna. That the long night would soon be upon them. That the world would be covered in darkness, and the army of the dead, lead by the Night King, a former Lord Commander led astray. That the wall would be torn down and all the men killed. That children and babes would die from the cold, as the entire world was encased in the coldness of Winter. At the time he had seen them as stories, used to put children into fear, but he knew better having seen what he'd seen.
"These claims? Any way to prove them?" Benjen feeling the pit in his throat grow.
The Lord Commander shook his head and Benjen wasn't sure whether that was good or not. "About your issue, go talk to Maester Aemon. He might know a thing or two about all of this."
Benjen stood up biting the inside of his cheek. "Thank you, Lord Commander."
"It'll be okay, Benjen." The Lord Commander said, reassuringly.
"I hope so."
Leaving the Lord Commanders keep, he couldn't help but feel nauseous. All those things he'd heard. White Walkers. They couldn't be real? Could they? He'd seen stuff behind the wall, things that most people south of it would never see in a thousand lifetimes. But the White Walkers. He was so certain they were a myth. What did this mean now? Children of the Forest? Were they real too? He had known there was some truth in all of the tales he'd been told, but hearing of the dead?
Setting all of those thoughts out of his mind, he made his way to the Maesters keep.
The Maesters keep was littered with books and notes, and given the Maester's blindness, he reckoned this place had gone years without a proper looking after.
"Who is that I hear?" The old Maester asked from his desk.
"It's me Maester, Benjen." Benjen called back, strolling over to the man.
"Ah. Benjen, what brings you here?" Aemon looked at him with a questioning stare, even though the old man couldn't see him.
"Have you heard Maester, about the situation in the south?" Benjen asked, slightly unnerved by the Maesters blank stare.
"I have not. Tell me, what has the south been getting up to?" Aemon smiled.
"There have been reports. Reports of something I figured you might know about due to, well… your blood." Benjen said, unsure of his words.
It was hard speaking of the Maesters family. For so many years, he'd felt hatred for Rhaegar Targaryen for what happened to Lyanna. So much fury for Aerys killing his father and Brandon. So much rage towards the Targaryens, he wished to fight during the rebellion. To fight for his family. To avenge his father's and brother's deaths. To save Lyanna from Rhaegar. Yet Ned made him stay behind because there always had to be a Stark in Winterfell.
He'd sat there for months and listened of his brother's victories, of Rhaegar's death, the sack of King's Landing, of Lyanna's death. And yet despite all the anger he harboured towards the Targaryens, he bore no ill will for the Maester.
Despite that, he still found it difficult to talk to the man of his family without his frustration rising.
"My blood?" Aemon said, looking surprised. "What of my blood?"
"Growing up, did you ever hear of ash falling from the sky?"
Maester Aemon looked bemused. "You say this has been happening in the south? Ash has begun to fall from the sky?"
"Aye, some parts of the North too," Benjen answered. "Any idea what it could be?"
The Maester pondered the answer for just a second, before answering.
"I read about something like this back in the citadel.
A prophecy. I can't tell you everything, but I remember some things. Not the full answer I'm afraid, but enough."
"What is it Maester?" Benjen was now sitting on the edge of his seat.
"They call it an Ashen Day."
"An Ashen Day?" Benjen asked curiously.
"A day of which the sky itself rains down not snow, but ash and soot. The seas shall calm and the wind won't blow. Flowers will wilt under the heat of the ash, and the world will be warned of the days to come." Aemon recited the prophecy. "The ash will no longer fall until the last of the blood is awoken, and on that day, the ash will know its master."
"The blood?" Benjen could feel his heart beating out of his heart.
"The Blood of the Dragon," Aemon said, and Benjen could have sworn he felt his blood chill.
Jon Snow
Winterfell
290 A.C
Quickly dodging under Robb's attack, he took a stab at his brothers gut, only to miss.
This duel had been going on for almost twenty minutes now, and even though they were both tiring, they were giving it their all, as evidenced by Robb's bruised eye and Jon's limp.
With each swing, they lost the feeling in their fingers, having been awake since the break of dawn, not even bothering to have their breakfast, much to both of their annoyances later on.
"You're slowing Snow." Robb smiled, yet gasping for air.
"As are you, Stark." Jon shot back, not smiling, instead looking for an opening, which he found in Robb's currently impaired vision.
Swinging overhead, Jon wished to spin it back down towards Robb's neck but was instead caught in the ribs with his brother's wooden sword. Stumbling backwards, he found himself doing his best not to topple backwards onto his back.
Luckily for him, Robb was gathering himself, giving Jon enough time to regain his balance. Planting his feet into the ground, Jon didn't bother to wait for Robb to pick his sword back up and smacked the sword out of his hands.
Holding the sword to Robb's throat, Jon let out a sigh of relief, knowing he had won.
"Yield?" Jon asked, trying his best not to seem out of breath.
Jon watched as his brother tossed his sword aside, nodding. "I Yield."
Jon now allowed himself to smile, though it was more of a grin. "Knew I'd beat you Stark."
"You got lucky," Robb replied grumpily, causing Jon to laugh.
"Let's head back. Father's not doubt worried about us." Jon said.
"He'd be more worried about you. You took a beating." Robb said playfully.
"Hey Robb, how's your eye?" Jon chuckled, earning a small smile from Robb.
"It'll be fine." Robb rubbed his bruise.
"Don't touch it, you idiot. You'll make it worse." Jon said, pulling his brother's hand away from his eye. He saw Robb was about to argue when his expression changed to that of wonder.
"Jon. Look." Robb pointed at the sky, amazement etched into his face. "It's snowing."
Robb's claim was proven true as he looked up into the sky. The snow fell slowly, landing at their feet. Except this snow was different, darker and unlike normal snow, which almost freshened the air, this type of snow made it harder to breathe. He noticed the way it floated down too. Whereas normal snow would fall fast, this snow would slowly drift down.
Something wasn't right about this.
"Why would it be snowing? It's the middle of summer." Jon asked.
"It's not." said their father from behind them. "There've been reports from further south. They say ash has been falling from the sky."
"So this is ash?" Robb asked incredulously.
"Aye. Though we're still not sure just where it came from." His father said.
As his father spoke, there was a nudging in the back of his mind. A feeling that wouldn't go away, and he couldn't tell what to think of it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a tingle was spent down his spine.
His father's words became mere whispers as the feeling intensified. What went from a shiver, turned into dread, as his blood began to run cold, the world turning bright. He felt the tears run down his cheek, as he fell to his knees, only barely making out the shout of both his father and Robb.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself surrounded by darkness, he found himself deep within the crypts.
It took him only a second to realise he wasn't in control of his own body, as he walked further and further down the crypts, he felt the feeling of dread grow more and more, all the while being slowly replaced by feelings of warmth and love. He knew not where these feelings came from, but his heart beat faster the more the feelings grew.
The ancient statues, wearing the dark, grim faces of the Starks of Winterfell, stared down at Jon, and the further down he walked, the more he certain he was that the eyes followed him.
The stone lords became cleaner as he neared the end, each one more cared for, loved.
As he drew closer to the end, the statues he saw stood much different than the way they were made, than the way he remembered them. Especially the last three.
His grandfather, Lord Rickard Stark, stood tall, gallant and had an overall look of strength. Jon stopped at the statue for a small moment, looking at his grandfather. Not much had changed about his statue. His father had described him as such. A man who, like most Starks, his father included, had a sense of silence about him. A man who would stare down death, before taking its hand. A man who knew when to be stoic and brave at heart. His grandfather's direwolf sat by his side, sitting loyally at his side.
Moving on, he looked at the statue of his uncle, Brandon. The changes were much more visible. Instead of holding a sword, or staring forward blankly, Brandon Stark's statue was perhaps the most lively of them all.
His uncle, unlike most of the other statues, had a smile on his face, which, the closer Jon looked, he saw it was in truth, a grin. He wasn't standing or sitting stoically like the others, but raising a cup of wine in the air for a toast. And unlike the other direwolves, his was howling.
Smiling, Jon felt himself move forward towards the last statue, the feeling of warmth burning inside of him, but he didn't feel like questioning it.
When he saw his aunt Lyanna's statue, he felt like taking back what he said about his uncle's.
She was beautiful, not like the previous statue. He could see her more clearly than any of the others, her long hair, her smile, which was more of a happy smile than the playful grin that was on his uncle's face. The garland of flowers resting on her head, and the way she danced, her arms gracefully hovering through the air, and the way her dress twirled and spun. The way her direwolf cocked its head, tongue sticking out of its mouth.
Was this how she truly looked? Jon thought, a sad smile across his face.
"Come on Ben!" a young voice cried out. Jon whipped his head around, looking at two children, running through the crypts, laughing playfully.
"Lya! Wait!" the boy giggled after his sister.
Watching the two, Jon wiped his watering eyes on his sleeves, before realising he was once again in complete control of his own body. Looking back at the statue, he saw that it had reverted to its original sculpt, the beautiful happy statue of his aunt replaced with the dreary, lifeless one. As were the rest.
"I am so proud of you." a sweet, yet quiet voice said from behind him.
Looking back, he saw the girl he'd seen only moments ago, only older. The tears were dripping to the ground, and she wore the saddest smile he'd ever seen.
"Aunt Lyanna?" He said, the feeling of shock washing over him.
His aunt walked over to him, brushing the hair away from his eyes, her lip trembling.
"I want you to know that I love you very much." Lyanna choked. "I want you to know, that I love you, and I will never stop loving you. No matter what."
Jon felt weird for a moment. Why was his aunt telling him she was proud of him? Him, of all people, her brother's bastard?
"You have to be brave." His aunt continued to talk, through a closed throat. "You, my sweet little prince. You deserve the world. And I can't give it to you."
The words she spoke broke him, each one like an arrow in his heart, and he wished he knew why. Jon knew he was crying, and he didn't stop it for once. "I don't understand. I don't understand." He felt the itch in his throat as he cried, the tears blurring his vision. He couldn't feel the pain in his legs when he collapsed to his knees, his aunt crouching down and embracing him.
Every emotion he'd ever felt came rushing to him. The feeling of uselessness. The feelings of pain and doubt. As he sat there crying, embraced by his long past aunt, his blood boiled, the rage and anger he'd felt. Something deep within him awoke. Something deep within his blood.
He felt the tears of his aunt dripping down his back and he was oddly comforted by her embrace. There was something more to it than just comforting someone sad. The thing's she'd said to him, they felt strange. She spoke as if she knew him. As if she cared about him. But how could she love him? She didn't even know who he was?
Before he could ponder on this any longer, his aunt let go of him, sitting in front of him, looking him in the eyes.
"You have to go now." She smiled, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "From now on, you have to show them all who you are. You're fierce. Like me."
Jon nodded, standing up, looking down into his aunt's proud eyes. He saw the world around him brighten once more. Before the light took him from the crypts, he wiped the remaining water from his eyes, looked down at his aunt and asked, "Why do you care about me?"
Smiling, his aunt met his eye line, the last tear falling. "Because I want you to know you're not alone."
And that was the last thing he heard before he woke, only just making out his room.
His vision came back slowly, and all he saw was shapes. It wasn't long however before he saw the face of Maester Luwin staring down at him.
"Jon." Luwin smiled. "How are you?"
Jon groaned slightly, his legs and back aching, indicating he'd been on bed rest for quite some time now.
"I don't know. How long was I asleep?" Jon asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Only a few days, thank the gods. Any longer and we would've begun to suspect the worst." Luwin remained smiling, though his tone was softer.
"What happened?" Jon looked up at the Maester, his smile faltering only slightly.
"We're not quite sure Jon, but we believe the ash made it hard for you to breathe, that and the broken ribs."
"Broken ribs?" Jon's eyes widening.
"You boys have to be more careful. You shouldn't have been fighting without Ser Rodrik's guidance."
Jon sighed. Broken ribs? Maybe he and Robb should be more careful.
"Are you okay Jon? Something seems to be bothering you." Luwin said, his smile now turning into a concerned look.
Jon considered telling him for a second. About the dream, his aunt, what she'd said. Perhaps he'd be able to explain it where he could not. But as he saw the concerned look at Luwin's face, he knew he'd tell his father, out of concern for Jon's sanity.
"Nothing. It just hurts a little." Jon said, doing his best to force a smile. The Maester seemed satisfied with that.
In truth, he wasn't okay. Something was very wrong. Rethinking everything his aunt had said, he knew something was off. Even though he kept trying to convince himself, he knew it wasn't a dream. It felt so real, she felt so real. The more and more he thought about it, not only did he find himself scared, but confused as well. It wasn't just the way she spoke to him, it was also the things she said.
She called him a prince. Him. the bastard of Winterfell. The way she said it sent shivers down his spine. He was no prince. Which made him consider the other things she'd said to him.
She was trying to tell him something, but he didn't know what. He didn't know what she was trying to tell him.
Well then. He thought. I guess I better figure it out.