Chapter 1: Dreams
Jon Snow
It was hot, yet comfortable. Like a heavy blanket covering you on a cold winter night. He was wandering, trapped once again in the maze that was the Winterfell crypts. He thought he was close this time, and yet…
… find me…
"I'm trying! Where are you?" The boy yelled, his voice echoing uselessly among the stones. Only one answer returned.
Find me.
Just like all the other times, it seemed more insistent and impatient as time went on.
Turning to where he thought the voice came from, he ran down the halls only to grow colder. Knowing he was going the wrong way, he turned back around.
Find me!
Panicking, he sprinted forward, a deep seated fear in his bones now. He needed to… needed to…
Find me!
—
Gasping awake, sweat drenched his brow as he sat up violently. Breathing heavy, he shook his head.
That dream again.
Ever since he could remember, he has had strange dreams. Dreams of knights and tournaments, dragons and fairy tales, yet one always remained constant.
Find me.
Balling his hands into fists, he got up and began to dress himself.
Fine. Fine!
This wasn't the first time he has done this, as he remembered doing something similar last time. This time though, this time will be different! Last time he was only eleven name-days old. This time, he's thirteen! He won't chicken out again.
Putting on a winter coat, he made his way silently down the halls of his family. Adrenaline filled his young veins as he made his way outside, trying to ready himself to do what he was never able to before.
As the crisp morning air slammed into him, he stepped out onto the frost covered ground. The guards around the keep were yawning, bundled up around a fire in the courtyard as one of them glanced at him. Unwilling to care about the bastard son of their lord leaving his room yet again, he shrugged then turned back to the fire.
That was one of the few benefits of being a bastard instead of a true born son. He wasn't important enough to pay close attention to.
The small trek to the crypts did not take long, and yet once he reached the entrance he found himself stuck in place. The darkness of the crypts was all encompassing, and yet he was brave! He was strong!
One step at a time, he made his way down the stairs. Each one steadily chipped away at his will to continue, even more so when he realized he forgot a torch… again.
I'm an idiot! He thought to himself, for some reason still continuing on down. He has reached that far before, he could at the very least do it again. Each step seemed to make the air around him warmer, as the hot springs that the keep were built on warmed the stones around them.
Nearly stumbling as he tried to step down onto the flat ground, he tried to look around but only saw pitch blackness. The torches lit the day before were all burnt out, leaving the boy standing amidst nothingness.
Taking in a deep breath, he steadied himself. This was the furthest he had ever been. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, he felt as if the darkness and silence was closing in on him. He heard nothing and felt nothing, yet the longer he stood here the more smothered he felt.
Taking one step forward, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind hit him. What if he got lost down here? What if his family never found him? What if he died?
Two steps was all he could manage before his nerves got the better of him. Turning around, he stumbled and felt his way a bit too frantically back up the stairs until he saw light. Stumbling outside, he nearly slammed into someone in his panic. Looking up, he felt his heart sink when gray eyes met gray eyes.
"Jon?" His father's voice called out, clear confusion written on his face. "What were you doing in the crypts?"
He couldn't tell him the truth, but Jon was a notoriously bad liar. What came out of his mouth was, "Lord Eddard! I uh… I wasn't scared!"
Amusement came across his father's face as the Lord of Winterfell let out a chuckle. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he led Jon back down the stairs with actual torchlight this time. "You know, I used to bet Benjen was so cowardly that he wouldn't go down here when we were younger." He said, his voice filled with emotion that Jon never heard from his father.
Jon's mind was thoroughly distracted as a bit of the adrenaline left him. "You did?"
Smiling, he nodded. "Yes. He ended up getting lost for hours, only making it out when…" his voice became strained, and his face lost all emotion as a frosty mask covered it and Jon could no longer read him. "Nevermind that."
Stepping back into the crypts, Jon had light here for the first time. Looking around, he realized that this place looked exactly like his dreams.
Which means it's just stone walls and statues…
Taking three steps forward, he smiled before turning back to his father.
"See? Nothing to be afraid of." His father said, his warm tone returning as he turned back around, "Now let's get you back to bed. It's far too early, and a young man like you needs his rest."
Happy he had made it further than he ever had before, he nodded and followed along. Yet his blood ran cold as he swore he heard a whisper from the darkness.
Find me.
—
The clinking of metal and the sound of talk could be heard in the great hall in the north. Food and drink flowed as his family talked about their day amongst themselves, Jon excluded. As a bastard, he was not able to eat at the same table as his half-siblings. Normally this would bother him, but his mind was elsewhere at the moment.
He was getting better with a sword over time, but today was an utter disaster. He was sluggish, tired, and easily distracted which led him to being defeated easily by his brother. A bruised ego and a bruised arm was thankfully all he had received.
Poking a sausage with his fork, he took a small bite. His mind was elsewhere at the moment. Specifically, in the crypts.
Am I going mad? Why can't I stop thinking about this?
The reason he was so distracted was that stupid dream. Even when he returned to his bed and shut his eyes, he could get no rest. It was as if his attempt to make it to the crypts brought a new life to the voice, it seeming more and more insistent.
"Is that right, bastard?"
Blinking, Jon looked up to see Theon Greyjoy jeering at him from the table. "What?"
Jon's apparent lack of attention was enough to anger the Greyjoy, but he continued on with his goading. "Did Robb knock you clean on your arse today? The way he tells it, you barely fought back!"
The conversations in the hall died down for a moment, but Jon didn't care.
Standing up, which Theon saw as a challenge and stood up in return, Jon turned and made his way to the door. "I don't feel well. I'm going to see maester Lewin."
—
"So when did this start?" The old maester said, his kind old tone soothing Jon's nerves even as the many chains around his neck jingled from his movement. "These… nightmares."
Thinking for a moment, he realized that he couldn't tell the truth. He had been having these dreams for as long as he could remember, but only now was it slowly devolving into an obsession. Jon also wouldn't call them nightmares, more just… confusing and frustrating.
"A few weeks ago. I don't know why I've been having them either. Nothing has really changed."
Hearing a soft hum from the maester as he sorted through a cabinet, the clanking of glass filling the room. "Perhaps it is something you are eating. Has your diet changed at all? Perhaps you are trying some new foods at the table?" He said, turning around with a small vial of some kind of liquid. "It has been said that shellfish can have the worst of reactions in some people."
"No, nothing different." Jon replied, confused about what shellfish had to do with dreams.
A soft hum was his only reply before the maester gave him a small spoon and the vial. "Three drops of this before bed, and you should sleep soundly through the night. Though do try not to rely on it. Sleeping soundly on one's own is an important part of staying healthy."
Looking at the liquid, he nodded. "Thank you maester."
"Anytime. Now, I have some work to do, and not much daylight left to do it. If that is everything?"
Recognizing dismissal, Jon got up and returned to his room.
Walking through the halls of this castle always felt strange. It was undeniably his home, but it was as if he was still an outsider intruding within.
Feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, he looked behind him only to see Lady Catelyn staring back. She didn't say anything, just turning to knock on the Maester's door without a word, but her cold eyes still etched their way into him.
And that would be why.
Shivering, Jon made his way quickly to his room before shutting the door. Placing his back against it, as if to barricade himself within, the bastard of Winterfell sighed before looking down to the vial that maester Lewin gave him.
Popping the cork off, he put three drops onto the spoon, drank it, then went to try and get some rest. He only hoped that whatever this stuff was, it helped him get some rest.
—
Find me! The roaring voice boomed, shaking the very foundations of the crypt.
Dust and rocks fell from the ceiling as Jon ran. This wasn't like any of the other times, this time he was stuck! He knew he was dreaming, but he could not wake up!
He felt terror. Pure terror. Whatever this was, it was now chasing him, and he dared not turn around as he ran.
Find me!
And die? No thank you!
Continuing his sprint as the sound of collapsing rock and an angry voice roared behind him, the statues around him came to life. The ancient kings of winter all seemingly rising up from their stony vigil to block his path with rocky swords. Dodging and weaving as best he could, he managed to squeeze through.
Find me!
The tunnel now began to tilt upward, making it even harder for him to run away. It seemed as if the crypt itself was trying to kill him now.
The wet rocks around him were bathed in a yellow glow that could only be fire. Warmth washed along his back as he continued to sprint as fast as he could despite the ground slanting ever upward. The water from the rocks around him flashing to steam as he tried to get away.
Slipping on the damp rocky ground, he slid to a stop. Curling up on himself, he prepared for the end as he finally turned his head around…
And there was nothing.
Everything that just happened had seemingly disappeared. All that was left was him and a polished white statue with an egg in its hand.
… find me…
—
Gasping awake, he sat up sweating once again.
Looking over, he saw the vial of liquid that the maester had given him. So much for that working, he was more tired than ever now!
By the gods was he tired of this. His anger and frustration finally overcoming his fear, he stood up and started to dress himself again. This time, he wouldn't be scared. This time, he would find whatever it was!
Making his way quietly down the hallway again, he made sure to grab one of the many torches lining the wall before making his way outside. This time, there was a light snowfall and the guards were actually manning their posts around the courtyard.
Ignoring them all, he confidently made his way down the stairs again, only to stop at the end. He could see with the torch now, and the words of his father still echoed in his mind.
"Nothing to be afraid of…" He mumbled under his breath as he made his way deeper into the crypts.
One step at a time, he made his way further in. Statues surrounded him, his ancestors immortalized around him forever in this ancient place. Glancing at the statues around him, he found that he didn't recognize any of them. Sure, he knew that Brandon Stark was his uncle, his father's older brother, but the face was a stranger. As was his aunt Lyanna next to him.
What am I even looking for?
Making his way deeper in, he found himself wandering. The story his father told about uncle Benjen getting lost for hours along with his own fears reemerging, but the thirteen year old boy powered through it this time. He found his courage, he wasn't going to lose it now.
The statues all stared at him from above as he made his way deeper into the tunnels, and once again he felt like an outsider. He was a snow, a bastard, walking amongst the halls of the Starks.
The air around him seemed to get hotter as he turned down one of the paths and it felt like he walked into an oven. Despite the head however, he was still comfortable in his furs. Before he could question that however, he saw it.
Standing defiantly in front of him was the only statue made out of a white stone, not a gray one. She stood there, hand on her hip as she held up a scaled egg. It looked exactly like he remembered from his dream.
Looking down to the engraving, he only got past the name before his brain froze.
Sara Snow.
Snow. Like him. A bastard.
Why was she buried here? This crypt was for house Stark, not people like him.
Glancing up to the woman's face, she was depicted smiling like she didn't have a care in the world. She was defiant, her statue holding out an… egg.
The moment his eyes landed on the egg again, it was like a trance came over him. Placing the torch onto the ground he reached up with both hands and pulled the egg loose. He didn't know how or why it would come loose, but he did.
This was it, he was sure of it. This was what he needed to find, what the dreams were all about. Why? He didn't know that, but he would figure that out as he goes.
Cradling the egg in his arms, something deep and fundamental hummed within him. Bending down to pick the torch up, he turned around and began to hurriedly make his way back out… only to be met with a fork in the path.
Which way did I come from again?
Shrugging, he took a left.
—
Surprisingly, Jon made it back to the entrance of the crypts without getting turned around too much. Making his way up the stairs with the egg in hand, he couldn't help but think how he would brag about this to his favorite uncle when he next visited.
Stopping at the entrance to the crypts, Jon was happy to know that the sun still wasn't up. Putting the egg under his coat to hide it, which he noted that any casual glance his way would immediately give him away, he began to make his way back to his room. Seeing as one of the guards noticed him but instantly looked away, Jon was happy and began to move a bit faster.
Only to instantly grit his teeth as he felt something slice into his chest.
Damn, this egg is sharp!
Slowing down so as not to end up with a shredded chest, he made his way inside. Swiftly but carefully walking down the hall, and back into his room, he only hoped that his loud steps didn't wake anyone up.
Carefully removing the egg from his coat, he glanced down to see his chest had a few shallow cuts on it. Hatefully glaring at the egg, he placed it onto the bed.
How the hell am I going to explain this? He thought to himself, before realizing he couldn't. He just had to play up that he was sick until they healed. Happy he already went to Lewin for help with sleeping, he thought about how best to hide this. Sighing, he opened the large chest at the foot of his bed and found a shirt he didn't particularly like. Lying back onto his bed, he put pressure on his cuts like maester Lewin told him to after spars until he stopped bleeding.
Glancing down to the foot of his bed, he saw the bloodied egg. Reaching down, he grabbed the egg and wrapped it in the ruined shirt so he wouldn't cut himself.
"You better stop bugging me about finding you now." He said, his eyes finally drooping. He knew, finally, that he would find sleep.
…
…
Crack.
-Author's Note-
It's strange. I wrote all of this within a few hours of having the idea, and yet I seemingly can't touch my other stories despite staring at the docs for them for hours. It's like the muse is back, and I'm smiling while writing for the first time in a long time, but can't get it to bleed over to the rest.
Not really sure why. Perhaps it is because I like torturing my characters, and old Jonny boy here is having a rough go of it right now. His dream sequence here made me go "YOU BETTER RUN BOII" in real life, and had my doggo looking at me weird.
Anywho, explanations about the story. One: dragon eggs hatch naturally without fire. Targaryen babies had dragon eggs hatch in the cradle: the ritual waking them from petrification is only needed if they aren't alive, and I personally think that the only reason they are petrified is that they weren't properly incubated.
Hot room heated by a volcanic hot spring in the north. Gg.
Timeframe reference: it's 296 AC, 3 years prior to Jon Arryn dying. Jon and Robb are 13, Sansa is 10 Arya is 7, Bran is 6 and Rickon is 1. This is just a reference point for this chapter.
I started writing this story for two main reasons. One, dragons, fantasy, I like game of thrones, and had the idea where I wanted to go with it. And two: all but one other fanfiction I've seen with this basic premise (besides one which I eagerly await updates for) has Jon become a murderous psycho who cuts his hand intentionally for months to bleed on eggs like it's normal, beheads everyone he meets, goes on a massive vengeance spree for people he's never met, or fucks everyone and everything that moves and actively burns people alive with no remorse. I know, it's game of thrones, but still!
Also so this doesn't bite me in the ass later: burning people alive while tied to a pole just to get dragons, and rawr I'm in a battle *breathes fire* are two different things. One is wrong, the other is awesome. Deal with it. Especially since instant immolation from fire that can melt stone is prolly more humane than most things in this timeframe. But slow screaming like what Stannis wanted to do to Mance? Yeah no. Evil.
This is all my ranty opinion though. I still enjoy those stories, I just wanted one that I did see. I know I'm not the only one who has started with a similar premise, but I'll be honest, I got tired of looking for one where it felt like Jon was a genuinely good person who stems from the actual character in the books/show. So I put on my Thanos glove and said "fine, I'll do it myself."
Thanks for reading, and as always follow and favorite if ya like it, and if you really want to give feedback, consider giving me a review. I always love those, they are like cookies. Omnom.