An Age of Heroes

by Stroms1

The year is 297 AC; King Robert has overthrown the Targaryen dynasty, and the realm has endured almost 2 decades of relative peace. But things take a turn for the worse when Renly Baratheon is the one who discovers the dangerous secret about his brother's 'children.' While in the deep North, the supernatural threat of the Long Night looms. {AU}

23. Jon V

Jon V

You could scarcely see the sky here; the woods and ever-talling wall of ice covered it all. Leaf and her singers seemed to enjoy it. The children had hidden and used the forest as camouflage during their travels; it was their way, apparently. Leaf told him that they would be close, but Jon had never spotted them during their journey. Only showing up when they deemed it so. Jon did not like when they travelled through the forest; someone could easily ambush them, and he had grown tired of ambushes. If they succumb to one now, it would be the third time. The first time it had been by undead animals—a direwolf twice the size of Ghost and numerous elk's. Jon had not killed a single one, almost dying to one elk before Coldhands ravens saved him by overwhelming and stunning the elk in numbers. They gave him time to run away before Coldhands finished it.

The second and third times it had been by wildlings. But those times had been much easier; they had been few in numbers. Coldhands and Jon easily handled the first ambush of wildlings. The latest had been the hardest, with a wildling impaling Coldhands' back with a spear made of bone. But like the weights in the Fist, he barely seemed to notice, to the horror of the wildlings. Leaf had to help using a wierwood bow to end it properly. Jon had two wildlings at his mercy at the end of the fight, accepting the fate that he was going to give them. But Jon had let them go, choosing to give them mercy. Coldhands did not seem to approve, but Jon did not care.

The children had chosen to show themselves, with a small hand-driven ironwood cart they had built. Jon quickly noticed why. Jon could spot a big wall of ice on their horizon. It was still pretty far away, but after more walking, you could start to see it properly. The Black Gate, Coldhands had told him that they seeked, but it wasn't black at all. It was white weirwood, and there was a face on it. It's mouth and eyes were closed. A faint glow came from the wood, like milk and moonlight, and the face was old and pale.

Jon bristled as the wierwood opened it's eyes. Hand on the hilt of Longclaw, but a cold hand at his shoulder calmed him down somewhat. Coldhands approached the Wierwood Gate; it's eyes were white, like the wizards inside the cave or like Maester Aemon's blind ones.

Who are you? The door asked, it was a powerful voice that managed to seep through his ears and travel deep inside his head. Whispers, like an echo from the wind, followed the door. Who-who-who-who-who-who. Jon shuddered.

Coldhands approached it closer. ''I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.''

Then pass. Pass-pass-pass-pass-pass-pass.

The Wierwoods lips suddenly opened. Wide and wider and wider still, until nothing at all remained but a great gaping mouth in a ring of wrinkles. The open mouth revealed a dark alley stretched far. Jon would be surprised, perhaps even stunned by the magic, were it not for the friendly weight and ancient singers with him. The singers started to approach the opened ice wall, uncertainty painted on their faces. Leaf sang a beautiful tone to the singers, which seemed to calm them down. Coldhands walked back to his elk and unstrapped the chest he had been carrying, laying it softly on the cart. And soon the singers and Ghost were all crossing the gate and walking towards the darkness, with two of them dragging the cart.

''This is where I leave you.'' The undead man's voice was somewhat raspy.

''I was hoping you would come with us.'' Jon said hopefully.

The undead black brother did not respond; instead, he walked to his elk and mounted it. Jon stayed behind and did not cross the gate, hoping that the black brother would change his mind. He had gotten somewhat of a grip on the man during their journey from the haunted forest. He was cold, both figuratively and literally, so Jon had named him Coldhands. A flock of ravens always seemed to follow him. And although Leaf told him that he died a long time ago, he did not have the blue crystal eyes of the weights he faces at the Fist, but black as Shaggydogs fur. Ghost did not trust him, only smelling him once outside that cave; since then, his direwolf has chosen to stay away from him. Jon usually trusted his white wolf's intuitions, but Jon felt that Coldhands had answers he sought. And he was good with a sword, so he greatly desired his help.

''The Wall is not just ice and stone. The children had ancient spells woven into it's foundations. Powerful magic. As long as it stands, the dead cannot pass.''

Jon nodded, Old Nan had spoken many times about the Wall and it's magic. Built by Brandon the Builder with the help of the children and the giants, as well as Winterfell. He wondered if Brandon had similar spells carved into Winterfell. ''If the Wall has this magic, as you say it, then wh-''

Coldhands chuckled, It was the first time Jon had ever seen the dead man express any emotion. ''All the things that you have seen and all the things we have shown you, yet you still doubt?''

Jon shrugged. Coldhands grabbed the reins. ''You seek answers; it is only natural. But I am not the one who can provide it. Remember the singer's words. Keep an open mind; the greenseer will provide you with the answers you seek, but only when it is time and not before.''

Then he rode away, back into the forest. Jon sighed and grabbed his bearings. He needed to only make it to Winterfell. His father would help him; he was sure of it. After days of walking, Jon had begun to feel tired, despite the rest. He was unsure of their exact position, only that they were somewhere inside The New Gift. There were no deep forests for the singers to hide in here, but they kept out of the Kingsroad and had found no one else, to Jon's gratitude. The sun had begun to go down when he was tending to Ghost and trying to spot any fleas or wounds inside his fur when he heard silent footsteps from behind. He turned hastily and found Leaf handling a bowl.

''Eat. You need your strength.'' She sang, and Jon looked at the bowl, frowning. It was red, meaning it was the bitter weirwood seeds and sap mix again. He thanked her either way, and he consumed the mixture. They stopped fully by a little grove, where they would be shielded by the forest of any travellers. Jon went deeper inside the grove to look for any wood for a fire, but he stopped suddenly, feeling light-headed. He leaned on a tree as he wiped his nose with his hand, and to his horror, crimson was painted on his fingers. Then all his strength left him; he could not even hold his eyes open as they closed, and everything became dark.

Darkness was all he saw until he opened his eyes again. He was weightless and soaring through an endless expanse of sky. With the crow flying beside him. The sensation was at once alien, but now Jon could not help but feel a bit exhilarated. Smiling, he kept soaring through the sky, with the crow croaking beside him. The crow eventually landed on his shoulder. He looked down; the land below was painted like a tapestry, with colours of green and blue. He could see a destroyed towering castle made of black stone. And a lake—a huge circular lake—with a small island in the middle of it. The sun was setting on the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, and then he heard it.

It was unnatural—a herald of great wonder and great destruction. A shriek and roar that shook Jon's foundations. A second later, it flew just past him, nearly knocking him down to the ground in a spiral. Jon gasped. A colossal beast, unlike anything he had ever seen, moved with a terrifying grace. It was red, huge, and lean, with an elongated neck and fearsome jaws. A dragon. It's a dragon. A rider astride the dragon's back shouted commands, his face set in grim determination. Jon could not make out his features clearly, but he recognised the sigil. A red three-headed dragon, breathing red flame on black. Then, in a sudden fury, he heard another roar, this time from below him. Another one, twice as big as the red one. Bronze and green, with a saggy chin. It flew right below him with a slower but stronger grace. He got a better glimpse of this rider; he had silver hair, and his armour was green. With a golden dragon printed on it's chest.

Then the dragons clashed with a force that shook the heavens, their roars echoing like thunderclaps across the expanse of the lake. Flames erupted from their jaws, painting the sky in searing hues of orange and red. Jon's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of awe and dread coursing through his veins. The sheer scale and ferocity of the battle were unlike anything he had ever witnessed. He felt a strange connection to the scene, a bond that pulsed with an unfamiliar, fiery intensity. It was as if the blood of these dragonlords called out to him, resonating with something deep within his own soul.

The crow croaked wildly, flying from his shoulder. Jon's gaze turned towards the crow and in a sudden burst. The bird flapped its wings with furious intensity. Jon felt an inexplicable pull towards the crow, as if it were guiding him. Suddenly, the crow veered sharply, and in a blur of motion, Jon found himself propelled forward, merging seamlessly into the heat of the dragon battle. In an instant, he was no longer an observer but within the very body of the rider atop the larger dragon. Seeing through the rider's singular eye. Locked inside this deadly battle, he felt a strange sense of familiarity and power. But the feeling was immediately replaced with dread as the red dragon locked his jaw on his dragon's neck. He looked down and saw them starting to descend from the sky, the water below rushing to meet them. His gaze shifted, and he saw the other rider leap from his dragon, a silver-haired figure of dark grace. The man's lifted his sword; it's dark ripples gilmmering. In a heartbeat, the blade plunged towards Jon, and he watched in horror as it pierced through his eye, pulling him out of the dragonrider's body. He soared away the dragon's and their riders as they plunged into the lake, up towards the sky, until he reached the clouds and the crow once again. The crow looked at him intently; it's three eyes were haunting. Then the bird opened it's beak. Grey mists from its mouth spewed out and swirled around him once again. Transporting him away from one scene to another. And then another, and then another. Colours and scenes unfolded before his eyes like a great tapestry.

He saw a man—an enormous man. A man he had seen before, a man that greatly resembled Hodor, walked right past Jon and approached a shining and scaly red egg with swirls of black and gold inside a stone castle. He picked up the egg. Jon joined the tall man, admiring the egg next to him. The egg seemed to call to him, even from this alien place.

''Put that down!'' Jon heard a a snarling voice. Both he and the tall man turned to look for the source of the voice. It was another man, a bald man with a beard that his father always wore.

''I'll thank you to keep your greasy fingers of his lordship's treasures—or by the seven, you shall wish you had!'' The bald man sneered, waving his hand. Then everything turned to smoke.

The smoke swirled and closed in together, creating another scene before him. Bodies lay everywhere here. Knights and men-at-arms lay dead—thousands of them. The banners of a three-headed red and black dragon lay with the men on the ground. Fallen banners of House Targaryen and House Blackfyre. He saw a man—an albino man with white hair and red eyes. Shouting commands to men in wierwood bows. The albino man's bowmen obeyed and fired their arrows, bringing death to men on the battlefield. Cries of pain and panic could be heard from the battlefield below, even from this hill. The scene was gruesome, and Jon suppressed the bile that rose and threatened to make it's way out after looking at the slaughter.

''Wake up.'' He heard a whisper, and Jon's gaze shifted to the bowmen. They were no longer firing, and the albino man was right in front of him.

Wake up. The albino man spoke. And so he did. He woke to the rhythmic creaking of wooden wheels and the gentle sway of the cart beneath him. His body ached, every muscle protesting as he tried to move. He tried to rise in a daze but was suppressed. A hand was on his chest, keeping him on the ground. His vision was blurry, and it took some time for his eyes to adjust. But when he did, he saw that he was no longer in a grove but in a cart. The blue sky was moving as he was being dragged. The first thing he felt was Ghost licking his face. Jon groaned and waved his arm, trying to get his direwolf to stop.

''He is awake.'' The woman gasped.

''Water.'' Jon asked, his throat feeling terrible. The woman obliged and gave him a wineskin. Jon drank fully, relishing the relief, until he coughed.

''You must be careful; you have been sleeping for a long time.'' He heard another voice; this one belonged to a man. He saw him sitting a yard or so away from him.

''Where are we?'' Jon asked, giving in to the woman's silent command to lay down. After he did so, did the women remove his arm from his chest.

''We're close. We just crossed the Trident.''

''The Trident?'' Jon would be stunned if he were not so dazed.

The young man shifted in his seat, moving closer to him. ''I'm Jojen Reed, and this is my sister Meera.'' He said, pointing to the women.

''Well met.'' Jon tried to rise to get a better look at his surroundings. He could not see the singers. He eventually sank into his mattress, finding no energy. ''How did you find me?''

''The Three-eyed-crow. He speaks to me in my dreams.'' Jojen Reed answered. ''It told me you would arrive there, accompanied by the Children''

''The Children…'' Jon's mind raced. Where were they?

Jojen nodded. ''I saw it in my dreams. I told my father, and he sent us with men to find you. He was quite worried.''

''Lord Reed believed in your dreams?'' Jon asked, still trying to piece together the events.

Jojen's expression was serious. ''Yes. My father trusts my visions. He knew we had to act swiftly.''

''We left the Children in the Neck,'' Meera added, her eyes meeting Jon's. ''We barely got them there unnoticed. It would have been impossible to bring them further without being noticed. Too many eyes in the south.''

Jon absorbed the information, his mind slowly processing it. ''Where are we now?''

''A few days from Harrenhal. There is a tournament being held, and your father, brother, and sisters are there.'' Jojen said.A tournament?Jon had to suppress a laugh. It was the last thing he ever expected to hear.

''My father had already sent out ravens; he did so the moment he saw you. To Winterfell and to your father. Your father and the king are expecting you.''

Jon nodded, feeling a surge of gratitude despite his lingering confusion and exhaustion. ''Thank you. Both of you.''

''Of course, my lord.''

Then it suddenly hit him. The king? Why would he expect me? ''I'm no lord.'' Jon answered.

Jojen and Meera looked dumbfounded. ''Of course, why would you know?'' Meera said.

''Know what?''

''You've been named the new Lord of Dragonstone,'' Meera said, her eyes locking onto his.

Jon stared at them, stunned into silence. The words seemed to hang in the air, unreal and impossible. He was wrong; this was the last thing he ever thought he would hear. ''What? How... why?''

"By royal decree," Jojen explained. ''You are no longer a bastard of Winterfell. You are Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone.''

Jon lay back in the cart, the rhythmic creaking of the wheels and the soft murmur of the Reeds around them barely registering in his mind. His thoughts were a whirl of confusion and wonder. Lord of Dragonstone. The words seemed unreal, like something out of a fever dream. He had been legitimised and given a title, land, and a future. But why him? How had he been chosen for this honour? His mind drifted back to Winterfell, to the long, cold nights spent dreaming of a different life. He had always yearned for more than the shadowed existence of a bastard. He had wanted, desperately, to hold a holdfast of his own, to lead armies to glory, and to be recognised and respected. But he had suppressed those thoughts deeply as he grew up and started to get a grip on the world; as a bastard, the Night's Watch had been his only chance at that. The dream of legitimacy had always been a distant, unattainable hope. And now it was his reality. But how? Why? He had no friends in the capital, no connections to the powerful families that ruled the realm. Yet, here he was: Jon Stark, Lord of Dragonstone. His thoughts turned to his uncle Arthur, the one man who had always believed in him. Oh, how he wished for him to be here with him. Arthur had taught him much about the history of the Targaryens, recounting tales of valour with a reverence that had sparked Jon's imagination. He remembered the countless evenings spent in the dimly lit library, poring over old tomes and scrolls, Arthur's voice bringing the stories to life. About his time when Prince Rhaegar held the castle, the problems he faced as both a lord and heir to the Iron Throne, and how he solved them. And now that dream was within his grasp.

It was all so much—too much. It felt like only yesterday when he was sparring with Robb in the courtyard. Yet now, he had seen the threat beyond the wall, and now he was a lord. Arthur was not here to see it. The memory of his uncle brought a pang of sorrow, mingled with a deep sense of determination. Arthur had believed in him and had seen the potential in him that others had overlooked. Jon vowed to honour that faith and live up to half the man he was. For the first time, he felt a sense of purpose and clarity of direction. He would be the best lord Dragonstone has ever seen, and he would make his father listen. He had to listen. He had to believe him.

Once the days passed, he could spot all the tents and shouts coming from below the hill. Jon's eyes widened; he had never seen so many people. It looked like every living being in the Seven Kingdoms was here. He had gotten his energy back up during these days. And now, when he saw how close he was to his family, he felt even more energised. He wanted to climb off the cart and run down.

''We're here.'' Meera said, looking equally as excited.

A Reed man blew a horn, signalling their arrival. Before descending the hill. As they approached the ever-talling castle, he saw knights practicing, merchants selling their trade, and children running around laughing. The cart had to stop halfway to let what must have been a hundred knights cross the road on their way to the training ground. He could spot the large arena they were heading to from the cart, wooden and enormous, standing out clearly in the sea of tents.

The cart rumbled through the gates of Harrenhal, its wooden wheels crunching over the gravel. Jon sat up, his heart pounding. Meera and Jojen sat beside him, their faces impassive but their eyes watchful.

The cart came to a halt, and Jon let Jojen and Meera step out first. Once they had done so, they turned to him, waiting for him to disembark. Jon took a deep breath and looked at his direwolf, stroking his fur as he did so. The white wolf's red orbs and smooth fur calmed him down and steadied his breath before he stepped down to the ground. Ghost followed close behind. There were many in the courtyard he did not recognise, but he spotted his father first. Eddard Stark, his father, stood tall and stern, his face a mask. Beside him were Arya and Bran; they were both grinning once they spotted him, their eyes glistering. Jon took a moment to steady himself. This was a moment he had longed for. He walked towards them, each step feeling heavier than the last. People's eyes widened once they got a look at his wolf; he had grown even more since they had been in the cave. He was now the size of a pony. Jon halted halfway towards his family.

''Ghost, to the cart.'' He whispered, looking at him. Ghost obeyed and trotted back to the cart. He would have to be careful with Ghost here; they had both never been around so many people. Once Jon had made it in front of them, Ned Stark's eyes softened, and he stepped forward, enveloping Jon in a tight embrace.

''Jon,'' he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. ''I thought... we thought we had lost you.''

''Father,'' Jon said, his voice breaking slightly. He clung to his father, the weight of the past months falling away.

His father's expression turned into one of worry once they broke apart. ''Your face.'' Ned whispered.

''I'm alright, Father. Truly.'' He smiled reassuringly, and his father returned it.

Jon turned to his siblings. Arya was the first to rush forward, but Bran was only a second behind. ''Jon!'' she cried, throwing her arms around him. ''You're alive!''

Bran followed, and Jon had to go down to one knee to handle both of them. He could hear his father chuckle. ''I missed you so much.'' Bran whispered.

''Arya, Bran. Thank the gods. You have both grown.'' Jon whispered.

Jon stood up, and his father put a hand on his shoulder. As Jon stood, he noticed two men standing next to his family. One was large, with a thick black beard, black rings around his eyes to match, and a crown on his head. The other was an older man with a kind face and sharp eyes; he wore a necklace of linked silvery hands. The man with a crown could only be King Robert. Jon barely managed to hide his shock. Is this the man who overthrew House Targaryen? He did not look like the man Jon had heard of in either Maester Luwin's or Arthur's stories. The king stepped forward, grinning.

''Ned!'' King Robert bellowed.

His father bristed; it was a subtle thing. Something no one else would notice, but Jon had always been observant. And he knew his father well. His face became a mask as he turned towards his friend.

''Your Grace, Lord Arryn,'' he said, his voice steady. ''This is my son, Jon.''

Jon bowed his head. ''Your Grace.''

''My new Lord of Dragonstone. You are quite a resilient young man, aren't you? Good, gods knows I will need it.'' King Robert said. His tone was light, but there was a glint of respect in his eyes. ''Welcome back, lad.''

''Your Grace, I have still not talked to Jon about the-...'' His father tried.

''Nonsense!'' The king bellowed. And Jon could feel his father's grip on his shoulder tightening, as if the king would grab him in any second.

The older man stepped forward next, a gentle smile on his face. ''It's good to see you reunited with your family. You've been through much, we heard. But you're among those who care for you now.''

''Thank you, my lord.'' Jon nodded, his throat feeling tight. He felt uncomfortable with all the formalities; it all seemed out of place for him.

''Come,'' Ned said, his voice stronger. ''I'll show you to your tent. We have much to discuss, but first, you must bathe and eat. You've been through a long journey.''

His father led him to his tent, with Arya and Bran riding Ghost right next to him. He lost sight of Meera and Jojen, much to his disappointment. The sheer number of people and the grandeur of the surroundings were overwhelming. ''Is Sansa or Robb here?'' Jon asked.

''Robb is in Winterfell with Mother. Sansa is sewing with the Queen.'' Arya said the last bit with annoyance.

''It is rude for a lady to refuse a queen's request, Arya. She wanted to be with us, Jon. But Queen Cersei was insistent.'' Ned said, his voice full of pity. Jon was unsure if the pity was meant for him or Sansa.

When they arrived at the northern camp, he saw multiple northerners looking at him. Their gazes were a mixture of curiosity and awe. He saw a big lord, one he recognised as Greatjon Umber, holding his cup high once he spotted him. Umber bellowed something, laughing. Jon could not quite hear it, but a roar from multiple Northmen followed.

When they arrived at their tent, he spotted two men standing guard. He recognised one of them immediately.

''Alyn,'' Jon said, happy to see another familiar face.

''Jon, by the gods. I did not dare believe it. It's good to see you alive and well.'' Alyn gasped.

''Likewise.''

''Alyn, bring Olaf here. He is to stand guard here.'' Ned commanded.

''Yes, m'lord.'' He bowed and took his leave with the other guard.

Jon pulled back the heavy canvas flap, revealing a space that was far larger and more luxurious than anything he had ever experienced. The tent was furnished with rich, embroidered rugs that covered the ground and intricately carved wooden furniture that gleamed in the soft light of several lanterns. A large bed, draped in fine linens and plush furs, dominated one side of the tent. A small table held a silver basin and a pitcher of water, along with a tray of fresh fruits and meats. In the middle of the tent stood a wooden tub, the water was steaming. Jon stepped inside, his eyes wide with wonder. He had never known such luxury, not even in Winterfell. Ghost immediately made the place his home, trotting inside the tent, jumping onto the bed, and lying there. Arya and Bran joined Ghost.

''I felt similarity about my tent; 'tis much more laverous than I remember the tents the last time I was here.'' His father said softy. ''Get yourself cleaned up, then we'll talk. I'm sure you have much to say, and I would like to know just as much.''

Jon nodded, taking everything in. ''Can I stay in Jon's tent? Please, please, please.'' Arya begged.

''Me too! I want to sleep here.'' Bran joined in.

''No, come along now.'' His father said sharply. Arya groaned in annoyance, while Bran sulked. Jon laughed and ruffled both their heads once they walked passed him. They both giggled in reply and rushed outside. His father smiled at him briefly before leaving him. Then he was all alone. He wasted no time, immediately going towards the wooden table and buckling off his scabbard, laying Longclaw on the table. He stripped his cloak and tunic off. He got a good look at his front; the wound he had suffered in his belly was still bandaged. He peeled it off, revealing a nasty scar. He filled the silver basin with water before washing his face. It felt relieving; he truly relished the bath. He had not had one in so long.

''M'lord.'' Jon heard a voice behind him. He turned his head and saw Olaf standing just inside the tent. ''A Loras Tyrell is here to see you.''

''Bring him in, please.'' Jon answered. Olaf bowed and took his leave. Loras stepped inside a second later. He wore a finely tailored doublet of deep green velvet, embroidered with intricate gold roses that shimmered in the light. His breeches were of a matching green, tucked into polished black leather boots. His brown-golden eyes scanned around the tent in a haste, and when his eyes met Jon's, he grinned.

''Jon!'' Loras rushed and embraced him. Laughing as he did so. ''By the seven!''

''Loras, 'Tis good to see you too.'' Jon said, chuckling. It felt sweet to see him again.

Once they broke the embrace, Jon noticed a woman standing just inside his tent. She strongly resembled Loras. Loras stepped aside and grabbed his shoulder.

''This is my sister, Lady Margeary.''

Their eyes locked, and she smiled prettily. She was a beautiful woman—perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes flicked briefly at his attire; she blushed, looking away. Jon noticed then that he wore no tunic, so he grabbed the new one lying on the table and put it on, blushing himself as he did so. Loras must have noticed, because he started to laugh.

''Lady Margeary.'' Jon said, once he had put the tunic on.

''Lord Stark,'' Loras' sister curtised. ''I've heard much about you; once my brother found out you still lived,'' she said stiffly.

''Well met.'' Jon answered, not quite sure how to reply. Despite how sweet it was to see Loras again, he just felt like taking his bath and talking to his father about what he had seen.

She smiled before turning and leaving the tent. Loras looked at him, one eyebrow raised. ''Well met?''

Jon glared at him. ''You are not the one to talk, considering your first conversation with my father. Now, will you let me have my bath?''

''Will ya let me haf ma bath?'' Loras replied in a bad northern accent as he started to make his way outside.

''Please, leave.'' Jon said as he removed his tunic. He could hear his stupid laughter from outside the tent. Jon stripped fully and climed inside the tub; the water was warm and soothing. He lay there, closing his eyes. He welcomed the brief moment of calm before he ventured out towards the storm.