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DRAGONSTONE - THE PAINTED TABLE ROOM
Shadows moved across the carved map of Westeros that stretched before them, the flicker of light crawling over the carved ridges of mountains and the coastlines of the Seven Kingdoms.
Daenerys stood beside Aeron, her gaze shifting between him and the door. She had not been told who this guest is meant to be, only that it was something important, for her as well. Aeron's calmness made her all the more curious.
Then the door opened.
Jon Snow entered, his black cloak damp with the sea's mist, his expression solemn as ever. He walked across the chamber and, without a word, bent the knee before them.
"Your Graces," he said, his voice low but steady.
Aeron raised a hand almost immediately. "Stand," he said. "And do not kneel to me again. Not you."
Jon blinked, straightening. "Your Grace.."
"No," Aeron interrupted gently, his tone carrying both firmness and familiarity. "You are a friend… and a man worthy of respect, unlike the others."
Jon's brow furrowed slightly, caught between gratitude and confusion. A faint, self-conscious smile tugged at his lips.
"Many would disagree, Your Grace," he said quietly. "After all… I'm just a bastard."
Aeron's violet eyes glimmered faintly, and a small smile curved his lips. "Yeah.. I don't know about that," he said.
Jon looked at him, uncertain, his posture stiffening as if bracing for mockery, but none came. Aeron turned, walking around the Painted Table slowly, his dark cloak touching the floor.
"Tell me, Jon," Aeron said, his tone calm, measured. "Tell me about your parents."
Jon hesitated. "I only knew my father," he said finally. "Eddard Stark. I never met my mother." His voice softened. "My father died before telling me who she was."
Daenerys watched quietly, her expression thoughtful. She could see the tension in Jon's shoulders, the pain behind those words. Aeron paused at the other side of the table, resting his hand against the carved surface.
"What I am about to tell you," Aeron began, his tone lowering, "is a secret… one your father kept for good reason."
Jon's gaze sharpened. "A secret ?"
Aeron's eyes lifted, soft yet unnerving. "First," he said evenly, "Eddard Stark is not your true father."
Jon's breath caught. His eyes narrowed, disbelief flashing across his face. "What?"
"You heard me," Aeron said. "Eddard Stark is not your father… and you, Jon Snow, are no bastard."
Jon's jaw clenched. "Do you know what you're saying?" His voice was suddenly sharper, the calm gone. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "My father was the most honorable man I ever knew. He never lied.. not once. He died because of his honor."
Daenerys tensed slightly, her eyes flicking between them. Aeron didn't flinch.
"I know," he said softly. "And he took that secret to the grave, protecting it to the very end."
Jon's anger faltered, confusion now creeping in to take its place. His voice lowered, rough and uncertain. "What do you know?"
Aeron looked at him for a long moment, then raised his hand. "Watch."
The torches dimmed. The shadows deepened. The violet light in Aeron's eyes pulsed, and the room changed.
The darkness itself seemed to move, swirling across the walls and pooling atop the Painted Table like living mist. Slowly, two shapes took form within it, soft at first, then clear.
A man and a woman, cloaked in shadow, but radiant in the faint glimmer of violet light. They stood close, hands entwined. The woman's hair flowed like a river of dusk, her face tender; the man's stance was strong, regal, a presence both fierce and kind.
They leaned together and kissed.
Behind them, two great banners unfurled in shadowed form: one bearing the direwolf of House Stark… the other, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen.
And then as if carried off by the wind the vision dissolved.
The torches flared once more. The room returned to stillness.
Jon stood frozen, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the space where the shadows had been. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, though he did not move.
Daenerys had not spoken since it began. Her lips parted slightly now, her gaze distant as though she had seen a ghost she had long forgotten.
"Who… who were they?" she asked softly.
Aeron turned toward her, his voice calm but heavy with meaning.
"His parents," he said.
He looked back to Jon, whose eyes still lingered on the table, unblinking, searching for answers that weren't there.
"Lyanna Stark," Aeron said slowly, his tone steady as the tide, "and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen."
Silence.
Daenerys' breath caught audibly her eyes widening as she turned toward Jon, her expression one of disbelief and dawning comprehension. She stepped back slightly, her lips parting as though words had failed her.
Jon lifted his eyes, his face a mixture of shock, grief, and a strange, hollow awe. "Rhaegar… Targaryen?" he repeated under his breath.
The words sounded unreal to him, like a cruel jest whispered by fate.
"My father…" Jon murmured, his voice breaking just barely. "The Mad King's son?"
"Aye," Aeron said quietly. "But your mother was no prisoner, and you were no sin. They were wed... in secret, you were born of their love, not their shame."
Daenerys took another slow breath. Her eyes glistened faintly, her voice trembling though she kept it low. "That means…"
She couldn't finish. Aeron looked at her knowingly.
"You are not the last of your house, Daenerys," he said gently. "And Jon Snow is not some random person, he is your kin."
Jon's gaze met hers, both of them caught between disbelief and a quiet, dawning storm of emotion neither knew how to face.
Daenerys whispered, almost to herself, "My brother's son…"
Jon said nothing, only stared at the Painted Table, the carved mountains of the North, his hand pressed flat against the wood. The truth was too heavy to speak.
Jon's chest rising and falling in measured breaths that seemed almost forced. The revelation had shaken him though he hid it well behind the Stark stoicism that had been carved into him since boyhood.
He spoke at last, voice low, controlled, yet carrying that unmistakable tremor of disbelief.
"Your Grace… if what you say is true, then the world itself has lied to me since I drew breath."
His gaze sharpened, though his tone remained respectful.
"I mean no insult to you... not when there's nothing for you to gain by lying.. but…" he took a breath, "I need proof. You understand, don't you?"
Aeron regarded him in silence for a moment. His expression was calm, neither offended nor surprised. Instead, a faint, knowing smile crossed his lips.
"Of course," Aeron said simply.
The faint hum of shadow flickered near the doorway, and then the sound of wheels on stone echoed through the chamber.
Daenerys turned her head just as a tall, silent figure entered, a shadow knight pushing a wheeled chair forward. Upon it sat a young man pale, solemn, his eyes grey and distant as if seeing beyond the room, beyond the now.
Bran Stark.
Jon froze where he stood. "Bran…" he breathed.
Bran's gaze shifted toward him calm, timeless, unblinking. "What he says is the truth, Jon."
Daenerys blinked, glancing between the two men. She had heard from Aeron about the boy of the starks who could now see through time, but to see him here, with one of Aeron's shadows behind him, made her pulse quicken.
Jon stepped closer to his brother, confusion etched into every movement. "Bran, what are you doing here?"
Bran's tone was soft, almost detached. "You asked for proof." His eyes glowed faintly with that eerie light that never quite belonged to the living. "Touch my hand, Jon."
Jon hesitated, his eyes darting toward Aeron for a brief second, the king's face calm, unreadable then toward Daenerys, whose lips parted slightly in uncertainty. Finally, he looked back at Bran.
A long breath.
Then he smiled faintly, the way a brother would smile at his own brother. "Seven hells, Bran…"
Bran didn't smile. He only extended his hand.
Jon reached out, his fingers brushing against his brother's.
The moment their hands touched, Jon's body stiffened. His pupils rolled back eyes turning white as snow.
Daenerys gasped and took a step forward, instinctively reaching for him. "What's happening to him?"
Aeron raised a hand, stopping her gently. "It's all right."
His tone was calm, assured, and somehow that steadied her. Still, her eyes darted between the two Stark brothers, worry etched on her face.
"He's showing him the past," Aeron said quietly, his voice deep and steady, as if explaining something ancient and sacred. "Not as a tale told by others… but as if he were living it."
Daenerys's brow furrowed, her hand lowering slowly. "You mean.."
"Yes," Aeron said, his violet eyes glimmering faintly. "He will see everything. The truth of his blood. His parents. His birth."
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