The fire swirled in his palm, flickering like a heartbeat.
Jon Snow — Aegon Targaryen , the once-forgotten bastard of Winterfell — stood at the threshold of a choice no man had ever made. His breath came steady, no frost on his lips. The warp-fire hovered obediently above his outstretched hand, a symbol of the new reality bending to his will.
He stared into the southern night, where beyond frozen plains and jagged mountains, a fractured kingdom clung to peace like a dying man to warmth.
Seven kingdoms.
Seven veils of lies.
He closed his hand.
The fire disappeared.
And the plan began.
He started by calling them.
Not with horns. Not with ravens. Not even with words.
But through thought .
The warp answered when it will meet its purpose. And Jon's will have become a beacon.
He sat by the ruined pylon that night, legs crossed, the metallic veins of the forgotten ship pulsing faintly beneath the frost. His eyes glowed — dim gold now, no longer purely human.
He reached .
Far across the North.
Through wind and snow.
Through dreams and memories.
He found them.
Scattered Free Folk.
Some with tents buried deep in the frost. Some living in forgotten valleys. Others wandering the ghost-woods, hunting, surviving. A people still lost, still leaderless, still remembering the boy-king who had once opened the gates of the Wall and given them mercy.
And now they felt him .
Not like the old Jon.
But as something more .
A presence in the fire.
A voice in the mind.
Not commanding.
But calling.
"Come. A new war is coming. But not of blades. Not of kings. Of meaning. Of fire. Come if you still believe."
They started walking.
By the fifth day, the first band arrived.
Tormund Giantsbane stood at the edge of the ruin, cloak soaked in ice, beard rimmed with frost. He looked thinner than Jon remembered — a little slower, a little more wary.
But the smile cracked across his face like sunlight on fresh snow.
"Jon fucking Snow," he muttered. "Or are you something else now?"
Jon stood from where he knelt, nodding slowly.
"I am," he said quietly. "But not in the way you fear."
Tormund studied him. His eyes narrowed on the silver threading of Jon's hair. On the way the light didn't quite fall right around him.
On the sleeping dragon behind the ruins.
"That's yours?"
"He came to me."
Tormund let out a low whistle. "Fuck me. Didn't think you were the dragon-riding sort."
"I wasn't," Jon said. "Not then."
They stood in silence. Tormund's eyes flicked to Ghost — still silent, still watchful — and then to Drogon, who breathed like a mountain. Then he sighed.
"Well. If you're calling a meeting, you're gonna need a lot more tents."
They came in waves.
Free Folk from the far places of the True North. Tribes who had lost chieftains, survivors of skirmishes with lingering wights, even ice-runners who spoke no Common but recognized Jon's eyes and knelt in silence.
By the second week, over five hundred had arrived.
By the third, nearly a thousand.
They brought little — hides, bone weapons, and a few spears — but they brought faith .
They had heard the whispers.
Dream
And they believed.
He was no longer the Night's Watch oathbreaker.
No longer the quiet, brooding lord of Winterfell's shadows.
He was something greater.
And he had come up with a plan.
They gathered at dusk, around great fires that licked the ruin's edge. The night was windless. Above them, the stars pulsed faintly — as if watching.
Jon stood before them in a simple cloak. No crown. No sigil.
Yet when he spoke, his voice was carried not on air — but through intent .
"You are not subjects," he began. "You are not my army. You are not slaves to a house that fell centuries before you were born."
He let his gaze pass across them — children with fur hoods, old warriors with scars across their faces, mothers, hunters, lost things.
"You are free . That is what I honored when I opened the Wall. That is what I still honor."
Murmurs of assent. Nods.
"But freedom," Jon continued, "cannot survive alone. It must be protected . Not with blind war. Not with burning cities. With purpose."
He raised his hand.
And behind him, Drogon opened one massive eye — golden and ancient.
"I am Aegon Targaryen. Son of Rhaegar. The blood of the dragon runs in my veins. But I will not rule as my ancestors did."
He paused.
"I will not burn the weak."
Tormund grunted approvingly.
"I will not wear a crown built on ash. Or rebuild the Targaryen name with madness."
Now his voice sharpened.
"I will forge a House — and a kingdom — not by birthright. But by vision ."
He let that settle.
"I will conquer the Seven Kingdoms."
Gasps. Silence.
"But I will not take them in fire. Not first. I will take them in truth ."
He stepped forward, past the fire.
"I know their lies. I have lived in them. I have served and bled and been cast out. And I have seen the veil torn away. There is more beyond this world. More than kings and lords and thrones. We are not alone. We are not safe ."
He turned, slowly, gaze burning.
"Something is coming. From beyond the stars. I've seen it. A darkness that does not die. It broke the gods. It will break the kingdoms."
Now the fire behind him burned higher, catching Drogon's breath like oil.
"And we must be ready."
He raised one hand.
"And I will not hide what I am. I am a soul reborn from a time before. I carry the memory of war beyond the sky. The Emperor's spark — the light that guards the gate — it burns again in me."
He lowered his hand.
"But I am still Jon Snow. I remember the cold. I remember the Wall. And I remember what it is to be forgotten ."
He looked at them all.
"I ask you not to serve. I ask you to build . A kingdom of purpose. Not fear. Not gold. A kingdom of the new dawn ."
The silence held.
And then they rose.
One by one.
No cheers. No roars.
Just nods. Knees bowed. Weapons lowered.
Not in submission.
In acknowledgement .
That night, Jon met with Tormund in the inner camp.
They sat beside a map scrawled into the ice with bone and ash.
Tormund drank from a skin of fermented goat's milk, grunting. "You sure they'll follow?"
Jon nodded. "They already are."
"And what's first? You gonna march on Winterfell?"
Jon stared at the bone line that marked the Wall.
"No. Not yet."
He traced a circle near the coast.
"We go to Skagos first. Then the Shadowlands."
Tormund raised a brow. "Skagos? That cursed rock? What for?"
Jon looked at him.
"Ships."