Prologue 1

Jon Snow, known as the illegitimate child of Eddard Stark, felt tired. He had endured mockery, deceit, and treachery. Both nobles and commoners alike ridiculed him for being a "bastard," a tarnish on Ned Stark's reputation. He had been deceived about his lineage and rightful inheritance, and his sworn brothers of the Night's Watch betrayed him when he attempted to do the right thing and safeguard the living from the clutches of the Nightking, who only sought to bolster his armies with fresh corpses.

Despite his best efforts, even his resurrection couldn't save them from losing to the Night King. They were completely caught off guard, armed only with fragile dragonglass that shattered easily. The absence of support from the Lannisters only made matters worse in the war against the dead. Even if they had joined forces, victory still seemed out of reach.

They lost the battle of Winterfell.

Daenarys's dragons emitted a chilling screech as the Night King resurrected them. Utilizing their fiery breath, he set ablaze the amassed army in the North, halting only when they began to retreat. This pause allowed him to revive those who had perished in the flames, transforming them into wights. Reassembling repeatedly, they engaged in relentless combat, battling their way from Winterfell to White Harbor. The Night King persistently pushed them back, until finally reaching Moat Caitlin, where the entire North was almost occupied by the dead.

.....

Jon Snow rushed towards her, his heart heavy with grief as he saw her lifeless body on the ground. The army they had gathered to fight the dead was in chaos, some defeated and others fleeing in terror. He knelt beside her, but as he looked up, he saw the Night King raising the fallen as wights. Daenerys opened her eyes, now a creature of ice. With a heavy heart, Jon knew what he had to do. "I'm sorry, Dany," he whispered as he ended her suffering. With a determined look, he turned towards the Night King, ready to make his last stand against the army of the dead. He knew his chances were slim, but he would not retreat like the others. He would fight until his last breath, for the North.

He knew that if he failed to defeat the Night King here, the south would be next. 'Let the dead have the south,' he thought bitterly. 'Everyone I cared about in this world is gone anyway.'

Arya, his brave and fearless sister, had attempted to strike down the Night King during the Battle of Winterfell, but her effort ended with a stab wound to the gut. Sansa and Tyrion, seeking refuge in the crypts, met their end there, their bodies now lying cold among the dead Starks of Winterfell.

And Bran... he was no longer the boy he once knew. The blue-eyed raven had marked him, changed him into someon- something different. "So be it," he thought, his voice heavy with grief. "If I am to die, let it be here."

With a resolute gaze, he turned to face the army of the dead, ready to make his final stand. It was a battle he knew he might not win, but he would fight until his last breath, at the very least.

After slaying a dozen wights, Jon arrived at the Night King's location. Scanning the area, he noticed that the Night King was guarded by only a handful of wights. Drogon, the mighty dragon, slowly glided towards him, letting out a roar filled with anger and anguish. Jon looked into Drogon's eyes and saw that the anger was not directed at him but was instead aimed inward. Perhaps the dragon blamed himself for his mother's death. Even in his wighted state.

Jon's gaze flickered to the Night King, his heart pounding with determination. 'Is it because he was a dragon?' he wondered. 'Do dragons possess their memories after death? Maybe people do too...'

As Drogon drew closer, Jon snapped away from his thoughts and braced himself for the battle that was to come. He knew that defeating the Night King would not be easy, but he was prepared to die trying. With a fierce determination, he unsheathed his sword, the Valyrian steel glinting in the moonlight. Longclaw.

The air crackled with anticipation, the weight of their impending clash hanging heavy in the air. Jon took a steadying breath, his eyes never leaving Drogon's fearsome form.

Jon took a steadying breath as he walked forward, his gaze locked on Drogon. The dragon glided towards him, its massive wings cutting through the air. Jon stopped just a few feet away, his heart pounding. Drogon let out a monstrous roar, the sound reverberating through the very core of Jon's being. He steeled himself for what was to come, knowing that his chances of survival were slim.

Drogon shot a stream of deadly flame at Jon, who attempted to dodge the attack but still felt the searing heat on his left arm. The dragon then lashed out with its sharp claws, sending Jon flying through the air like a ragdoll. He landed with a thud a few feet away, the impact knocking the sword from his hand and leaving a deep scar on his torso.

Pain seared through Jon's body, making it difficult to stand. He tried to push himself up, but the pain was too much, and he fell back to the ground, sprawled and vulnerable.

Drogon, his eyes glowing, took to the skies once more. he circled above, letting out a cry that echoed through the night. Jon, lying on the ground, watched as the dragon prepared for its final strike.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Drogon descended, his mouth opening to release a torrent of flame. The fire engulfed Jon, consuming him in an instant. All that remained of him was a scorched corpse.

....

In the fleeting moments after his death, Jon found himself blinking in confusion. He slowly opened his eyes, taking in his unfamiliar surroundings. "What is this place? Where am I?" he questioned, his voice echoing in the empty, luminous room that seemed devoid of any exit.

As he stood there, a giant humanoid silhouette made of light materialized before him. The figure's appearance, though startling, did not evoke surprise from Jon. Perhaps it was the nature of this ethereal realm that dulled his senses and clouded his emotions.

The towering figure before Jon maintained a stoic expression, its voice booming yet soothing. "Jon Snow," he intoned. "You have passed from this world and now find yourself in the afterlife."

Jon's curiosity stirred, and he asked, "So, I am dead... But where exactly am I? And which god do you represent? The Old Gods? The New? The Drowned God? Or perhaps R'hllor?" He rattled off the names of the deities associated with the three most prominent religions he knew.

The figure remained silent for a moment, as if considering his response. "I am no god," he finally said. "I am but a guide, here to assist you in your transition to the afterlife. As for where you are, this is a realm beyond the grasp of mortal comprehension."

"Is that what will happen?" Jon asked, his eyes fixed on the silhouette. "Will you send me to the next life?"

The figure shook its head, its expression unwavering. "No, Jon Snow. Your path is not yet finished. I shall send you back to the time of your birth, and you will be granted gifts to aid you in your new life."

Jon's surprise was evident. "Send me back? How is that possible? And what do you mean by 'gifts'? 

"All will be revealed in due time, Jon Snow," the entity said, its voice taking on a mysterious tone. "Or perhaps I should address you by your true name—Jaehaerys Targaryen."

Jon's confusion deepened as he heard the name. He opened his mouth to speak, but the entity raised its hands, and a brilliant light enveloped his body. The light was not blinding, but rather warm and comforting. It felt like a thousand gentle hands caressing his soul, soothing all the wounds he suffered throughout his life.

....

In the Tower of Joy, located within the sun-drenched lands of Dorne, a beautiful woman with dark hair and piercing grey eyes endured the trials of labor. Her cries echoed through the chamber as she pushed with all her might.

"Push, my lady!" the midwife encouraged, her voice firm yet gentle. "We can see the head. You're doing wonderfully."

The woman grit her teeth, her face contorted with pain. "Aghhh! It hurts so much!"

"I know, my lady, but you're almost there," the midwife soothed. "Push with all your might, and your child will be born."

After an hour of exhausting labor, the child finally entered the world. It was a boy. Jon, wrapped in a soft blanket, was placed in the arms of a wet nurse as his mother, Lyanna Stark was still recovering from the ordeal.

So this is Lyanna Stark—my mother. Bran's words did not do her justice. She is breathtakingly beautiful.

Her tired eyes, bloodshot from the ordeal of childbirth, locked with his as she beckoned the wet nurse. "Please, bring him to me."

The wet nurse gently carried Jon to Lyanna's bedside, placing him gently in her arms. "My sweet child," she whispered, "You have your father's eyes." She then planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

She turned to the wetnurse, "I fear my time is short," she continued, her voice weak. "The birth was difficult, and I am spent. Please, call for Ser Arthur."

The wet nurse, nodded in understanding at Lyanna's request, and quickly exited the room, her footsteps echoing down the steps.

'What?! No, I can't lose you so soon after having just met you!' 

Unbeknownst to Jon, he activated one of the gifts bestowed upon him. A warm light enveloped Lyanna, and the damage inflicted by childbirth faded away. The pain that had racked her body dissipated, leaving her confused. "What... Why is the pain gone?"

Jon, equally bewildered, wondered, 'Could it be... one of the gifts that entity mentioned?'

The entity's voice, deep and soothing, resonated within Jon's mind. 'Your assumption is indeed correct, Jon Snow. The power you just wielded is one of the gifts I bestowed upon you.'

Jon's eyes widened as he processed this revelation. 'You can communicate with me?'

'Yes, Jon Snow. I did say I would guide you, did I not?'

The sudden voice in his head was shocking for Jon but he didn't have time to get a reaction as a sudden wave of information entered his brain. He could see all the "gifts" this god had given him and he was surprised to say the least at the generosity of the entity.

'Aren't these too powerful?' he asked, his voice tinged with concern. 'Why are you helping me like this?' 

The entity's voice remained calm and reassuring. 'The gifts are meant to aid you in your journey, Jon Snow.'

'By the way I have one last essential gift for you. A dragon lies in a cave to the north.'

'What? A dragon?' Jon's voice held a mixture of surprise and skepticism. 'Why are you telling me this? Surely, you don't expect me to use 'that' power on a dragon?'

'Indeed, that is precisely what you must do,' the entity replied. 'You have the power of skinchanging, and with it, you shall tame the beast.'

Jon's eyes widened, and he shook his head in disbelief. 'You can't be serious... Skinchanging a dragon? And I'm just a baby. How am I supposed to even find the dragon, let alone get close enough to attempt it?'

'I shall guide you and provide the knowledge you need,' the entity assured him.

Jon, still hesitant, nodded slowly, his uncertainty lingering. 'But I thought skinchanging was only possible with regular beasts... also I'm already a warg, since I bonded with Ghost in my past life.'

'The gifts I have given you transcend the limitations of regular skinchanging,' the entity explained. 'With my blessings, you can skinchange into anything, a dragon or even a human, though that may require some practise. It is a power unlike any other.'

Jon's mind raced as he processed this extraordinary ability. 'But how will I locate the dragon? You're forgetting that you brought me back as a child.'

'I shall aid you,' the entity promised. 

Jon, his uncertainty slowly giving way to determination, asked, 'Wait, you still haven't told me... who are you? Why are you helping me?'

Silence met his questions, and he sensed the entity's presence fading from his mind.

Finally, the wet nurse returned, accompanied by Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. "Your Grace," Ser Arthur said, his voice carrying a hint of warmth as he entered the room. "You requested my presence?"

Lyanna held up the infant in her arms and said, "Yes, Arthur, meet your new prince. I wish to name him Jaehaerys. What do you think, would Rhaegar like the name?"

Before Ser Arthur could respond, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the tower. Ser Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, entered the room. His eyes fell upon the babe in Lyanna's arms, and a gentle smile touched his lips. "Yes, Your Grace, I believe he would have approved."

Lyanna noticed the title they used, one reserved for royalty, particularly the queen consort and one other she hoped was not the case. "Why do you address me as 'Your Grace'? King Aerys still sits on the Iron Throne," she said, her eyes searching their faces for answers.

Ser Gerold's expression grew solemn. "Your Grace, it is my duty to inform you that King Aerys is no more. He perished, along with Princess Elia, Prince Aegon, and Princess Rhaenys." He paused, steeling himself before delivering the final blow. "And Prince Rhaegar... they are all gone."

Lyanna's heart sank as the weight of their words hit her. Tears welled up in her eyes as she processed the loss of her beloved and their child. "What happened?" she asked, her voice thick with sorrow.

Ser Gerold took a breath before continuing. "King Aerys met his end at the hands of Ser Jaime Lannister. As for Princess Elia and her children, they were slain by Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch, acting under the orders of Lord Paramount Tywin Lannister."

Lyanna's mind raced as she grappled with the revelations. 'Why did Jaime kill King Aerys? I hold no love for the man; his madness took my father and Bran from me. Perhaps his madness forced the knight's hand.'

Her thoughts turned to the tragic fate of Elia's children. ' And How could someone be so cruel as to order the death of innocent children? Those knights... I hope the gods see fit to punish them.'

In a sudden awakening, Lyanna snapped out of her reverie as the Kingsguard, handpicked by Rhaegar to safeguard her and her unborn child, entered the room. They all knelt in unison, with Gerold Hightower proclaiming, "All hail King Jaehaerys, the Third of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm!"

She couldn't believe her eyes, they were proclaiming her newborn son as the new king...

'But he's just a baby, being king is too much for him! And what if Lord Tywin decided he wanted to get rid of him by sending those two demons to kill him? No! I'll not allow it!'

Then she looked at her son, as he locked eyes with her

"Long may he reign!" They shouted.

Lyanna's eyes closed, and she whispered a silent prayer. "Please, gods, old and new, watch over my dear son. Keep him safe from harm and guide him on his path."