Jon Snow

Jon's dreams often wandered through the shadowed halls of Winterfell, tangled with whispers of his uncertain future. As the bastard son of Lord Eddard Stark, he felt the weight of his birth like a chain, binding him to a life on the fringes of his family's warmth.

With King Robert's arrival looming on the morrow, the castle thrummed with frantic energy—servants scrubbing flagstones until they gleamed, cooks roasting meats that filled the air with savory smoke, and his siblings buzzing with excitement over the royal visit.

Jon, however, lay restless in his chamber, the chill of the northern night seeping through the stone walls despite the crackling fire in the hearth.

He envied his trueborn brothers and sisters their clear paths, while his own led northward, toward the black cloaks of the Night's Watch and a vow that would sever him from any claim to home or hearth.

Exhaustion finally claimed him as the flames dwindled to embers, pulling him into sleep. But instead of the familiar woods or crypts of his usual visions, Jon found himself in a vast chamber bathed in torchlight, facing the Iron Throne.

Though he had only heard tales of it from Old Nan's stories—forged from the swords of Aegon the Conqueror's foes, twisted by dragonfire into a jagged seat of dominion—it loomed before him, sharp and unforgiving, radiating an aura that made his skin prickle.

The throne room stretched around him like a cavern of excess, its walls draped in heavy tapestries woven with golden threads that caught the flickering light, floors polished to a sheen that reflected the opulence above. Southern finery,

Jon thought, his lip curling faintly; it all screamed of hidden daggers and honeyed words, so unlike the stark honesty of Winterfell's granite halls, where strength showed in callused hands and steadfast oaths.

He stepped nearer, boots echoing softly on the marble, his mind racing. Dreams held little sway for him—the Old Gods kept their silence, and he placed no stock in seers or omens. Yet this felt different, vivid and insistent.

Could it be a warning about the king's coming? A glimpse of the treacherous games awaiting his father in the south?

"Nothing of the sort." The voice slithered from behind him, smooth as silk over steel. Jon whirled, fingers instinctively grasping for the hilt of a sword that wasn't there. The room stood empty.

"Easy now, young wolf." This time, the words drifted from above, teasing the vaulted ceiling. Jon's gaze snapped upward, scanning the shadows.

"Who speaks?" he demanded, his voice steady despite the pulse hammering in his throat.

"A wanderer, nothing more, drawn by your quiet fire. I've seen the burdens you carry, Jon Snow, and I've come with an offering to lighten them." The tone dripped with false warmth, like a courtier's flattery masking ambition.

"I'll take no gifts from shadows," Jon shot back, edging toward a pillar for cover. Laughter echoed, light and mocking.

"Ah, but this one isn't yours to refuse, lad."

Jon pressed his back against the cold stone. "Try me."

The air thickened, and suddenly the voice murmured right at his ear, intimate as a secret shared in the dark. "This power is yours now, Jon Snow, like it or not."

A fierce wind howled through the chamber, slamming into him like a wave, hurling him backward into the throne's embrace. The blades bit at his cloak but drew no blood, invisible bonds pinning him to the seat he had no desire to claim.

Gusts whipped fiercer, roaring through the hall until the din pounded in his skull, carving paths into his thoughts, searing into the core of him. Jon's cry tore free as the world dissolved into oblivion.