Jon the white dragon

Winterfell, 289 AC, Jon Snow's POV

The Northern wind howled, carrying the thunder of hooves as the bannermen of the North approached Winterfell. Jon stood atop the battlements, his silver hair whipping in the breeze, his ruby-red eyes fixed on the horizon. Beside him, the Cannibal loomed, its black scales gleaming like obsidian in the pale sunlight, its green eyes scanning the approaching banners. The dragon's presence was a storm in itself, its low growls sending tremors through the earth. The smallfolk below whispered prayers or stared in awe, torn between fear of the beast and reverence for the boy they now called Jaehaerys Targaryen.

The banners came into view—Umber's roaring giant, Karstark's sunburst, Bolton's flayed man, and more, a tapestry of Northern pride. Lord Greatjon Umber was the first to dismount, his massive frame dwarfed only by the dragon as he stared up at Jon. "Seven bloody hells," he boomed, his voice carrying over the wind. "Ned's bastard's gone and turned into a dragonlord of old!"

Jon's stomach twisted, the weight of his new identity pressing harder with every lord who arrived. He glanced at Ned, standing beside him, his face a mask of grim resolve. They hadn't spoken of Jon's visions of the future—his death at the Wall, the betrayal, the wildfire in his blood—since the crypts. By unspoken agreement, that truth remained theirs alone, a secret too dangerous to share even with the loyal North. To these lords, Jon was simply the son of Lyanna and Rhaegar, marked by dragon's blood and chosen by a beast of legend.

"Come," Ned said, his voice low but firm, placing a hand on Jon's shoulder. "It's time."

They descended to the Great Hall, the Cannibal's shadow lingering over Winterfell like a storm cloud. The hall was packed with lords and their retainers, their murmurs filling the air as Jon entered, his silver hair and ruby eyes impossible to ignore. Arya slipped to his side, her fierce gaze daring anyone to challenge him. Robb stood with the heirs of the Northern houses, his expression a mix of pride and unease. Catelyn sat stiffly, her eyes cold but guarded, while Bran and Rickon peered from behind her, wide-eyed at the gathering.

Ned raised a hand, silencing the room. "My lords," he began, his voice steady as stone, "you've seen the dragon. You've seen my… nephew." He paused, the word heavy with truth. "Jon Snow is no bastard. He is the son of my sister, Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar Targaryen. His true name is Jaehaerys Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne."

A ripple of shock ran through the hall. Lord Rickard Karstark's eyes narrowed, while Lord Roose Bolton's pale gaze flickered with calculation. Greatjon Umber slammed a fist on the table, his laugh booming. "A Targaryen in Winterfell! And with a bloody dragon to boot!"

Ned's jaw tightened. "The dragon has chosen him," he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "The gods have marked him. Robert Baratheon sits the Iron Throne, but his claim was built on blood and lies. Jaehaerys is the true king—Jaehaerys III. The North will stand behind him."

Jon's heart lurched. King? The word felt like a blade, sharp and unfamiliar. He'd never wanted a crown, never dreamed of it. Yet the bond in his blood roared in agreement, the Cannibal's distant growl echoing through the walls as if affirming Ned's words. He met Arya's eyes, her fierce nod steadying him, and then Robb's, who stepped forward, his face set with loyalty.

"Jon—Jaehaerys—is my brother," Robb declared, his voice ringing. "If he's king, I'll fight for him. The North will fight for him."

The hall erupted in cheers, led by Greatjon's thunderous roar. "Jaehaerys! King in the North and beyond!" The Karstarks joined in, then the Manderlys, their voices swelling into a chorus of defiance. Even Bolton inclined his head, though his eyes remained unreadable. Catelyn's lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing, her silence louder than any protest.

Jon stepped forward, his voice raw but steady. "I didn't ask for this," he said, the hall falling silent. "But the dragon came to me. The gods… they've given me a purpose I can't ignore. If I'm to be Jaehaerys III, I'll need every one of you. Not just for me, but for the North—for the realm."

The lords roared their approval, swords drawn and raised in salute. Ned's hand found Jon's shoulder again, his grip firm. "You're my blood," he whispered. "King or not, you're family. We'll face this together."

Outside, the Cannibal roared, its cry shaking the rafters, a promise of fire and blood. Jon felt the bond pulse, visions of dragons and shadowed caves flickering in his mind. Whatever lay ahead, he was no longer just Jon Snow. He was Jaehaerys, and the North was his.

King's Landing, 289 AC, Robert Baratheon's POV

The Red Keep was a furnace of rage, Robert's bellows echoing through the Small Council chamber. "A Targaryen? In Winterfell?" He slammed his warhammer onto the table, splintering the wood. "Ned's hiding a dragonspawn, and now there's a bloody dragon! I'll have his head for this!"

Jon Arryn, pale and weary, raised a hand for calm. "Your Grace, we don't know the full truth. The raven from Winterfell speaks of a boy—Ned's bastard, Jon Snow—changed overnight. Silver hair, red eyes, and a dragon at his side. The North calls him Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna."

"Lyanna," Robert snarled, his voice thick with old pain. "Ned lied to me. All these years, he's sheltered Rhaegar's whelp!" His blue eyes burned, the memory of the Trident fueling his fury. He'd crushed Rhaegar's chest, ended the dragon's line—or so he'd thought. Now a boy with a dragon threatened his throne, and Ned, his friend, had betrayed him.

Varys, ever soft-spoken, leaned forward. "The smallfolk whisper of a new dragonlord, Your Grace. The North rallies to him. If this Jaehaerys has a dragon—a true dragon—the realm will stir."

"Then we crush him!" Robert roared. "I want banners called. The Reach, the Stormlands, the Westerlands—every man who swore to me. Tywin!" He turned to the Lannister patriarch, who sat with his usual cold composure. "Your gold and swords—will they answer?"

Tywin's green eyes gleamed. "The Westerlands will march, Your Grace. A Targaryen with a dragon is a threat to us all. But we must act swiftly. Dragons grow, and so does their power."

Robert nodded, his jaw set. "Mace Tyrell!" he barked, turning to the Lord of Highgarden, who'd arrived with his bannermen. "Your knights, your harvests—will the Reach stand with me?"

Mace puffed out his chest. "The Reach is yours, Your Grace. My son Loras and ten thousand spears will ride north to end this Targaryen nonsense."

"Good," Robert growled, then turned to his brother. "Stannis, you'll hold the Stormlands. Bring every lord from Tarth to Cape Wrath. We march on Winterfell and burn this dragon to ash."

Stannis's jaw clenched, his duty warring with his dislike for Robert's recklessness. "As you command, Your Grace," he said stiffly. "But a dragon is no trifling foe. We'll need more than swords."

"Then we'll have dragonglass, wildfire, whatever it takes!" Robert snapped. He gripped his warhammer, the weight familiar in his hands. "Ned's gone too far. If he's chosen this boy over me, he's no friend. He's a traitor. And traitors die."

The room fell silent, the weight of war settling over them. Robert's heart pounded, not with fear, but with the thrill of battle. He'd slain one Targaryen prince. He'd slay another, dragon or no.

Dragonstone, 289 AC, Monford Velaryon's POV

The sea was a restless beast, its waves crashing against Dragonstone's black cliffs as Lord Monford Velaryon stood on the deck of his flagship, Tide's Wrath. Beside him, Lord Ardrian Celtigar adjusted his cloak, his crab-emblazoned shield gleaming in the torchlight. The castle loomed ahead, its dragon-carved towers stark against the stormy sky. Stannis Baratheon was gone, summoned to King's Landing by his brother, leaving Dragonstone lightly guarded—a ripe prize for those bold enough to seize it.

"The raven from Winterfell changes everything," Monford said, his voice low but firm. "A Targaryen boy, Jaehaerys, with a dragon at his side. The Cannibal, no less. Our blood calls us to him."

Celtigar nodded, his weathered face grim. "The Velaryons and Celtigars served the Targaryens for centuries. If this boy is Rhaegar's son, he's our king. Stannis holds Dragonstone for Robert, but Robert's no dragonlord. We'll take the castle for Jaehaerys."

Monford's gaze swept the fleet—twenty ships, their sails bearing the seahorse and crab of their houses. The men were ready, their loyalty to the old dynasty burning brighter than their fear of Robert's wrath. "We strike tonight," Monford said. "The garrison won't expect us. By dawn, Dragonstone will fly the three-headed dragon once more."

The assault was swift and silent. Under cover of darkness, Monford's men scaled the cliffs, their daggers flashing as they dispatched the sentries. Celtigar's axemen breached the gates, their war cries echoing through the stone halls. The garrison, caught unprepared, surrendered within the hour, their loyalty to Stannis no match for the promise of a Targaryen restoration.

By dawn, Monford stood in the Chamber of the Painted Table, the carved map of Westeros glowing in the firelight. He ran a hand over Dragonstone's place on the map, his heart swelling with purpose. "For Jaehaerys III," he said, raising the Targaryen banner—a black field with a red three-headed dragon. Celtigar echoed the cry, and the men cheered, their voices carrying across the island.