Aemon POV
I stood alone in an endless expanse of ice and snow.
The cold was unlike anything I had ever felt—not the sharp, biting chill of Dragonstone's sea winds, nor the damp, creeping frost of a winter's morning. This was something deeper, something ancient. A cold that did not merely touch the skin but seeped into the marrow, as if the very breath of the world had frozen solid.
A shudder tore through me, but it did nothing to dispel the cold.
It was in my bones, in my blood, sinking deeper with each breath. I tried to exhale, but the air that left my lips was not mist—it was frost, curling into the void before vanishing.
My fingers ached. Not the dull stiffness of winter's chill, but something worse—something wrong. It was as if the flesh itself had turned brittle, the cold burrowing into my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I flexed my hands, but the movement was slow, and numb, as if the tendons were freezing solid beneath the surface.
I took another breath. It hurt.
The air did not fill my lungs—it burned them. A deep, biting ache, as though I were inhaling shards of ice instead of air. Every breath was thinner than the last, stolen away before I could claim it. My chest constricted, the weight of the cold pressing down, crushing, smothering.
I clenched my jaw, forcing my body to move, to resist.
But the cold was winning.
It was not just in the air.
It was in me.
I took a slow step forward, my boots sinking into the snow, the sound muffled, swallowed whole by the vast emptiness around me. There was no wind. No movement. No sky above—only a great, black void where the sun should have been.
Where am I?
The thought rang hollow in my mind, a whisper swallowed by the silence.
This was not Dragonstone.
This was not anywhere I had ever seen before.
It was nothing. An abyss of ice and ruin, stretching beyond sight, beyond sense, beyond time.
I turned, searching for something—anything—but there was nothing to find. No walls, no horizon, only the endless white, rolling like a frozen sea beneath a dead sky.
My breath curled in the air, thick and slow, turning to mist before my eyes.
What is this place?
A dream?
A vision?
Or something else entirely?
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating, a weight that made my chest tighten with unease. My heartbeat was the only sound, slow and deliberate, echoing in my ribs like a distant drum.
Then—
The whispers came.
Soft at first. Faint. Like the wind slipping through cracks in ancient stone.
Then louder.
A hiss. A murmur. A thousand voices speaking at once, threading through the cold like fingers trailing along my spine.
I turned sharply.
Nothing.
The whispers grew, slithering through the frost, brushing against my skin like unseen hands. They curled around me, breathing into my ear, too close, too real. Not voices of men. Not voices of the living.
The words were twisted, spoken in a tongue I did not know, yet somehow… I did.
A voice like cracking ice, low and endless, slipping into my ears like a winter wind that knew my name.
"Āeksio… ñuhoso naejot ñuhoso…"
"Lykirī naejot īlvon… ñuha dārilaros…"
I didn't understand. Not fully.
But I felt them.
A name, buried in the cold. A call. A plea. A warning.
Then—
"Kostilus… ñuha āeksio…"
The last whisper sent a violent shudder through my bones. My breath caught in my throat, my chest tightening with something I could not name.
I knew those words.
I should not have.
Yet they pulsed in my skull, ancient and heavy, dragging against my thoughts like chains.
"Come back… my king."
The cold bit deeper, sinking into my skin, into my marrow, into something deeper than flesh and bone.
And I realized—
They were not speaking to me.
They were calling for someone else.
Then, ahead—
The shadows stirred.
Shapes moved within the storm, shifting and unfurling like wraiths rising from the abyss. At first, they were mere blurs against the white—a trick of the eyes, a mirage cast by the endless frost. But then, the storm parted.
And I saw them.
Tall. Slender. Wrong.
Not men, but things that should not be.
They glided forward without a sound, their movements impossibly fluid, as if the ice itself carried them forward. Cloaked in the armour of frost and bone, they stood like spectres against the storm, their flesh pale as death, their forms wreathed in the cold that clung to them like living things.
Then, their eyes.
Twin points of frozen light, burning with an eerie, unnatural blue—not flame, but something colder than the grave, colder than death itself.
My blood turned to ice.
The White Walkers.
They were real and here.
Not stories. Not myths whispered in the halls of Winterfell. Not cautionary tales to frighten children. They stood before me, terrible and silent, their frozen breath curling in the frigid air.
And they were not alone.
Behind them, the ice shifted.
A great shudder ran through the earth.
At first, I thought it was the wind howling through the storm. But then I saw it—the snow moving, shifting, rising.
Hands.
Hundreds of them.
Fingers blackened with frost, skin stretched thin over bones that should not move, should not grasp, should not climb from the grave. Some hands were nothing more than skeletal remnants, the brittle bones cracking as they clawed their way free, snapping apart under the sheer force of unnatural movement. Others were bloated and split, the flesh peeling like frostbitten bark, revealing veins hardened to ice and flesh clinging to the bone in a way that should have been impossible.
The air turned putrid.
Not the smell of decay—no, it was worse. Decay belonged to the natural cycle of life and death. This was something unnatural—the stink of flesh frozen and thawed again and again, of bodies left too long in the frost, half-preserved, half-rotten. It was the scent of corruption buried beneath the ice, of something that should have returned to the earth but had been wrenched back into motion.
The first corpse lurched upright, its joints grinding against themselves, the frozen sinew in its neck cracking as it turned to face me. A long, slow, jerking motion, the kind that made my skin crawl—as though its body still resisted the force animating it. It stood, but its legs shook, buckling under the weight of a body long past ruin. A skeletal foot snapped at the ankle, but the thing did not fall—it dragged itself forward, its shattered bones scraping against the ice.
A chorus of grotesque popping sounds filled the air as more of them rose from the snow, their bodies stiff with rigor mortis, joints snapping free of their frozen prisons. The sound was wet and grinding, like ice cracking apart under pressure, mixed with the sickening squelch of flesh tearing as it moved in ways it was never meant to.
They were slow—at first.
But then the ice shifted.
Their heads snapped up in unison, their hollow eyes locking onto me.
And they began to move.
A sea of corpses, dragged from the ice, bound by a will not their own.
They twitched and jerked, limbs bending at unnatural angles, the sound of dry tendons snapping filling the air as they pushed forward. Some crawled on all fours, their fingers digging into the ice, dragging themselves forward with an inhuman desperation. Others moved like puppets with broken strings, their heads lolling, their jaws unhinged as if they had forgotten how to close their mouths.
And leading them—
A figure.
Taller than the rest.
A White Walker, its armour etched with ancient runes of ice, its long fingers curled around a blade white as milk. Its eyes burned the brightest of them all, twin stars of frozen flame.
It did not speak.
It only raised its sword.
And the dead began to march.
Terror coiled around my ribs like a living thing. The whispers slithered into my skull, the cold gnawed at my flesh, and the endless tide of the dead lurched forward—a sea of ice, bone, and rot, moving as one.
Every instinct screamed at me to run.
But I couldn't.
My breath was sharp, my pulse hammering against my throat, but my feet did not retreat. My body tensed—not with fear, but with something else. Something older.
A flicker of defiance.
I reached for my waist, fingers curling, expecting the familiar weight of Valryian steel. But there was nothing. My hip was bare, my hands empty. A Dagger should have been there. A weapon. A purpose.
I inhaled sharply, my hands curling into fists.
Then—the blaze.
The storm howled, and the world changed.
For a moment, I was no longer standing in the endless white void. The ice, the cold, the silence—it all vanished.
Instead, I saw flames.
Not the warm, golden kind that crackled in hearths, but the fire that burned against the dark, against the cold, against death itself.
Men screamed.
Figures moved through the smoke and snow—warriors, clad in furs and leather, their faces painted with blood and ash. They wielded weapons of crude obsidian and ancient bronze, their swords wreathed in flickering fire as they clashed against the unrelenting horde of the dead.
The First Men.
They fought, but they were losing.
A man swung his obsidian blade, striking a corpse through the ribs. The body shuddered—but it did not fall. The next moment, a White Walker stepped forward, its blade of frost cutting the warrior down in a single strike.
More screams.
A horn wailed through the air, deep and mournful—a call to retreat, a warning, a final cry before the darkness swallowed them whole.
And then, through the chaos—they came.
Not men.
Not warriors.
But shadows among the trees.
The Children of the Forest.
Small, but fast—too fast—darting between the snowdrifts, moving like ghosts. They raised their hands, and the trees came alive.
The earth shook.
Flames burst from the ground, taking the shapes of writhing vines and burning roots, wrapping around the dead and the Walkers alike, their blue-lit eyes vanishing beneath the fire. The Children hurled spheres of green flame that ignited on impact—dragonglass and wildfire intertwined.
This was not a skirmish.
This was a war.
The First Men, the Giants and the Children of the Forest—fighting together.
The first war against the White Walkers.
The first Long Night.
And the world was burning.
I should have been afraid.
The cold gnawed at my skin, the whispers slithered into my ears, and the shadows moved with the slow inevitability of death itself. Yet beneath the fear, beneath the sheer terror of standing before things that should not exist, something else stirred.
Recognition.
It made no sense. I had never been here before. And yet, I had.
Somewhere, in the marrow of my bones, in the depths of my blood, in the echoes of my soul—I had stood in this endless winter before.
A tremor ran down my spine, but not from the cold.
This wasn't just a dream.
It was something else.
I inhaled sharply, and the air felt wrong—too heavy, too thick as if I were breathing in the weight of centuries past. My fingers curled into fists, and beneath the leather of my gloves, my hands felt numb, not from the cold, but from something deeper, something hollowed out within me.
This was not the first time I had walked this frozen graveyard.
I did not know how I knew. I did not understand why.
But I felt it.
Like a whisper from a lifetime buried.
Like the ghost of a battle cry lodged in my throat, waiting to be screamed into the dark.
Like a memory, I could not remember.
I turned my gaze to the dead sky, and a flicker of something almost familiar passed over me—a feeling that I should know what lay beyond the void, what had been buried in the snow before the first kingdom rose before the first wall was built.
I had heard these whispers before.
I had seen these monsters before.
And the ice beneath my feet—it knew me.
A shiver crawled up my spine, but it was not from the biting wind. It was from something far worse.
The certainty that this had all happened before.
And the terrifying, unshakable feeling that it would happen again.
For the briefest moment, I was not watching from afar.
I was there.
The flames licked my skin. A sword lay in my grip. A voice called my name—
Then the cold took me again.
The vision shifted.
The battle faded into smoke, the flames dying, the world turning to ice once more.
And then, I saw it—
A fortress, engulfed in fire.
The walls crumbled.
Dark silhouettes ran through the burning gates, their swords raised in futile defiance. Screams rang out, lost in the crackling inferno. I saw warriors standing atop battlements, losing arrows into the storm—before something tore through them.
A great shadow fell across the flames.
Was it Winterfell?
The Nightfort?
Something older?
The land was swallowed by ice.
The flames flickered—then died.
And in their place, only the cold remained.
Then, the shadow moved.
I felt its presence before I saw it, an overwhelming force that crushed the air from my lungs.
It loomed over me, vast and unknowable, its very existence sending a shudder through the ground beneath my feet. I tried to move—to run—but my legs would not obey.
Then, it spoke.
Whispers, cold and distant, curling through my ears like the wind howling through a frozen graveyard.
I did not understand the words.
I could feel them seeping into my bones.
I tried to scream.
The march of the dead filled the world, an endless tide of ice and rot, moving as one.
Then—silence.
A single breath.
And the world burned.
A flash of red.
The darkness broke—shattered like glass.
And I saw him.
A man stood at the edge of the abyss.
Alone.
His armour was black as midnight, worn and battle-scarred, reflecting the dying light of the flames. His hair, once silver, was darkened with soot and blood. And in his hands—
A sword.
It burned.
A great blade of fire, seared against the darkness, cutting through the cold with every flicker of its flame.
He stood alone against the endless tide, the last light in a world drowning in shadow.
And something in my body moved.
A step forward—small, instinctive. My legs knew before my mind did.
Go to him. Stand with him.
But the ice had other plans.
The ground cracked. My foot lifted—only an inch—but something seized me.
The cold latched onto my bones, an invisible force wrapping around my limbs like frozen chains.
It did not just freeze me. It held me. It refused to let go.
I tried to move, to push forward. My muscles burned, my lungs ached, and my fingers twitched toward something that wasn't there. But the cold did not just surround me. It bound me. It swallowed me. It had always been waiting.
He raised his sword.
And spoke a name.
"Zq'Xhaûl-Θryz'Khaõrn..."
The name echoed through the storm.
It burned like fire against ice, a word whole of power—of war, duty, and loss.
I had heard it before. I was sure of it.
But as soon as it touched my ears, it was gone.
Swallowed by the cold. Erased from my mind.
The shadow surged forward.
I clenched my jaw, forcing down the shudder that crawled up my spine. My muscles burned with the need to do something—anything. To fight. To run. To scream.
But I could do none of those things.
The ice would not let me go.
The ice shattered beneath me, and the world spun—
And I fell.
Plunging into the dark, drowning in the cold, the eyes never leaving mine.
And the last thing I saw—
Were eyes.
Frozen blue stars, staring into my soul.
.
.
--
.
.
Aemon jerked awake, his eyes flying open. His breath tore from his throat, sharp and ragged—but for a moment, he couldn't move, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, as though his body had forgotten how to breathe.
His heart pounded so hard, hammering so violently against his ribs that, for a fleeting moment, it felt like something else had been beating inside his chest—something colder, something ancient.
His body was slick with sweat, the linen sheets damp beneath him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. But despite the heat rolling off him, the cold did not leave him.
His limbs felt weighted, frozen stiff as if the ice still bound him. His fingers twitched, but the cold still clung to them, slow and suffocating.
The cold was still there.
Not in the air, but inside him.
Not the cold of Dragonstone's sea winds. Not the damp chill of a storm rolling across Blackwater Bay.
Something deeper. Something that did not belong to this world.
As his breath steadied, the silence returned.
Almost.
Just as he wrenched himself from the nightmare—just as he woke—
A whisper curled through the darkness.
"Kostilus… ñuha āeksio…"
Aemon's breath hitched. His body locked still.
The words should have faded into nothing.
But they didn't.
They waited.
And for just a moment—just a flicker of a heartbeat—
It felt like something was in the room with him.
The words clung to him, fading into silence.
He pressed a trembling hand to his chest. His heart still thundered against his ribs.
It was just a dream.
He repeated it to himself. Once. Twice. But it was a lie.
His breath misted in the air.
Aemon froze.
The chamber was warm—it should not be cold enough for that.
Yet, as he exhaled, the faint curl of frost hung before his eyes, dissipating only a second later.
His fingers ached as if they had truly been frozen. He flexed them instinctively, but they moved slowly, stiffly, the phantom pain lingering beneath the surface like an old wound. He swallowed, then reached for his arms, pressing his hands against them.
Cold.
Still too cold.
He rubbed his arms, his skin still cold—too cold.
His body should have been warming by now.
The ice didn't want to leave.
The whisper of a shudder raked through him, but he forced it down. Forced himself to move.
His hands trembled slightly as he wiped the sweat from his brow, pushing damp strands of silver hair away from his face. The motion felt sluggish like his body was only now thawing after being trapped in ice.
It was not real.
The words tried to root themselves in his mind, but they did not hold.
It felt real.
The ice beneath his feet. The weight of the cold pressed into his bones. The whispering voices, calling for someone else.
The march of the dead.
Aemon clenched his jaw, swallowing down the shudder that threatened to rise.
The chamber was still, yet the lingering sensation of the frozen wasteland did not leave him.
Beyond the window, he could hear the distant crash of waves against Dragonstone's cliffs, the roar of the sea restless beneath the castle walls. The wind carried the scent of salt and stone, the familiar tang of the island fortress.
He was here. He was safe.
And yet—it still felt like the ice was inside him.
The world should be at peace.
But his body did not feel peace.
It felt as if he had been touched by something beyond this world.
His gaze flickered to the window, where the moon hung high over the restless waters, spilling pale silver light into his chamber. The flickering glow of a candle burned beside his bed, casting shadows against the walls, but it did not chase away the cold.
Aemon reached out, letting his fingers hover just over the flame. Feeling the warmth.
Proving to himself that it was real.
He took a slow breath, filling his lungs. His chest still ached, but at least the air no longer burned.
But no matter how deep he inhaled—the vision did not leave him.
His mind still saw the ice. The endless march of the dead. The blazing sword. The shadow looming behind the storm.
A warning.
Not a dream. A warning.
His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms.
He had always known this world was dangerous.
He had been raised on tales of war and conquest, of men fighting for crowns and thrones, of rebellions and betrayals.
But this—this was different.
He took a slow, shuddering breath, exhaling through clenched teeth.
Was this the fate that awaited Westeros?
The North had legends. The Night's Watch spoke of shadows beyond the Wall, of things that lurked in the darkness of the Frostfangs. The Starks carried the words "Winter is Coming" like a silent promise.
Had they always known?
Had they always feared this?
And if they had—why did no one else?
The White Walkers.
Aemon pressed his palms against his knees, trying to ground himself. He could still hear the whispers in his mind, even though they had faded.
The White Walkers.
No one believes in them anymore.
That terrified him more than the vision itself.
Because he knew.
He had seen.
The world would not be ready.
Not the lords, too busy squabbling over petty wars.
Not the kings, blind behind their golden crowns.
Not even the Targaryens—
With all their fire. With all their dragons—understood what was coming.
They were not ready.
But he was.
He pressed his hands against the stone floor, his fingers curling against the cool surface, feeling its rough edges.
He was a child, but he would not always be.
One day, he would grow.
One day, he would be strong.
Would he be ready?
Aemon glanced back at the candle, watching the flame flicker and dance, its light fighting the shadows that stretched across the walls.
It was small.
Fragile.
And yet—it burned.
He exhaled sharply, forcing his hands to still.
It did not matter if he was ready or not.
One day, the dead would come.
And when they did—
He would be waiting.