The old fisherman's cottage was a squat, salt-stained thing, huddled against the wind on Dragonstone's rocky shore. Jon ducked inside, blinking in the sudden gloom.
The walls were hung with nets and drying fish; the air was thick with brine and woodsmoke.
The old man—who introduced himself as Corwyn—set a battered kettle on the fire.
"You'll want to clean up," he said, eyeing Jon's ragged furs and the sword strapped across his back.
"Folk here are used to strange things, but not to wild men wandering in from the sea."
Jon nodded, still dazed.
He caught his reflection in a polished bit of metal above the hearth. The face that stared back was his, yet not. His hair, once dark as a raven's wing, now shimmered silver in the firelight.
His eyes—always grey—seemed to glow with a pale, violet cast. He looked every inch the Targaryen he'd always denied.
He touched his face, half-expecting it to vanish like a dream. But it was real. He was real. And Longclaw—his sword—was real, too, its wolf's-head pommel a reminder of another life.
Corwyn watched him with a fisherman's patience.
"You from Driftmark, then? Or one of the Queen's kin? You've got the look."
Jon hesitated. "Something like that," he said quietly.
Corwyn grunted, accepting the half-truth. "Well, whoever you are, you're welcome to a bed and a meal. Times are strange, and strangers stranger still. But a man in need is a man in need."
Jon nodded, grateful. He ate in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of the sea. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "What year is it?"
Corwyn gave him a sidelong look. "You hit your head, boy? It's 126 AC. Queen Rhaenyra's on Dragonstone, and the greens are gathering in
King's Landing. When the king dies War's coming, mark my words."
Jon's mind reeled. The Dance of the Dragons. He remembered old tales—of brothers and sisters tearing the realm apart, of dragons dying in flame and fury. He remembered, too, the warnings: "When dragons fight, men die."
He finished his meal, then excused himself to walk the cliffs. The wind was sharp, the sky streaked with sunset. Above, Vermithor soared, a living shadow against the dying light.
Jon drew Longclaw, the blade catching the last rays of sun. He turned it in his hands, feeling the weight of it—the weight of memory, of duty, of destiny.
He was no longer a ghost in the snow.
He was fire and blood, wolf and dragon, past and future.
He was Jon Snow—no, not Snow. Not here. Not now.
He was Aegon Targaryen, last son of Rhaegar, heir to a legacy he'd never wanted. but instead of aegon he decided to go with Aemon here
Not sorrow. Not regret.
Hope. He sheathed Longclaw after cleaning it and looked to the castle where the banners snapped in the wind.
I guess I have to choose a side in the wars to come but who