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GOT: Shadow Monarch

Rambo_Tara
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Synopsis
In a North colder and crueler than the one of memory, Jon Snow is a stain, a bastard hated by the Lady of Winterfell. Her relentless campaign of isolation and abuse drives the six-year-old boy to a desperate act in the Godswood. ​But death is not the end. Sacrificed by an ancient power, Jon is reborn, gifted with the forbidden abilities of the Shadow Monarch Disclaimer: This fanfiction is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. I do not own anv of the characters, settings, or concepts from "Game of Thrones: House of the Dragon" "Game of Thrones Universe" or "ASOIAF Universe." and "Solo leveling universe" All rights belong to their respective creators, patent owners, and companies. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit is being made from this work
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Chapter 1 - Prologue Part 1

The Three-Eyed Raven - 283 AC, Somewhere Beyond the Wall

His existence was a thing ancient beyond the count of years. His own name, the one he had worn as a man, had long since crumbled into dust, forgotten even by him. He was the greenseer, the last one, his consciousness a single, flickering candle in the vast, windy dark of time. His throne was not of iron or gold, but of living wood. The pale, blood-red roots of the great weirwood had embraced him centuries ago, growing through his thin robes and into his flesh, wedding him to the heart of the world. His blood was now sap, his thoughts the slow, patient rustle of a billion leaves. He had not walked as a man in ages, but in his mind, he had lived a thousand lives.

He had watched the birth of mountains and the death of stars. He had seen the Children of the Forest dance in groves that were now dust, and had felt the earth tremble as the First Men came from the east with their bronze swords and their loud, short lives. He had witnessed the Doom of Valyria, not as a story, but as a scream of fire and shadow that had echoed across the world, a wound in time that still bled.

For generations, he had been the world's memory, a silent guardian against the two great, grinding inevitabilities: ice and fire. He had watched the Targaryen kings rise with their dragons, a storm of flame and ambition that promised a new age but so often delivered only a brighter, hotter ruin. Fire was a chaotic, consuming thing. It knew conquest, but not patience. It could break chains, but not build foundations. It was a weapon, not a solution.

And he had seen the other side. The creeping, silent cold from the Lands of Always Winter. The Great Other, with its armies of the dead and its promise of a perfect, silent, eternal peace. Ice was a sterile, final thing. It offered only an end to the game, not a victory.

Both were a path to ruin. Both had been tried, and both had failed. The world needed a third way. A new player.

And so he had watched, and he had waited, sifting through the tangled threads of what was, what is, and what could yet be. He searched for a convergence, a perfect, impossible moment where the disparate streams of human history could be forged into a single, tempered weapon.

And now, he had found it.

He let his mind drift south, past the Wall, past the Neck, down into the sun-scorched deserts of Dorne. He saw a lonely tower, a place given a name of joy that was now a vessel for profound sorrow. Inside, in a chamber of fever and sorrow, a she-wolf of the North, fierce and beautiful, was on her deathbed. But she had already brought forth a new life. A boy.

He was the one. The vessel. The greenseer could see the threads of his blood, a tapestry woven from the three great histories of Man. The blood of the First Men, ancient and strong, flowed in his Stark veins, the blood of the earth itself, the key to the old magic that allowed a man's soul to inhabit a beast or a tree. This was the vessel, deep-rooted and enduring. The blood of the Andals, the conquerors, was there too, a legacy of queens and kings that lent the will to shape the world of men. This was the mind. And finally, the blood of Old Valyria, the fire and the shadow, the magic of the dragonlords, was the soul—a tempestuous, terrifying power, the spark of a god in the flesh of a man.

First Men, Andal, and Valyrian. All three, united in one child. The perfect crucible.

He saw deeper into the boy's future. He saw no battle at the foot of that lonely tower, but a standoff of honor that would give way to the birth of a great and necessary lie. A promise, made in a room of blood and roses, would shield the boy, allowing him to grow in the one place the world would never think to look for a dragon: the heart of the winter snows. Because this path was set, he understood his own was at an end. The coming darkness would be absolute. Ice would not be enough. Fire would not be enough. Only a power that could master the finality of death itself, a shadow that could swallow the cold and the flame, would suffice. But such a power did not exist. It had to be forged. And every forging requires a sacrifice. The heart of a star to make a magic sword. The heart of a greenseer to make a monarch.

He gathered his consciousness, pulling it back from the million threads of time into the single, ancient root of his being. He felt the life of the weirwood, the slow, steady pulse of the world, a power he had guarded for generations. His watch was over. He was no longer the shield. He would not simply guard this power. He would surrender it, becoming the offering itself. The heart.

And as his ancient consciousness dissolved into a final, silent offering, a wave of profound, raw magic washed out from the lands beyond the Wall, unseen and unfelt by the world of men. It was a power without a master, a crown without a king. It drifted south on the currents of time, a patient, searching shadow, seeking the infant soul for which it had been forged.