298 AC The Wall
Jon Snow—no, Aenar Targaryen—rode south from Castle Black with the wind howling at his back like a direwolf's lament. Flanking him were a handful of steadfast Black Brothers: Grenn, Pyp, and Samwell Tarly, released from their vows by the Old Bear's reluctant decree to serve as the new king's personal guard. "The realm needs you more than the Wall does now, lad," Mormont had grumbled, pressing Longclaw back into Jon's hands. But it was Maester Aemon who had given the greatest gifts in the dim library before dawn.
The old maester, his Targaryen blood a secret no longer shared only with kin, had led Jon to a hidden alcove behind crumbling tomes. "These are yours by right, nephew," Aemon whispered, his voice like rustling parchment. From a locked chest, he drew forth Dark Sister—the slender Valyrian steel blade of Visenya Targaryen, its hilt wrought with dragon scales, rippling with that eerie, smoky gleam. "Wield her with the fire of our house." Jon buckled it to his belt opposite Longclaw, the weight of two legends pulling at him.
Then, with trembling hands, Aemon placed a heavy, petrified object into Jon's palms: a dragon egg, scaled in obsidian black veined with crimson, warm to the touch as if a heartbeat pulsed within. "From the last clutch sliver Wing before the fall it was mine. Hatch it if the gods will it—fire and blood may yet return." Jon cradled it like a fragile dream, tucking it into his saddlebag as they departed, Ghost loping ahead, white fur stark against the snow.
The journey south was swift and shadowed by ravens bearing the king's decree. Whispers of the "Bastard King" or "Dragonwolf" raced ahead, but Jon rode with quiet resolve, his black cloak traded for one edged in Targaryen red and black.
Winterfell
The ancient seat of House Stark loomed under gray skies as Jon's party approached, the hot springs steaming like dragon breath. Atop the battlements, two banners flew side by side: the snarling direwolf of Stark, gray on white, and the three-headed dragon of Targaryen, black on red—united for the first time since the Conquest. Robb Stark stood at the gates, armored in mail with Ice strapped across his back, his auburn hair tousled by the wind. Grey Wind growled low at Ghost's approach, but the wolves circled each other in wary kinship.
"Jon," Robb said, his voice thick with emotion as Jon dismounted. The brothers—cousins now—clasped arms, the truth of blood hanging between them like a shared secret. "Or should I say, Aenar? Father's raven arrived yesterday. The North knows."
Jon nodded, his gray eyes meeting Robb's Tully blue. "I'm still Jon to you, Robb. But the realm calls me otherwise."
Before the assembled lords—Greatjon Umber bellowing approval, Roose Bolton watching with pale, calculating eyes, Karstarks and Manderlys murmuring—Robb dropped to one knee in the mud, his bannermen following suit like falling dominos. "The North bends the knee to Aenar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Long may he reign!"
The cry echoed through Winterfell's halls: "The King in the North! The Dragon King!" Jon raised them up, his voice steady. "Rise, lords. We ride for King's Landing—not as conquerors, but to claim what's right. The Lannisters will answer for their treachery."
As the Northern host mustered—five thousand strong, axes and longswords gleaming—Jon shared a quiet moment with Robb in the godswood. "Uncle Ned—Father—sits the throne as regent. But war brews. Stannis claims his right, and the lions roar."
Robb grinned fiercely. "Then we'll remind them why the North remembers."
Cersei POV red keep
In the shadowed bowels of the Red Keep, far from Northern banners, Cersei Lannister moved like a lioness in the night. Robert's body wasn't yet cold in the sept when the decree arrived, sealing her children's doom. "Bastards," she hissed, crumpling the parchment. Jaime stood beside her, golden armor discarded for hooded cloaks, his face a mask of grim determination.
"We ride for Casterly Rock," Jaime said, ushering Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen—wide-eyed and confused—through secret passages Maegor had built for just such escapes. "Tywin will rally the West. This Targaryen upstart won't sit on the throne long."
Cersei clutched Tommen's hand, her green eyes blazing. "They'll pay for this humiliation. All of them—Starks, Baratheons, and this dragon whelp." Under the cover of darkness, they slipped from the city on swift horses, bound for the Westerlands, where lions sharpened their claws for vengeance.
King's Landing *Jon POV*
The gates of King's Landing groaned open under a stormy sky as Aenar's host arrived—Northern wolves marching beside rivermen and valemen summoned by Ned's call. The Targaryen banner flew high over the column, direwolves howling in answer. The smallfolk lined the streets, murmuring in awe and fear: "A Targaryen returns? With Starks at his side?"
At the Red Keep's steps, Eddard Stark waited, leaning on a cane, his face lined with exhaustion from wounds and worries. The Hand's chain hung heavy on his shoulders, but his eyes lit with quiet pride as Jon dismounted.
"Nephew," Ned said tiredly, embracing him. "You've come far from the Wall. The throne is yours—may the gods help you hold it."
Jon—Aenar—nodded, Dark Sister at his hip, the dragon egg's warmth a secret promise. "Uncle. Let's end the lies and build something true." As he ascended to the Iron Throne, the realm held its breath, the game of thrones turning once more.
Jon sat as Faith brought out the conquer crown in the name of the seven by orders of his Grace Robert Baratheon, he named Aenar Targaryen king of the andals and the rhoynar and the first men. The public coronation will be in a few weeks to give Time to the Lord's to come in and swear.