Hello DEARIES,well it's a special chapter,
End of volume 1.
Well and let's welcome some one 😊.
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Why did he keep having these dreams?
That question followed Jon Snow every time he woke in the dead of night, sweat clinging to his skin, heart racing as though he had run for miles.
At first, he dismissed them as nothing more than fragments of imagination, shadows of thought with no meaning behind them.
After all dreams were just dreams.
But these were different, they felt quite real.
In them, he walked through places that made no sense. Towering structures of glass and stone that would dwarf Winterfell until it looked like a child's toy.
Lights that burned without flame. Metal beasts that flew through the sky. Voices that came from thin air.
Every time he woke, the images lingered, sharp and stubborn, refusing to fade.
And always...always ,the dreams pulled him toward the same place.
The godswood.
Jon moved through the corridors of Winterfell with practiced ease, his boots echoing softly against cold stone. Unlike his dreams, the castle was alive tonight.
Guards stood watch, Servants passed him without a word. Torches flickered, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted along the walls.
When he stepped into the courtyard, the wind cut through him, sharp and cold.
He pulled his cloak tighter, eyes lifting toward the moon hanging pale and distant above.
Something tugged at him, urging him forward, toward the place his dreams demanded he go.
The gates to the crypts loomed ahead.
Jon stopped before them, drawing in a slow breath. The dead did not want him here,he had always known that. He was no Stark. Just a bastard, born of sin and whispered shame, with no place among their honored bones.
That, more than anything, was why he descended.
He didn't give a damn what the dead wanted.
Jon took the torch from its bracket and shoved open the heavy door. Darkness swallowed the stairs below.
The torches lining the descent had long gone out, abandoned and forgotten. He lit them one by one as he descended, careful with each step, ensuring the way back would remain open.
When the last torch flared to life, the crypts revealed themselves.
Rows of stone tombs stretched into the darkness, silent and imposing. The air was thick, heavy, different, like the godswood above, where the world seemed to watch and listen. This was the resting place of House Stark, generation upon generation of lords and kings who had ruled the North.
The first tombs belonged to the most recent dead.
Rickard Stark, his grandfather Or what remained of him. Ashes, if the Targaryens had been merciful enough to return them. Jon wondered, not for the first time, whether Brandon Stark's body had been returned at all, He had never asked his father as Some questions were better left unspoken.
Next was Brandon Stark, the eldest son. Strangled by his own folly, some said. Burned by the Mad King's cruelty, others whispered. Jon stared at the stone face for a long moment before moving on.
Then came Lyanna Stark, Jon paused.
He lit the candle beside her statue, just as his father always did. He wasn't sure why he bothered, habit, perhaps Or something deeper he couldn't name.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Lyanna," Jon murmured. "I didn't bring a rose."The words slipped from him unbidden. He remembered his father once bringing a blue rose when he was a child, though Jon could not recall why that memory felt so important.
Beyond her lay the empty tombs, one for each Stark child,One for Catelyn Stark and
none for him.
Jon felt a flicker of relief at that. He did not want to spend eternity here, surrounded by dead men who would never accept him.
He ignored the lower generations and continued downward, deeper into the earth, where the ancient Kings of Winter rested.
The scale of the crypts still amazed him. Brandon the Builder, eight thousand years ago, how had he done it? The stories spoke of magic, of giants, of impossible feats, Of hidden chambers and lost treasures, Of dragon eggs laid deep within the stone by Vermax himself.
Stories, Always just stories , and yet, something about this place made Jon uneasy.
When he reached the tombs of the Winter Kings, the anger hit him like a wave.
The first statue he saw was Torrhen Stark.
The King Who Knelt.
Jon's jaw tightened. Torrhen had saved the North. He had chosen survival over pride, lives over ashes. And yet history only remembered him as a coward. The Northmen despised him for it, even centuries later, Stupid all of them.
In his dreams, Torrhen was always the first. The first to glare at him with hatred. The first to draw steel. The first to chase him as though Jon were some ancient enemy returned to mock him.
"What did I do to earn your hatred?" Jon asked aloud, his voice echoing through the crypts.
The stone king did not answer.
"It was stupid to come down here," Jon growled, turning away.
Then pain exploded inside his skull.
Jon gasped, stumbling back as though struck. The world lurched violently and his limbs refused to move.
The torch slipped from his fingers and clattered uselessly against the stone.
His vision fractured.
Images....memories....not his.... slammed into him.
A different world, a different body and a life filled with noise, color, speed. Knowledge he had never learned, thoughts he had never thought, Regret, Humor.
A name that wasn't Jon Snow.
The pain was unbearable.
Darkness claimed him.
When Jon Snow opened his eyes, the first thing he thought was:
"…Oh, Fuck .... Isekai."
Authors Note:-
Well my sexy readers, that's the wrap to volume 1.
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