Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Gods of Ash and Fire
Snow fell thick and slow, blanketing the endless white beyond the shattered ruins of an old watchtower. Jon Snow sat alone beside a smoldering fire, its embers barely clinging to life. His once-black cloak hung in tatters from his shoulders, faded and frayed from years beyond the Wall. His face was lined with age, his eyes dulled, and Ghost—his last companion—lay buried in the frozen earth behind him.
He had long since ceased to speak. The others had moved on—some back to the south, others dead. Bran ruled a broken realm. Arya sailed west. Sansa wore her crown in the North. And he… he had been cast away, forgotten like a ghost of the wars that once raged.
Tonight, he whispered to the wind, his voice hoarse, “Why did you bring me back?”
The fire answered.
It roared to life—blue, black, gold, and red—twisting unnaturally in serpentine coils. The cold retreated. Shadows danced along the stone, but they were not his.
From the flame, two monstrous shapes emerged—not with bodies, but with presence. Vast and ancient. One was massive, greater than any living beast Jon had ever known, its form cloaked in black smoke and a single burning eye like a sun. The other was long and sinewy, her flames more golden than red, wings stretching from one edge of his vision to the other.
They were dragons. No—they were more than dragons.
“Do you know us, boy?” said the deep, growling voice of the first.
Jon stood, awestruck. “I… I think so.”
“Say it.”
His lips trembled. “You are the gods of Valyria.”
The flames rippled as the beast acknowledged the truth.
"I am Balerion, God of Death, of Transformation & Afterlife, Ruler of the Underworld, brother-husband to Onixa:.
“And I am Vhagar Goddess of War, of Wrath & Destruction, Embodies Strength & Protection, daughter of Arrax & Aegarax,” said the second voice—female, regal, cruel and wise all at once.
Jon staggered back a step. “I don’t… understand. I don’t worship you.”
“No one does,” Vhagar hissed.
“That is the problem,” Balerion thundered.
“We were worshiped in Valyria, when the world still knew what power meant,” Vhagar continued. “But when Valyria fell, so too did our temples. Our names were silenced. Men turned to new gods—weak gods. The Seven. The Red. The Drowned.”
“False gods,” Balerion spat, the fire turning black for a moment.
Jon narrowed his eyes. “You want me to bring back your faith.”
“More than that,” Vhagar said. “We want you to burn away what replaced us.”
A new vision erupted in the flames. The Sept of Baelor. The Starry Sept in Oldtown. Septons blessing kings, anointing knights, condemning dragons as demons.
“The Faith of the Seven has poisoned Westeros for centuries,” Balerion growled. “They fear dragons. Fear fire. Fear Valyria. They clipped the wings of House Targaryen and made them kneel.”
“The Faith ended our rule before swords ever did,” Vhagar said, bitterly. “They called us abominations, heresies, monsters. And the dragons died.”
Jon’s fists clenched. “And you want me to destroy the Faith?”
“Yes,” they said as one.
“And raise something greater in its place,” Balerion said. “A new empire. A Valyrian rebirth. Fire made flesh. Blood made royalty.”
Jon stepped away from the fire. “Why me?”
Vhagar’s voice grew soft, and cruel. “Because no one else remembers the truth. You carry the blood. You rode a dragon. You killed a queen to save a world. You are the song of Ice and Fire, the prince who was promised. and we will not see that wasted.”
“You must go back,” Balerion said.
“Back?”
“To a time before the dragons fell. To a queen who seeks a king.”
The flames showed a woman with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, proud and angry—Rhaenyra Targaryen.
“You will marry her,” Vhagar said. “And guide her to victory in the coming war.”
Jon’s voice cracked. “Why would I do this? I’m no king. I want no crown.”
“It is not about what you want,” Balerion growled. “It is about what must be done. The Great Other is gaining his strength once again. He looks to destroy all of humanity. If Westeros is strong—united, reborn in dragonflame—it may survive. And your family, your house, may yet live through it.”
Jon was silent, staring into the fire. Visions swirled again—the Long Night. The Wall falling. Bran alone in the Red Keep. Arya’s ship broken in the waves. Sansa on her knees before the new Night King. And then—light. Dragon banners over the walls of Oldtown. The Sept burning. The world bending to the roar of dragons once again.
“Am I to rule?”
“Rhaenyra will be Queen; you are to make sure she sits on the Iron throne and support her.” Vhagar said. “You are to be her sword, to conquer in her name. But Valyrian faith must be reborn. The world must kneel to Valyria once more.”
Jon’s breath caught. “And if I fail?”
“Then all falls with you.”
A moment passed.
Then he nodded. “So be it.”
Balerion’s voice echoed with finality. “Then let fire remake the past. After you arrive, we will give a vision to Rhaenyra about who you are and your purpose so that she may help you."
Jon slowly breathed and nodded.
Then...
The world ignited. Pain like birth, or death, engulfed him.
He awoke in green.
He was lying on soft earth, beneath white weirwood branches. The godswood.
But it was not cold. The air was warm. Flowers bloomed. The great red keep towered beyond the trees—whole and proud.
And standing above him, clad in black and red velvet, eyes wide with suspicion and curiosity, was the woman from the flame.
Rhaenyra Targaryen.
Two knights flanked her, hands on hilts.
Jon tried to rise. His mouth opened. No words came.
Then darkness took him.