Jon woke with the sound of thunder in his ears, but there was no storm. The air was still, cold, and oppressive, like a weight pressing down on his chest. His breathing was shallow, ragged, as if something was clawing at him from the inside. He had been having dreams—haunting dreams for weeks now—that were growing more vivid, more real. He saw himself standing in the middle of a burning castle, the faces of his parents staring at him, blurred by flames.
He had never seen their faces clearly—he had been a child when they died—but the dreams were unrelenting. They whispered to him, calling him by a name he hadn't heard in years: Aegon.
Aegon Targaryen.
It had been a secret buried deep within him, a truth he had never known to seek. But now, it made sense. Everything. The deep, ancient hunger for power that burned in his veins. The longing for something greater than this life of shadow and violence. The blood of dragons ran through him. He was not Jon Snow, the bastard raised in Winterfell; he was Aegon Targaryen, the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.
The dreams tormented him. They didn't give him peace—they only left him with questions. His father's face, unmarked by time, came to him in these visions, eyes filled with sorrow, yet love. But Ned Stark was not his father. He was his protector. He had raised Jon—Aegon—as his son, keeping the truth hidden from him, protecting him from the dangers that came with his bloodline.
That night, Jon could no longer sleep. He sat in the dark, hands shaking as his heart raced with the fear and uncertainty that haunted his soul. It was time. He had to know the truth.
Jon made his way to Winterfell, but not as the son of a bastard, not as Jon Snow. He was Ghost now, an assassin of unparalleled skill. He was Aegon Targaryen—the last true heir to the throne. He couldn't ignore the truth any longer. The haunting dreams had driven him to this moment. He needed answers.
The snow crunched beneath his boots as he arrived at the gates of Winterfell. The walls, once a comforting sight, now seemed like the cold, lifeless barriers that had kept him locked in a cage for so long. He walked through the courtyard with a purpose, ignoring the guards who didn't recognize him. They had no idea who he was.
When he reached the great hall, he found Ned Stark sitting by the hearth, alone, lost in his thoughts. Jon stood in the doorway for a moment, staring at the man who had raised him, the man who had kept the secret of his true lineage for so long.
"Ned," Jon's voice was low, but it carried the weight of years of unanswered questions.
Ned turned, his face softening when he saw Jon standing there. "Jon…" he whispered, as if seeing a ghost. There was something in his eyes—regret, sorrow—and Jon could see it now, clearer than ever.
"You knew, didn't you?" Jon's voice was rough with emotion. "You knew who I really was. Why didn't you tell me?" His chest felt tight, as though a thousand emotions were rising in him at once—anger, betrayal, confusion. "Why did I have to live this lie? Why did I have to be a bastard? Why did I have to endure your wife's hatred?"
Ned looked away, his eyes shadowed with the weight of years-old guilt. "I made a promise to your mother, Jon. To Lyanna." He stood and took a step toward Jon, his voice softening. "She made me swear that I would keep you safe, that you would be hidden from Robert Baratheon's wrath. I couldn't risk the truth coming out. I couldn't risk your life."
Jon's anger flared, but something deeper—something older—began to settle in him. A recognition of the sacrifice, the love, that had driven Ned to raise him as his own. But that didn't change the pain Jon had lived with for so long.
"I was never yours," Jon spat, the words bitter in his mouth. "You never treated me as your son."
"I treated you as my son," Ned said, his voice rough, "but I could never tell you who you truly were. I didn't want you to be hunted."
Jon's vision blurred with rage, his fists clenching. "You could have trusted me. I could have protected myself."
But Ned's gaze remained steady, filled with sadness. "I'm sorry, Jon. You were safer this way."
Jon was done with apologies. He turned on his heel and walked out of Winterfell without another word. He had no place here. Not as Jon Snow. Not as Aegon Targaryen. He was no one now.
The journey back to the Faceless Assassins' base was long, but Jon knew what he had to do. He had learned all he could from the order. It was time to take what was his by birthright.
But as he stood before his master, Jaqen H'ghar, a realization struck him like a fist to the gut. He couldn't just leave. The Faceless had given him power, a new identity. He was part of them now. And leaving the order would mean death.
"I cannot just walk away from this," Jon said, his voice tight with emotion. "I can't go back to being no one."
Jaqen's face was unreadable, his expression a mask of indifference. "The price for your freedom is your life, Ghost."
Jon didn't flinch. His heart raced, but his resolve was iron. "Then I'll fight for it."
In an instant, dozens of assassins emerged from the shadows, their daggers drawn, their faces blank. They moved as one, circling Jon like wolves closing in on prey. But Jon was more than a man now. The Witcher potion had turned him into a monster—strong, fast, unrelenting.
He drew his sword, the steel flashing in the dim light. The first assassin came at him, a dagger aimed for his throat. Jon twisted, dodging the strike with supernatural speed, and with one swift motion, he cut the assassin down. Blood splattered across the stone floor, staining it crimson. The others hesitated, but only for a moment.
The next few minutes were a blur of blood, steel, and death. Jon fought like an animal, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. His blade tore through flesh, slicing through necks and ribs with ease. The air was thick with the stench of blood, the screams of the dying, and the metallic taste of death. His enemies fell one by one, their bodies crumpling to the ground in pools of red.
Jon's senses were heightened, his movements faster than humanly possible. With each strike, his body seemed to heal itself, the wounds closing before they could take hold. His heart pounded in his chest, and his fury only grew. He was Aegon Targaryen. He was a king, and this was his birthright—to kill, to take what was his.
Finally, it was just Jon and Jaqen H'ghar left. The master assassin stared at him with cold, calculating eyes, his expression unchanged.
"You were never meant to leave, Aegon," Jaqen said quietly, his voice a whisper in the chaos.
Jon's eyes blazed with fire as he stepped forward, his sword raised. "You trained me to be nothing. But I am everything. And this ends now."
The duel was swift and brutal. Jaqen was a master of his craft, but Jon was no longer the boy he had once been. With each strike, Jon's rage burned hotter, his fury growing as Jaqen's movements slowed. In a final, desperate attempt, Jaqen lunged at Jon, but Jon was faster. With a brutal slash, he drove his sword through his former mentor's chest, ending the fight in a spray of blood.
Jaqen H'ghar crumpled to the floor, his blood pooling around him. Jon stood over him, panting, blood dripping from his blade.
He had killed his past. He had killed the man who had shaped him into an assassin.
And now, he was free. But in that freedom, Jon Snow—Aegon Targaryen—understood one thing.
The game had only just begun.