Game of Thrones:Dawn of Ice and Fire.

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Chapter Seven: Truths Beneath the Heart Tree

Jon awoke to darkness.

The air was thick and damp, carrying the earthy scent of ancient stone and tangled roots. Faint whispers echoed through the cavern, as if the walls themselves carried the voices of the past.

A pale glow illuminated the space, emanating from veins of crystal embedded in the walls. Twisting roots hung from the ceiling, wrapping around jagged rocks and disappearing into the shadows. At the center of the cavern stood a massive weirwood tree, its bark white as bone, with blood-red leaves that rustled without wind.

Jon blinked, disoriented.

This must be a dream, he thought, yet he could still feel the faint weight of his unconscious body lying on the cold earth in the godswood.

The sensation was strange—existing in two places at once, neither fully real nor entirely imagined.

"You've come," a voice rasped, ancient and hollow.

Jon spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for the bow that was no longer with him. A figure emerged from the shadows, seated on a throne of twisted roots that grew from the base of the great weirwood tree.

The man—or creature—was impossibly old. His skin was pale and stretched taut over his bones, merging with the roots that cradled him. One eye was clouded and blind, but the other gleamed like a shard of ice, sharp and knowing.

"Who are you?" Jon demanded, his voice steady despite the unease twisting in his gut. "Why am I here?"

The figure tilted his head, a faint smile curving his cracked lips. "Who I am does not matter. What matters is who you are."

Jon frowned. "I'm Jon Snow."

The ancient figure's smile widened. "Are you?"

Before Jon could respond, the cavern shifted. The roots trembled, and the air thickened with an unseen force. Images flickered before Jon's eyes, shimmering like reflections on water.

He saw a green island shrouded in mist—the Isle of Faces. Beneath the towering weirwoods, a man and a woman stood hand in hand. The man was tall and regal, his silver hair gleaming like moonlight. The woman was fierce and beautiful, with raven-black hair and Stark grey eyes.

Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen.

Their voices were faint, carried by the wind, but Jon could feel the weight of their vows as they were wed beneath the ancient trees.

The scene shifted.

A darkened chamber bathed in shadows. Lyanna lay pale and weak on a blood-stained bed, her breath shallow. Ned Stark knelt beside her, his face etched with grief.

"His name is Daeron," she whispered, her voice faltering. "Daeron Targaryen… protect him, Ned… promise me."

Her last breath escaped her lips as Ned cradled the crying infant—Jon—against his chest.

Jon's heart raced, his mind reeling from the revelation. Daeron Targaryen…?

The vision twisted again, sharper and more brutal. The Red Keep, filled with echoes of death. The lifeless bodies of two small children—Aegon and Rhaenys—lay bloodied and broken on the cold stone floor.

Robert Baratheon's laughter rang through the hall, cruel and unrepentant. "Wretched dragonspawn," he spat, his voice thick with contempt.

Jon's knees buckled as the weight of it all crashed down on him. His mother, Lyanna Stark, his father, Rhaegar Targaryen, his birthright as a Targaryen prince—all of it hidden from him, wrapped in lies and secrecy.

His chest heaved as anger and sorrow warred within him. Everything I thought I knew was a lie.

The ancient figure's voice cut through Jon's turmoil, cold and calculating.

"Now you know the truth," he said. "But knowledge is not without cost."

Jon looked up, his vision blurred by fury. "Why show me this? Why now?"

The figure's expression darkened. "Because you are the perfect vessel."

Before Jon could react, the figure's consciousness lunged at him, a searing force that tore through the cavern and plunged into Jon's mind.

Jon staggered, clutching his head as the intruder sought to take control.

"I have waited centuries for a mind strong enough," the figure hissed. "And now I have found it."

The pressure was immense, like icy claws digging into Jon's thoughts, prying them apart. The ancient presence sought to break him, to shatter his will and claim his body as its own.

But Jon's mind was stronger than the creature had anticipated.

The fire that always burned within him surged now, fierce and defiant. The same primal force that had resisted those who looked down on him for being a bastard rose up to meet the invader.

Jon clenched his jaw, his teeth bared in defiance. "Get out of my head!"

The intruder snarled, pushing harder, but Jon fought back with every ounce of strength he had. His consciousness struck out in a single, decisive blow, severing the connection.

The figure cried out in shock and pain.

Jon's vision cleared just in time to see the ancient body slumped against the weirwood throne, the roots that had bound it receding like serpents retreating into shadow.

The cavern trembled, and the glow from the crystals dimmed.

Jon's breath came in ragged gasps. He didn't know how he had done it—how he had broken the ancient being's hold—but he had won.

The air grew thin, and the cavern began to dissolve around him.

Darkness engulfed him, and when he opened his eyes again, he was back in the godswood, lying on the cold earth beneath the heart tree.

The crimson leaves rustled gently above him, whispering secrets only the old gods could hear.

Jon sat up, his heart still racing. The revelations from the dream—or vision—clung to him like a second skin. His true name. His true parents. The knowledge burned in his chest, heavy and raw.

He was Daeron Targaryen, son of Rhaegar and Lyanna.

But for now, he was still Jon Snow.

And he would carry these truths alone.