JON IX

[ 1.5 YEARS AFTER WAKING UP ]

He did not know how long he knelt in the suffocating darkness of the crypt, the cold stone leaching the warmth from his bones. Time seemed to have lost all meaning. The world had been one thing when he had descended the stone steps, and now it was another entirely. He was another.

Jon Snow was a ghost, a lie told to protect a prince. Aemon Targaryen was a truth that could get him killed.

He stared at the items in his lap: the elegant harp, the crimson dragon on black silk, and the letter, its ink a testament to a love that had burned a kingdom to the ground. A wave of profound, bottomless sorrow washed over him. This was not the triumphant discovery of a lost heritage; it was the uncovering of a tomb. He felt no pride in his new name, only the crushing weight of it. He was not the hero of a grand story. He was the secret at the heart of a tragedy.

He finally understood the fear he always saw in his father's—his uncle's—eyes. It wasn't just about a stain on Lord Stark's honor. It was about the ghost of a dragon in their midst.

He thought of King Robert and his deep, abiding hatred for all things Targaryen. He remembered the stories of Elia Martell's children, murdered in their beds. Dragonspawn, Robert had called them. Jon was a dragonspawn. The knowledge was a shard of ice in his gut.

He looked at the letter again, his mother's words a painful balm. A child of love... a promise for a better world. But what had their love wrought? A war that had killed thousands, including his grandfather and uncle Brandon. Was their love, however true, worth the price the entire realm had paid? He felt a flicker of anger, a bitter resentment towards the parents he had never known. They had followed their hearts, and in doing so, had left him an orphan whose very existence was a declaration of war.

He gathered himself, his movements slow and deliberate. He carefully folded the Targaryen banner and placed it back in the ironwood box. He picked up the silver harp, its weight a strange burden in his hand. Lastly, he folded his mother's letter and tucked it deep inside his tunic, a secret kept close to his heart. He placed the box back in the hidden alcove, the grinding sound of the stone sealing his secret away once more. Secrecy was no longer a habit; it was the only thing keeping him alive.

As he stood, a notification chimed in his mind, its blue light seeming intrusive in the sacred dark.

[Initiation Phase Complete. All foundational skills acquired.]

[Reward Unlocked: Memory Synchronization. Access the memory of a master to learn the principles of the Creed. Would you like to begin?]

He dismissed it with a thought, a surge of bitter irony washing over him. A Creed. A set of rules to live by. What good were rules when his entire life had been built on a lie? What good was a philosophy when his very blood was a crime? He had more important things to do.

He returned to his room a different person, a ghost haunted by the truth. But the next morning, he rose as he always did. He tried to fall back into his routine, the one thing that had given him structure and purpose. But it was all hollow now.

He ran the rooftops, but the feeling of freedom was gone. He was no longer a boy escaping his station; he was a prince hiding on the roofs of another man's castle. The wind felt less like a caress and more like the cold breath of the world he was hiding from.

He went to the training yard, but the familiar weight of the sword felt alien in his hands. He looked at the guards he sparred with, men who had sworn fealty to House Stark, and felt like a fraud. Every parry, every strike, every skill the System had given him now felt like a tool for a destiny he never wanted. Was this what the System was for? To train a prince for a war he couldn't win and a throne he didn't want? The [Dragon & Wolf] branch in his skill tree was no longer a mystery; it was a curse, a chain binding him to two warring legacies.

He avoided his family. How could he look at Robb, his brother, his truest friend ? How could he look at Lord Stark, the man he loved as a father, without feeling a fresh wave of grief and betrayal? He understood the lie, the terrible, honorable reason for it. He was grateful for the protection it had afforded him. But it was still a lie, a chasm that had been carved between them without his knowledge.

For days, he was a true ghost in Winterfell, a silent, brooding presence who spoke to no one. He ate alone. He trained alone. He walked the walls alone, staring north towards the Wall, the one place a man's name was supposed to mean nothing. But his name meant everything.

He went to the library, not for lessons, but for refuge. He closed his eyes, the scent of old parchment a small comfort in his turmoil. He had to think. He had to choose. He could stay here, live out the lie as Jon Snow, and wait for the day the truth inevitably came out and destroyed the family he loved. Or he could run. He could flee to Essos, a prince in exile, and find the beggar king Viserys and his sister, the last of his blood. But to what end? To join another lost cause, to be hunted by Robert's assassins for the rest of his days?

Both paths felt like a death sentence.

It was in the depths of this despair, after days of wrestling with the ghost of his own identity, that a third path began to form, a desperate, audacious plan. He needed knowledge. He needed someone who could tell him about the family he never knew, not from the pages of a history book, but from memory. He needed a guide.

He finally went to Maester Luwin, his face a mask of calm neutrality he had spent days perfecting. He had to finish this. The Mentor's Codex was the only quest, besides his own, that mattered now.

"Maester," he said, his voice even. "I would like to finish the section on the Great Houses today, if I may."

Luwin smiled, pleased. "Of course, Jon. An ambitious task."

They worked for hours, Jon's mind absorbing the information with a cold, detached efficiency. He filled in the last remaining gaps in his knowledge, the System's notifications chiming with each percentage point gained. Finally, a grander, more significant chime echoed in his mind.

[Long-Term Objective Complete: The Mentor's Codex]

[Reward Pending: [Hidden Blade] - A schematic has been added to your inventory. Find a master blacksmith to forge it]

He had done it. He closed the heavy book, a sense of finality settling over him. Now for the last piece of the puzzle.

"Maester," he began, his tone one of idle, scholarly curiosity. "We have studied the end of the Rebellion. What became of the Targaryens who survived? The ones who fled to Essos?"

"Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys," Luwin said, his voice low. "They fled to Dragonstone, and then, after the Queen's death in childbirth, to the Free Cities. It is said they wander from one city to the next, begging for aid, always looking over their shoulders. King Robert's assassins have long memories."

"Are there any others?" Jon asked, his heart pounding. "Any other Targaryens left in the world?"

Luwin stroked his chain, his eyes full of a sad wisdom. "Only one that is known. Aemon Targaryen. The King's own great-uncle. He has served as the maester for the Night's Watch at Castle Black for most of his long life. A good and honorable man, by all accounts."

Jon kept his face a mask of polite interest, but inside, his world shifted into a new, sharp focus. Aemon. The name his mother had given him. There was another Aemon Targaryen. A maester. A man of knowledge. A man who had given up his claim and served the realm in the cold darkness of the Wall. A man who might understand.

He thanked the Maester and left the library, the pieces of his new plan solidifying in his mind. He could not stay in Winterfell. To stay was to live a lie, to be a threat to the man who had raised him and the brother he loved. He could not go to Essos to find a beggar king and a hunted queen. But the Wall… the Wall was no longer a punishment or an exile.

It was a destination. It was a sanctuary. It was where a man of the Night's Watch could ask a maester about the history of his own forgotten family. It was the one place in the world where Jon Snow could go to learn how to be Aemon Targaryen.