The darkness that had enveloped Alex Maxwell for what felt like an eternity now gave way to the hazy, shifting perceptions of a newborn. He was Aegon, he was Jon, and he was here, in the heart of a story he knew intimately. The man leaning over his mother, his face a blend of grief and something akin to quiet desperation, was undoubtedly Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
Lyanna, her face pale and streaked with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps, looked at her brother. Her eyes, clouded with the approach of death, held a fierce, primal love as she clutched the tiny bundle. "Rhaegar and I had a secret relationship as lovers," she whispered, her voice a thin, reedy sound, "then later on, we married in a private ceremony." The confession hung in the air, heavy with unspoken tragedy.
Ned's expression was a tempest of emotions—grief for his sister, shock at her words, and a dawning, terrifying understanding of the infant in her arms. Lyanna's eyes pleaded with him. "His name is Aegon… Aegon Targaryen. You have to protect him, brother, promise me, Ned."
He knelt by the bed, his hand reaching out. He didn't know what to say, what to feel. His sister, dying, holding a babe that was the son of the Dragon Prince, a child who could ignite a new war. The full weight of the Kingsguard's silent vigil outside, their unwavering loyalty to "the blood," now made agonizing sense. They hadn't been guarding Lyanna from Rhaegar, but rather protecting this child, Rhaegar's son, the last hope of a fallen dynasty.
"I promise, Lyanna," Ned choked out, the words a wrenching commitment to a path fraught with peril.
A faint, ethereal smile touched her lips, a wisp of peace finally gracing her features. With a last, shuddering breath, her eyes fluttered shut. The tiny bundle in her arms seemed to grow heavier, a living weight in the silence of her passing. Wylla, the handmaiden, wept openly.
Ned sat there, numb, clutching his sister's lifeless hand, the babe's soft cries echoing in the chamber. He looked at the child, the secret, the burden.
The New Arrangement
Outside the Tower of Joy, under the relentless Dornish sun, Ned emerged, the crushing weight of Lyanna's death and her desperate plea pressing down on him. His gaze fell upon the three figures in pristine white cloaks. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his legendary Dawn sheathed but his presence radiating an undeniable power; Ser Oswell Whent, grim and unyielding; and their Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his very stance a testament to duty.
"She's gone," Ned said, his voice raw, his gaze distant. "Lyanna is gone."
Ser Arthur Dayne's shoulders seemed to slump. "We feared as much, Lord Stark. The birthing bed... it takes many good women." His eyes, filled with a profound sorrow, met Ned's. "Our watch is ended, then. Our Queen has passed."
"Queen?" Ned's voice was sharp, a reflex of denial born of his grief and the raw secret he now carried. "She was my sister, Lyanna Stark."
Ser Oswell Whent, his face like carved stone, finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "She was more, Lord Stark. She was married to Prince Rhaegar, in the sight of the gods. And the child she bore… that child is the truest blood."
Ned's jaw tightened. "The 'truest blood' you spoke of," he said, his voice flat, understanding hardening into a terrible resolve. "You weren't guarding Lyanna, were you? Not truly. You were guarding him." He gestured vaguely back towards the tower, the truth of it cold and undeniable.
Ser Arthur Dayne met his gaze, unflinching. "Our vows, Lord Stark, are to the King. To the blood of the Dragon. To the heir." His voice was heavy with duty, with ancient loyalties that transcended a single monarch. "We have protected what was given into our charge. We have defended the last hope of our House."
"And what hope is that, now?" Ned countered, his voice rising, a bitter edge to it. "A babe's breath away from death, and the wrath of Robert Baratheon? What protection can three swords offer against the fury of a kingdom? What hope is there for a Targaryen heir, once his existence is known?"
Ser Gerold Hightower emerged from the tower then, his face pale, his ancient eyes haunted. He looked at Ned, then at his two sworn brothers. The futility of their stand was etched on their faces, the weight of their impossible duty, the knowledge that their cause was lost, save for one desperate gamble.
"What do you propose, Lord Stark?" Ser Gerold's voice was a gravelly rasp. "Our vows are to the blood of the Dragon."
Ned took a step forward, his voice low and urgent, a desperate gamble. "A vow can be broken, or it can be… adapted. What if no one knew of this 'truest blood' you speak of? What if it could be raised… elsewhere? Hidden in plain sight?" He looked at Ser Arthur Dayne. "You knew my sister, Ser Arthur. You know her heart, her honor. She would not wish for this child to be destroyed."
Arthur Dayne's eyes widened slightly in understanding, a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Oswell Whent's jaw tightened, his distaste evident, but he remained silent.
"You speak of… a lie," Ser Oswell said slowly, the word a bitter taste on his tongue.
"A necessary one," Ned countered, his voice firm, gaining strength. "For the sake of this hidden truth. Robert is not a merciful man to his enemies. Especially not Targaryen ones. If you stand against me now, all you ensure is its certain doom, once the secret is out. And your own."
Ser Gerold looked from Ned to the tower, then back to his companions. The weight of their impossible duty, the futility of further bloodshed, pressed down on them. They were three men, however legendary. Even if they won this fight, what then?
"We swore to protect the blood," Ser Arthur Dayne said, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the tower walls. "But what good is a shield if the protected dies in its shadow?"
Ned saw his opening. "Then protect it by allowing it to live. Let it be hidden, guarded by anonymity. I will take responsibility for it. No one will question it, not if I claim him as my nephew, the trueborn son of my deceased brother, Brandon Stark, and Lady Ashara Dayne. He will be Lyanna's child, as much as he is Brandon's. He will be raised as a Stark, in the North. Far from King's Landing, far from Robert's wrath." He looked into each of their eyes, his voice gaining a desperate plea. "Allow him to live. That is the greatest protection you can offer now. That is the true fulfillment of your vows to the King you serve."
The Kingsguard exchanged a long, silent look. The collapse of their dynasty, the grim reality of their situation, the insurmountable odds – it was all etched on their faces. To fight was to die for a lost cause and ensure the hidden blood's discovery and destruction. To allow the child to live, even under a false identity… was to betray their vows in spirit, perhaps, but to preserve the very bloodline they swore to protect in fact.
Finally, Ser Gerold Hightower gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "We will agree, Lord Stark. For the blood." His ancient, weary eyes met Ned's. "But should the time come, should the realm need the true King, and should this boy grow to embody what Rhaegar hoped… know that our vows will stir. And we will remember this day."
Ned didn't flinch. "He will be raised in the North. He will know duty and honor, not just dragons and fire. He will be Brandon's heir to Winterfell, and I shall be his regent until he comes of age. That, too, is a promise." It was a subtle warning, a declaration of intent, and a profound shift in the destiny of the North. "And Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold," Ned added, his voice softening, "My sister valued your honor above all others. Will you not see her son raised? Will you not ensure his protection, as his sworn shields, under new identities? As my nephew's bodyguards, Sworn Swords of House Stark?"
Ser Arthur Dayne looked from Ned to the Tower, then to his two brothers. The Sword of the Morning, legendary for his honor, was now faced with a choice that would redefine his life. "I will, Lord Stark," he said, his voice heavy with resignation and a deep, personal commitment. "For Lyanna. For the boy. I will follow you to Winterfell."
Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward, his grim face softening almost imperceptibly. "And I, Lord Stark. My vows are to the blood, and if this is the only path for the blood to live… I will join my brother. We will fade into the shadows, and reappear as… Sworn Swords of House Stark."
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his ancient eyes filled with a weary determination, then stepped forward as well. "My lord," he rasped, his voice raw with age and the weight of their impossible decision, "My vows are no less than theirs. I will join them. For the blood, and for Lyanna's last wish. You will find no more loyal blades in your service."
Ned's face showed a flicker of surprise, then profound relief. Three legends, sworn to him, to the boy. "Then come," he murmured, his voice thick with the enormity of the moment. "To Winterfell. To a new beginning."
Winterfell – One Year Later
The chill winds of the North bit at the ancient stones of Winterfell, a stark contrast to the Dornish heat where Aegon had drawn his first breath. Inside the Great Keep, Lord Eddard Stark stood over two cradles, his gaze moving from one sleeping infant to the other. His heart ached, a constant throb of grief for Lyanna, but also a quiet pride for the brave lie he now lived. The boy everyone knew as Jon Stark, the trueborn son of the late Brandon Stark and the late Lady Ashara Dayne, was a clever ruse. His dark hair and grey eyes, a perfect blend of Stark and Dayne, made the story entirely believable. The whispered rumors of Brandon's passionate, impulsive nature and his dalliances were already a part of the North's history, giving credence to the tale.
He had made the promise to his sister on her deathbed: to protect the child at all costs. The lie had been hard, a bitter pill to swallow for a man who valued honor above all else. But Lyanna's desperate plea, the look in her dying eyes, had overridden every ingrained principle. Upon his return to Winterfell, the truth had been an unbearable burden. He had told Catelyn, his fiercely proud wife, of the full circumstances, and of the new identity of his nephew, who would be raised as the rightful heir to Winterfell, with Ned acting as his regent until he came of age. To his surprise, her initial shock and anger had slowly given way to a grim understanding, a shared burden of deceit for the sake of an innocent life, and the preservation of House Stark's future.
The door creaked open softly, and Catelyn, her auburn hair a fiery contrast to the somber room, stepped in. She moved with quiet grace, joining her husband beside the cradles. Her gaze, as always, lingered on the child who was not truly hers, yet who was now the future Lord of Winterfell.
"He looks exactly like Lyanna and Brandon, combined," Catelyn murmured, her voice soft, "and not a bit like Rhaegar. Thank the gods for that. But it seems he got the immunity to fire from his Targaryen blood."
Ned nodded, his expression grave. Earlier that day, a terrifying incident had occurred. Robb and Jon had been playing, as toddlers often did, when a carelessly placed candle had toppled. Catelyn, hearing the sudden cries, had rushed in to find Robb wailing, but Jon… Jon had been calmly playing with the dimly lit candle flame, fascinated by its dance. Luckily, no servants had been around to witness the impossible sight.
"I know," Ned acknowledged quietly, the memory sending a fresh wave of unease through him. "We must keep an eye on him and not let this happen again. And Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold are already proving invaluable guards, even with their new identities. They have adapted well to their roles as loyal household knights."
"Yes, we must," Catelyn concurred, her voice laced with a newfound gravity. "No one must ever learn who his true parents are. Not the Baratheons, especially not the Lannisters. Their wrath would be swift and terrible. And when the time comes, he must understand the sacrifice made for him, and the true weight of his inheritance."
"I know," Ned replied, a worried frown creasing his brow. "And we will tell him the truth when the time comes, as well as the truth of his birthright as heir to Winterfell." He looked down at the peaceful face of the sleeping child, a prophecy and a burden intertwined.
Five Years Later – The Awakening
In one of the spacious, austere rooms of the Great Keep of Winterfell, a five-year-old boy stirred. His dark eyes, accustomed to the dim light of the northern nights, focused on the midnight moon framed by his window. It was his fifth nameday, a day he had awaited with a peculiar, almost preternatural patience for the last five years. He had endured the clumsy crawling, the babbling words, the endless games of childhood, all while a suppressed excitement hummed beneath his nascent consciousness.
Ding!
A shimmering notification, visible only to him, materialized in his mind's eye.
[System awakening...10%....40%...75%...85%...100%]
[Soul Binding complete]
[Starter pack provided]
Before he could even fully register the words, a searing pain lanced through his small body. His limbs began to tremble uncontrollably, his blood seemingly boiling in his veins. His nerves, stretched to their breaking point, felt as though they would burst from his skin. Simultaneously, a deluge of memories and knowledge, a torrent of spells and abilities, surged into his mind. The intricacies of Archmage-level destruction spells, the subtle manipulations of alteration magic, the restorative power of healing incantations, the summoning of otherworldly beings through conjuration, the deceptive arts of illusion, the delicate craft of enchantment, the persuasive power of speechcraft, the intricate formulas of alchemy, the meticulous art of smithing, the agile movements of light armor, the swift strikes of one-handed combat, the precision of archery, the silent movements of sneak, the delicate clicks of lock picking, the formidable defense of heavy armor, the crushing power of two-handed weapons, the strategic parries of block, and the nimble art of pickpocketing – it all flooded in.
All the battles, the duels, the countless adventures he had undertaken as his Skyrim Archmage character, every success and every failure, came rushing back to him, as though they had happened just moments ago. The sheer volume of information threatened to overwhelm his young mind, pushing him to the brink. He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees as the pain intensified, a silent scream building in his throat. After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, the excruciating pain in his body and mind slowly subsided. A mysterious, soothing energy, warm and invigorating, flowed through him, mending the microscopic tears in his nascent nerves and muscles.
"After five years of waiting, finally my wishes have been activated," he thought, a wave of profound relief washing over him. He focused on the shimmering notifications. His eyes landed on the Starter pack.
'Open Starter pack.'
[Starter pack opening]
[Received White Dragon Egg x 1]
[Received Red Dragon Egg x 1]
[Received Purple Dragon-Basilisk x 1]
[Received 100,000 Gold]
He blinked. Dragons. Actual dragons. And 100,000 Gold. A truly generous welcome to his new, dangerous existence. He immediately thought of the currency of Westeros.
"System, how much Golden Dragons can I get if I convert all the 100,000 System Gold?" he inquired mentally.
[The ratio to convert the system Gold to Golden Dragons is 1:1. So for 100,000 Gold you will get 100,000 Golden Dragons]
Aegon allowed himself a small, private smile. This was a truly excellent start. He recalled the rough estimates of wealth in Westeros. House Stark's total wealth was only around 300,000 Golden Dragons. The Winterfell treasury likely held a mere 100,000 Golden Dragons in reserve. And here he was, at five years old, receiving almost that much as a gift from the starter pack alone. Compared to the Lannisters' millions, the Starks were indeed one of the poorer Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. This unexpected influx of wealth would undoubtedly accelerate some of his nascent plans.
"System, do you have a name?" he asked, a touch of curiosity in his tone.
[No, if host likes he can give one]
"Mm, okay. From now on, you will be called Eve," he decided. "And don't call me host, call me Aegon or Jon from now on. What are the classifications of mastery for a certain class?"
[The Progress level and mastery of job and skill all follow the same rule: Basic level, Intermediate level, Advance level, Master level, Grand Master level. The maximum a human can achieve is Master level, like a Kingsguard's Lord Commander or Spymaster 'Spider'. Only with system help can a person or summons reach Grandmaster level.]
"Mm, okay, I get it. Open Interface," he commanded.
[Opening Interface]
Character System Panel
[Name: Aegon Targaryen]
[Current Alias: Jon Stark, Heir to Winterfell]
[Titles: The Prince That Was Promised]
[Age: 5 (Effective)]
[Attributes (Base Human Max: 10)]
* Strength: 8 (Super Soldier Serum)
* Dexterity: 9 (Super Soldier Serum, Martial Talent)
* Constitution: 9 (Super Soldier Serum, Fire Immunity)
* Intelligence: 10+ (Enhanced by system integration)
* Wisdom: 8 (Learned via past life memories)
* Charisma: 7 (Developing)
[Magic & Abilities]
* Mana Capacity: Immense (Skyrim Archmage Tier - Improves with Age & Training)
* Spells: All Skyrim Archmage spells (Grand Master proficiency)
* Destruction: 100 (Legendary)
* Alteration: 100 (Legendary)
* Restoration: 100 (Legendary)
* Conjuration: 100 (Legendary)
* Illusion: 100 (Legendary)
* Enchantment: 100 (Legendary)
* Dragonborn Perks: All associated innate abilities (Shouts, Dragonrend, etc.)
* Targaryen Fire Immunity: Innate (As observed)
* Cloning: Ability to create two clones with mental link (Will unlock with age/level)
* Legilimency: Ability to read minds (Will unlock with age/level)
* Compulsion: Ability to subtly influence others (Will unlock with age/level)
[Martial Prowess]
* Combat Talent: Blessed by Ares, God of War (Instinctive understanding of strategy, tactics, combat flow)
* Swordsmanship: Blessed by Takemikazuchi, God of Thunder and Swords (Innate mastery, rapid progression)
* Weapon Skills:
* One-Handed: 100 (Legendary)
* Two-Handed: 100 (Legendary)
* Archery: 100 (Legendary)
* Block: 100 (Legendary)
* Armor Skills:
* Light Armor: 100 (Legendary)
* Heavy Armor: 100 (Legendary)
* Other Combat Skills:
* Sneak: 100 (Legendary)
[Other Skills]
* Speech: 100 (Legendary)
* Alchemy: 100 (Legendary)
* Smithing: 100 (Legendary)
* Lock Picking: 100 (Legendary)
* Pickpocketing: 100 (Legendary)
[System Features]
* Spatial Farm: Level 1 (Expandable)
* Store: Available
* Summon: Available (System-created, world-specific characters)
* Build Menu: Available
* Map: Available (Marauder's Map/Mini-map functionality)
* Inventory: Available
Aegon's mind raced, processing the sheer breadth of his abilities. He could sense the raw power simmering beneath his skin, the spells waiting to be unleashed, the martial prowess ingrained into his very being. He mentally practiced a few simple spells, feeling the familiar hum of magic within him. The temptation to experiment was strong, but a five-year-old "nephew" suddenly displaying arcane powers would raise too many questions. It would be wise, he decided, to conduct any further experiments with his newfound powers in the Spatial Farm, away from prying eyes and the risk of accidentally blowing up his room.
He immediately issued the command in his mind: "Enter the farm."
Just as he finished the thought, a shimmering, ethereal portal, like a ripple in the fabric of reality, appeared silently in front of him. It pulsed with a soft, inviting light.
Without a second thought, Aegon stepped into the portal. There was a flash before his eyes, a momentary disorientation as if passing through a veil. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in his familiar room at the Great Keep of Winterfell. Instead, he stood in a vast, wide-open space, bathed in an unfamiliar, gentle light.
[Spatial Farm program initiating, connecting to Eve network, network connection successful, operating normally, discovering host, inspecting host conditions, host condition normal, binding to host, your current level is one, system reward five thousand gold, sixty bags of wheat seeds, each bag can plant one field, you have currently cleared fifty pieces of land, area of five hundred fields, level zero, you can purchase required seeds in the shop, harvest can be changed for gold in the shop]
This space was impressively large. Aegon used his enhanced senses to scan his surroundings; it was roughly two kilometers in length and width, encompassing a total of about one square kilometer of farming land. All of it was meticulously cleared and ready for cultivation, with brand new shovels neatly stuck in the ground at the edges of the fields.
Next to the vast expanse of farmland was a small, meandering creek that looked like a pristine spring, its waters clear and inviting. A simple wooden bucket rested beside it. Adjacent to the creek stood a charming double-story wooden cottage, radiating a rustic warmth. Under the front window of the cottage, two simple bottles sat, one clearly labeled 'insecticide' and the other 'herbicide'. Next to these, a woven basket was placed, bearing the inscription 'collection'. On the right side of the cottage, a huge wooden barn loomed, its broad side emblazoned with the word 'barn'.
Beyond these clearly visible features, a thick, impenetrable fog obscured the rest of the space. All he could discern clearly was this well-appointed barn and the fertile, open farmland.
He knelt, running his small hand through the rich, dark soil, feeling its texture, its promise. And as his fingers closed around a handful of earth, Eve's calm, clear voice suddenly echoed in his head.Let
The darkness that had enveloped Alex Maxwell for what felt like an eternity now gave way to the hazy, shifting perceptions of a newborn. He was Aegon, he was Jon, and he was here, in the heart of a story he knew intimately. The man leaning over his mother, his face a blend of grief and something akin to quiet desperation, was undoubtedly Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
Lyanna, her face pale and streaked with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps, looked at her brother. Her eyes, clouded with the approach of death, held a fierce, primal love as she clutched the tiny bundle. "Rhaegar and I had a secret relationship as lovers," she whispered, her voice a thin, reedy sound, "then later on, we married in a private ceremony." The confession hung in the air, heavy with unspoken tragedy.
Ned's expression was a tempest of emotions—grief for his sister, shock at her words, and a dawning, terrifying understanding of the infant in her arms. Lyanna's eyes pleaded with him. "His name is Aegon… Aegon Targaryen. You have to protect him, brother, promise me, Ned."
He knelt by the bed, his hand reaching out. He didn't know what to say, what to feel. His sister, dying, holding a babe that was the son of the Dragon Prince, a child who could ignite a new war. The full weight of the Kingsguard's silent vigil outside, their unwavering loyalty to "the blood," now made agonizing sense. They hadn't been guarding Lyanna from Rhaegar, but rather protecting this child, Rhaegar's son, the last hope of a fallen dynasty.
"I promise, Lyanna," Ned choked out, the words a wrenching commitment to a path fraught with peril.
A faint, ethereal smile touched her lips, a wisp of peace finally gracing her features. With a last, shuddering breath, her eyes fluttered shut. The tiny bundle in her arms seemed to grow heavier, a living weight in the silence of her passing. Wylla, the handmaiden, wept openly.
Ned sat there, numb, clutching his sister's lifeless hand, the babe's soft cries echoing in the chamber. He looked at the child, the secret, the burden.
The New Arrangement
Outside the Tower of Joy, under the relentless Dornish sun, Ned emerged, the crushing weight of Lyanna's death and her desperate plea pressing down on him. His gaze fell upon the three figures in pristine white cloaks. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, his legendary Dawn sheathed but his presence radiating an undeniable power; Ser Oswell Whent, grim and unyielding; and their Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his very stance a testament to duty.
"She's gone," Ned said, his voice raw, his gaze distant. "Lyanna is gone."
Ser Arthur Dayne's shoulders seemed to slump. "We feared as much, Lord Stark. The birthing bed... it takes many good women." His eyes, filled with a profound sorrow, met Ned's. "Our watch is ended, then. Our Queen has passed."
"Queen?" Ned's voice was sharp, a reflex of denial born of his grief and the raw secret he now carried. "She was my sister, Lyanna Stark."
Ser Oswell Whent, his face like carved stone, finally spoke, his voice low and gravelly. "She was more, Lord Stark. She was married to Prince Rhaegar, in the sight of the gods. And the child she bore… that child is the truest blood."
Ned's jaw tightened. "The 'truest blood' you spoke of," he said, his voice flat, understanding hardening into a terrible resolve. "You weren't guarding Lyanna, were you? Not truly. You were guarding him." He gestured vaguely back towards the tower, the truth of it cold and undeniable.
Ser Arthur Dayne met his gaze, unflinching. "Our vows, Lord Stark, are to the King. To the blood of the Dragon. To the heir." His voice was heavy with duty, with ancient loyalties that transcended a single monarch. "We have protected what was given into our charge. We have defended the last hope of our House."
"And what hope is that, now?" Ned countered, his voice rising, a bitter edge to it. "A babe's breath away from death, and the wrath of Robert Baratheon? What protection can three swords offer against the fury of a kingdom? What hope is there for a Targaryen heir, once his existence is known?"
Ser Gerold Hightower emerged from the tower then, his face pale, his ancient eyes haunted. He looked at Ned, then at his two sworn brothers. The futility of their stand was etched on their faces, the weight of their impossible duty, the knowledge that their cause was lost, save for one desperate gamble.
"What do you propose, Lord Stark?" Ser Gerold's voice was a gravelly rasp. "Our vows are to the blood of the Dragon."
Ned took a step forward, his voice low and urgent, a desperate gamble. "A vow can be broken, or it can be… adapted. What if no one knew of this 'truest blood' you speak of? What if it could be raised… elsewhere? Hidden in plain sight?" He looked at Ser Arthur Dayne. "You knew my sister, Ser Arthur. You know her heart, her honor. She would not wish for this child to be destroyed."
Arthur Dayne's eyes widened slightly in understanding, a flicker of hope amidst the despair. Oswell Whent's jaw tightened, his distaste evident, but he remained silent.
"You speak of… a lie," Ser Oswell said slowly, the word a bitter taste on his tongue.
"A necessary one," Ned countered, his voice firm, gaining strength. "For the sake of this hidden truth. Robert is not a merciful man to his enemies. Especially not Targaryen ones. If you stand against me now, all you ensure is its certain doom, once the secret is out. And your own."
Ser Gerold looked from Ned to the tower, then back to his companions. The weight of their impossible duty, the futility of further bloodshed, pressed down on them. They were three men, however legendary. Even if they won this fight, what then?
"We swore to protect the blood," Ser Arthur Dayne said, his gaze distant, as if seeing beyond the tower walls. "But what good is a shield if the protected dies in its shadow?"
Ned saw his opening. "Then protect it by allowing it to live. Let it be hidden, guarded by anonymity. I will take responsibility for it. No one will question it, not if I claim him as my nephew, the trueborn son of my deceased brother, Brandon Stark, and Lady Ashara Dayne. He will be Lyanna's child, as much as he is Brandon's. He will be raised as a Stark, in the North. Far from King's Landing, far from Robert's wrath." He looked into each of their eyes, his voice gaining a desperate plea. "Allow him to live. That is the greatest protection you can offer now. That is the true fulfillment of your vows to the King you serve."
The Kingsguard exchanged a long, silent look. The collapse of their dynasty, the grim reality of their situation, the insurmountable odds – it was all etched on their faces. To fight was to die for a lost cause and ensure the hidden blood's discovery and destruction. To allow the child to live, even under a false identity… was to betray their vows in spirit, perhaps, but to preserve the very bloodline they swore to protect in fact.
Finally, Ser Gerold Hightower gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. "We will agree, Lord Stark. For the blood." His ancient, weary eyes met Ned's. "But should the time come, should the realm need the true King, and should this boy grow to embody what Rhaegar hoped… know that our vows will stir. And we will remember this day."
Ned didn't flinch. "He will be raised in the North. He will know duty and honor, not just dragons and fire. He will be Brandon's heir to Winterfell, and I shall be his regent until he comes of age. That, too, is a promise." It was a subtle warning, a declaration of intent, and a profound shift in the destiny of the North. "And Ser Arthur, Ser Oswell, Ser Gerold," Ned added, his voice softening, "My sister valued your honor above all others. Will you not see her son raised? Will you not ensure his protection, as his sworn shields, under new identities? As my nephew's bodyguards, Sworn Swords of House Stark?"
Ser Arthur Dayne looked from Ned to the Tower, then to his two brothers. The Sword of the Morning, legendary for his honor, was now faced with a choice that would redefine his life. "I will, Lord Stark," he said, his voice heavy with resignation and a deep, personal commitment. "For Lyanna. For the boy. I will follow you to Winterfell."
Ser Oswell Whent stepped forward, his grim face softening almost imperceptibly. "And I, Lord Stark. My vows are to the blood, and if this is the only path for the blood to live… I will join my brother. We will fade into the shadows, and reappear as… Sworn Swords of House Stark."
Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, his ancient eyes filled with a weary determination, then stepped forward as well. "My lord," he rasped, his voice raw with age and the weight of their impossible decision, "My vows are no less than theirs. I will join them. For the blood, and for Lyanna's last wish. You will find no more loyal blades in your service."
Ned's face showed a flicker of surprise, then profound relief. Three legends, sworn to him, to the boy. "Then come," he murmured, his voice thick with the enormity of the moment. "To Winterfell. To a new beginning."
Winterfell – One Year Later
The chill winds of the North bit at the ancient stones of Winterfell, a stark contrast to the Dornish heat where Aegon had drawn his first breath. Inside the Great Keep, Lord Eddard Stark stood over two cradles, his gaze moving from one sleeping infant to the other. His heart ached, a constant throb of grief for Lyanna, but also a quiet pride for the brave lie he now lived. The boy everyone knew as Jon Stark, the trueborn son of the late Brandon Stark and the late Lady Ashara Dayne, was a clever ruse. His dark hair and grey eyes, a perfect blend of Stark and Dayne, made the story entirely believable. The whispered rumors of Brandon's passionate, impulsive nature and his dalliances were already a part of the North's history, giving credence to the tale.
He had made the promise to his sister on her deathbed: to protect the child at all costs. The lie had been hard, a bitter pill to swallow for a man who valued honor above all else. But Lyanna's desperate plea, the look in her dying eyes, had overridden every ingrained principle. Upon his return to Winterfell, the truth had been an unbearable burden. He had told Catelyn, his fiercely proud wife, of the full circumstances, and of the new identity of his nephew, who would be raised as the rightful heir to Winterfell, with Ned acting as his regent until he came of age. To his surprise, her initial shock and anger had slowly given way to a grim understanding, a shared burden of deceit for the sake of an innocent life, and the preservation of House Stark's future.
The door creaked open softly, and Catelyn, her auburn hair a fiery contrast to the somber room, stepped in. She moved with quiet grace, joining her husband beside the cradles. Her gaze, as always, lingered on the child who was not truly hers, yet who was now the future Lord of Winterfell.
"He looks exactly like Lyanna and Brandon, combined," Catelyn murmured, her voice soft, "and not a bit like Rhaegar. Thank the gods for that. But it seems he got the immunity to fire from his Targaryen blood."
Ned nodded, his expression grave. Earlier that day, a terrifying incident had occurred. Robb and Jon had been playing, as toddlers often did, when a carelessly placed candle had toppled. Catelyn, hearing the sudden cries, had rushed in to find Robb wailing, but Jon… Jon had been calmly playing with the dimly lit candle flame, fascinated by its dance. Luckily, no servants had been around to witness the impossible sight.
"I know," Ned acknowledged quietly, the memory sending a fresh wave of unease through him. "We must keep an eye on him and not let this happen again. And Arthur, Oswell, and Gerold are already proving invaluable guards, even with their new identities. They have adapted well to their roles as loyal household knights."
"Yes, we must," Catelyn concurred, her voice laced with a newfound gravity. "No one must ever learn who his true parents are. Not the Baratheons, especially not the Lannisters. Their wrath would be swift and terrible. And when the time comes, he must understand the sacrifice made for him, and the true weight of his inheritance."
"I know," Ned replied, a worried frown creasing his brow. "And we will tell him the truth when the time comes, as well as the truth of his birthright as heir to Winterfell." He looked down at the peaceful face of the sleeping child, a prophecy and a burden intertwined.
Five Years Later – The Awakening
In one of the spacious, austere rooms of the Great Keep of Winterfell, a five-year-old boy stirred. His dark eyes, accustomed to the dim light of the northern nights, focused on the midnight moon framed by his window. It was his fifth nameday, a day he had awaited with a peculiar, almost preternatural patience for the last five years. He had endured the clumsy crawling, the babbling words, the endless games of childhood, all while a suppressed excitement hummed beneath his nascent consciousness.
Ding!
A shimmering notification, visible only to him, materialized in his mind's eye.
[System awakening...10%....40%...75%...85%...100%]
[Soul Binding complete]
[Starter pack provided]
Before he could even fully register the words, a searing pain lanced through his small body. His limbs began to tremble uncontrollably, his blood seemingly boiling in his veins. His nerves, stretched to their breaking point, felt as though they would burst from his skin. Simultaneously, a deluge of memories and knowledge, a torrent of spells and abilities, surged into his mind. The intricacies of Archmage-level destruction spells, the subtle manipulations of alteration magic, the restorative power of healing incantations, the summoning of otherworldly beings through conjuration, the deceptive arts of illusion, the delicate craft of enchantment, the persuasive power of speechcraft, the intricate formulas of alchemy, the meticulous art of smithing, the agile movements of light armor, the swift strikes of one-handed combat, the precision of archery, the silent movements of sneak, the delicate clicks of lock picking, the formidable defense of heavy armor, the crushing power of two-handed weapons, the strategic parries of block, and the nimble art of pickpocketing – it all flooded in.
All the battles, the duels, the countless adventures he had undertaken as his Skyrim Archmage character, every success and every failure, came rushing back to him, as though they had happened just moments ago. The sheer volume of information threatened to overwhelm his young mind, pushing him to the brink. He stumbled, nearly falling to his knees as the pain intensified, a silent scream building in his throat. After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only a few minutes, the excruciating pain in his body and mind slowly subsided. A mysterious, soothing energy, warm and invigorating, flowed through him, mending the microscopic tears in his nascent nerves and muscles.
"After five years of waiting, finally my wishes have been activated," he thought, a wave of profound relief washing over him. He focused on the shimmering notifications. His eyes landed on the Starter pack.
'Open Starter pack.'
[Starter pack opening]
[Received White Dragon Egg x 1]
[Received Red Dragon Egg x 1]
[Received Purple Dragon-Basilisk x 1]
[Received 100,000 Gold]
He blinked. Dragons. Actual dragons. And 100,000 Gold. A truly generous welcome to his new, dangerous existence. He immediately thought of the currency of Westeros.
"System, how much Golden Dragons can I get if I convert all the 100,000 System Gold?" he inquired mentally.
[The ratio to convert the system Gold to Golden Dragons is 1:1. So for 100,000 Gold you will get 100,000 Golden Dragons]
Aegon allowed himself a small, private smile. This was a truly excellent start. He recalled the rough estimates of wealth in Westeros. House Stark's total wealth was only around 300,000 Golden Dragons. The Winterfell treasury likely held a mere 100,000 Golden Dragons in reserve. And here he was, at five years old, receiving almost that much as a gift from the starter pack alone. Compared to the Lannisters' millions, the Starks were indeed one of the poorer Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. This unexpected influx of wealth would undoubtedly accelerate some of his nascent plans.
"System, do you have a name?" he asked, a touch of curiosity in his tone.
[No, if host likes he can give one]
"Mm, okay. From now on, you will be called Eve," he decided. "And don't call me host, call me Aegon or Jon from now on. What are the classifications of mastery for a certain class?"
[The Progress level and mastery of job and skill all follow the same rule: Basic level, Intermediate level, Advance level, Master level, Grand Master level. The maximum a human can achieve is Master level, like a Kingsguard's Lord Commander or Spymaster 'Spider'. Only with system help can a person or summons reach Grandmaster level.]
"Mm, okay, I get it. Open Interface," he commanded.
[Opening Interface]
Character System Panel
[Name: Aegon Targaryen]
[Current Alias: Jon Stark, Heir to Winterfell]
[Titles: The Prince That Was Promised]
[Age: 5 (Effective)]
[Attributes (Base Human Max: 10)]
* Strength: 8 (Super Soldier Serum)
* Dexterity: 9 (Super Soldier Serum, Martial Talent)
* Constitution: 9 (Super Soldier Serum, Fire Immunity)
* Intelligence: 10+ (Enhanced by system integration)
* Wisdom: 8 (Learned via past life memories)
* Charisma: 7 (Developing)
[Magic & Abilities]
* Mana Capacity: Immense (Skyrim Archmage Tier - Improves with Age & Training)
* Spells: All Skyrim Archmage spells (Grand Master proficiency)
* Destruction: 100 (Legendary)
* Alteration: 100 (Legendary)
* Restoration: 100 (Legendary)
* Conjuration: 100 (Legendary)
* Illusion: 100 (Legendary)
* Enchantment: 100 (Legendary)
* Dragonborn Perks: All associated innate abilities (Shouts, Dragonrend, etc.)
* Targaryen Fire Immunity: Innate (As observed)
* Cloning: Ability to create two clones with mental link (Will unlock with age/level)
* Legilimency: Ability to read minds (Will unlock with age/level)
* Compulsion: Ability to subtly influence others (Will unlock with age/level)
[Martial Prowess]
* Combat Talent: Blessed by Ares, God of War (Instinctive understanding of strategy, tactics, combat flow)
* Swordsmanship: Blessed by Takemikazuchi, God of Thunder and Swords (Innate mastery, rapid progression)
* Weapon Skills:
* One-Handed: 100 (Legendary)
* Two-Handed: 100 (Legendary)
* Archery: 100 (Legendary)
* Block: 100 (Legendary)
* Armor Skills:
* Light Armor: 100 (Legendary)
* Heavy Armor: 100 (Legendary)
* Other Combat Skills:
* Sneak: 100 (Legendary)
[Other Skills]
* Speech: 100 (Legendary)
* Alchemy: 100 (Legendary)
* Smithing: 100 (Legendary)
* Lock Picking: 100 (Legendary)
* Pickpocketing: 100 (Legendary)
[System Features]
* Spatial Farm: Level 1 (Expandable)
* Store: Available
* Summon: Available (System-created, world-specific characters)
* Build Menu: Available
* Map: Available (Marauder's Map/Mini-map functionality)
* Inventory: Available
Aegon's mind raced, processing the sheer breadth of his abilities. He could sense the raw power simmering beneath his skin, the spells waiting to be unleashed, the martial prowess ingrained into his very being. He mentally practiced a few simple spells, feeling the familiar hum of magic within him. The temptation to experiment was strong, but a five-year-old "nephew" suddenly displaying arcane powers would raise too many questions. It would be wise, he decided, to conduct any further experiments with his newfound powers in the Spatial Farm, away from prying eyes and the risk of accidentally blowing up his room.
He immediately issued the command in his mind: "Enter the farm."
Just as he finished the thought, a shimmering, ethereal portal, like a ripple in the fabric of reality, appeared silently in front of him. It pulsed with a soft, inviting light.
Without a second thought, Aegon stepped into the portal. There was a flash before his eyes, a momentary disorientation as if passing through a veil. When his vision cleared, he was no longer in his familiar room at the Great Keep of Winterfell. Instead, he stood in a vast, wide-open space, bathed in an unfamiliar, gentle light.
[Spatial Farm program initiating, connecting to Eve network, network connection successful, operating normally, discovering host, inspecting host conditions, host condition normal, binding to host, your current level is one, system reward five thousand gold, sixty bags of wheat seeds, each bag can plant one field, you have currently cleared fifty pieces of land, area of five hundred fields, level zero, you can purchase required seeds in the shop, harvest can be changed for gold in the shop]
This space was impressively large. Aegon used his enhanced senses to scan his surroundings; it was roughly two kilometers in length and width, encompassing a total of about one square kilometer of farming land. All of it was meticulously cleared and ready for cultivation, with brand new shovels neatly stuck in the ground at the edges of the fields.
Next to the vast expanse of farmland was a small, meandering creek that looked like a pristine spring, its waters clear and inviting. A simple wooden bucket rested beside it. Adjacent to the creek stood a charming double-story wooden cottage, radiating a rustic warmth. Under the front window of the cottage, two simple bottles sat, one clearly labeled 'insecticide' and the other 'herbicide'. Next to these, a woven basket was placed, bearing the inscription 'collection'. On the right side of the cottage, a huge wooden barn loomed, its broad side emblazoned with the word 'barn'.
Beyond these clearly visible features, a thick, impenetrable fog obscured the rest of the space. All he could discern clearly was this well-appointed barn and the fertile, open farmland.
He knelt, running his small hand through the rich, dark soil, feeling its texture, its promise. And as his fingers closed around a handful of earth, Eve's calm, clear voice suddenly echoed in his head.Let