Chapter 3 — The Song of Ice and Fire
For a long moment, Ned Stark just stared at me, his eyes wide and full of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
The name I had spoken — Aegon Targaryen — seemed to echo in the air like a ghost refusing to fade.
He looked pale, shaken, and yet still trying to hold his composure. Ned Stark was not a man who lost control easily. He had stood before kings and rebels alike and never flinched. But now, faced with words only he and a handful of the dead should have known, his strength faltered.
His voice, when it finally came, was tight and low.
"What do you mean by this? What are you saying, stranger?"
I met his eyes. "You already know, Lord Stark," I said softly. "You've known it since the day your sister died in your arms."
His breath caught — barely, but I saw it. He knew exactly what I meant.
Still, he tried to resist the thought, to bury it under duty and disbelief. "You speak of things that are not your concern," he said harshly. "You speak of family, of secrets that no one outside these walls could know."
"I speak of truth," I said. "And of what's coming."
He stayed silent. I could see the struggle in his eyes — fear, anger, denial. Then, finally, curiosity.
"Then speak," he said at last. "Tell me what you know."
I drew a breath and said the words that would shake the North, maybe the whole realm.
"Your son — Jon Snow — is no Snow. His true name is Aegon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. He is the prince that was promised. The Song of Ice and Fire."
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to crush the room.
Ned Stark's eyes widened; he stumbled back and sank into his chair as if his knees had given out. For a man like him, who carried the weight of honor like a shield, this truth was a wound deeper than any blade could give.
He whispered hoarsely, "That name… it's not possible. No one knows of it. Not a soul. Not even Catelyn. Not even my closest men. How do you know?"
"Because I was sent," I said quietly. "Not by men, but by the will of the gods — all of them, perhaps none of them. It doesn't matter what you call them. Old Gods, New Gods, R'hllor, the Seven — they all serve the same purpose when winter comes."
He looked at me as if I had gone mad, but he didn't speak. He wanted answers, not madness.
So I gave them.
"There was a prophecy," I said. "Centuries ago, before Aegon the Conqueror crossed the sea. A dream came to him — a vision that showed a darkness spreading from the North, a cold and endless night that would swallow the world of men. He saw fire standing against it — a dragon's fire. And he knew his line had to sit upon the Iron Throne, not for power or pride, but to unite the realm before the Long Night returned."
Ned listened, silent and rigid. The firelight flickered across his face, throwing deep shadows beneath his eyes.
I continued. "Every Targaryen king since has carried that knowledge. Some forgot. Some ignored it. But it was passed down — the Song of Ice and Fire. The union of fire and ice to stand against the darkness."
He looked down, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "And you say… my son is part of that song?"
"He is that song," I said simply. "Ice and fire, Stark and Targaryen. Dragon and Wolf. The blood of both, born in the time when the realm needed hope most."
Ned's voice cracked slightly when he spoke again. "You speak of things that should never be spoken. If the truth is known, the boy's life is forfeit. Robert would see him dead, and all my house burned for hiding him. Is that your prophecy — to bring death upon my son?"
"No," I said firmly. "It's to save him — and through him, the world of men."
He shook his head, eyes clouded. "You speak like a maester with madness in your mouth. The world does not need saving. The wars of men will end as they always do, with the strong ruling and the weak serving."
I took a step closer. "You've seen the winter, Lord Stark. You've heard the tales from beyond the Wall. The Long Night isn't a tale — it's a warning. It will come again. The dead will walk. Fire will be the only thing that can stop them."
He looked at me sharply, a flicker of fear passing behind his eyes. The North believed in such things more than the South ever did.
"And how," he said slowly, "do you know this will come?"
"Because," I said, "I've seen it. And because the gods wouldn't send me otherwise."
That earned a short, grim laugh from him. "The gods have not spoken to me in years, if they ever did. Yet they speak to you, a stranger, and send you to my hall?"
"Maybe they thought you wouldn't listen otherwise," I said dryly.
He stared at me, his fingers tapping against the table in thought. "You speak of prophecies, of Aegon the Conqueror and dragons. But where is the fire, then? The Targaryens have long lost their dragons."
I smiled faintly. "Neither are the Direwolves here with the Starks. But worry not. When Winter comes, when the long night approaches… the Dragons will roar again. The Direwolves Will howl again. The wargs and skin-changers will emerge again. The magic will return."
He frowned. "How will it come? There are no eggs left in the Seven Kingdoms, none that I have ever heard of."
"Then not in Westeros," I said quietly. "If not here, then in Essos. The world is larger than we think, my lord. Fire does not die so easily."
He leaned back, silent, still thinking, still doubting. I could almost see his mind working — years of keeping secrets, years of carrying the weight of a truth no one could ever know.
"And do not forget," I added, "the dragon will have three heads."
He looked up sharply. "What do you mean by that?"
I didn't answer. Some truths could only be learned in their own time. "You'll know when the time comes," I said instead.
He looked down at the floor, lost in thoughts that were clearly tearing at him. "You speak of the dead walking, of dragons reborn, of prophecy and doom. Even if what you say is true, how can any of it matter to me now?"
He stared at me for a long time — studying, weighing, testing every word I'd spoken. He wasn't a fool; he was a man who believed only what he could see or prove. Yet deep inside, part of him wanted to believe. The memory of his sister's dying words, the mystery of her child — they were wounds that never healed.
Finally, he spoke again, quieter this time. "If what you say is true, what would you have me do?"
I took a breath. "Prepare. Strengthen the Wall. Fill the Night's Watch with real men, not thieves and exiles. Train them, arm them, send your sons and your banners if you must. The Wall must stand stronger than ever."
Ned's brow furrowed. "Impossible. The Watch is sworn to take no part in the realm's quarrels. And the North is stretched thin already after war. My men are farmers, shepherds, soldiers with homes to guard."
"Then we'll need more," I said. "Not just men, but people — unity. The wildlings must be brought south of the Wall."
That broke his composure. He slammed a hand on the table. "Madness! The free folk would never kneel to any lord. And my people would never share hearth and land with them. There's been blood between us for a thousand years!"
"Then stop the bleeding," I said quietly. "When the Long Night comes, there won't be wildlings or northerners or southerners. Only the living — and the dead."
He glared at me, breathing hard. Then the anger began to fade, leaving only tiredness. "You speak like a man who's seen too much," he said at last. "And yet you stand here unarmed, a traveler with nothing but strange words. Why should I believe you?"
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "Because I have no reason to lie. I don't want your gold or your power. All I want is for the realm to survive what's coming. You know in your heart that I speak truth — the kind no one else could know."
He fell silent again, eyes distant. The fire popped softly in the hearth. The air between us felt heavy, charged with things too large for words.
At last, Ned Stark stood. His face had regained its composure, though his eyes still held that storm of thoughts. "You speak dangerous truths, Manny. Truths that could tear kingdoms apart. If I am to believe you, then I must see proof."
"You'll have it soon enough," I said. "When the cold begins to move south. When the dead start walking. Until then, prepare — quietly. Tell no one."
He nodded slowly, almost reluctantly. "And what will you do?"
"I'll stay in the North," I said. "For now. I'll need your help — and your trust."
"Trust is not easily given here," he said. "But I'll not turn away one who means to protect the realm."
He looked toward the window, where snow was starting to fall.
"When my sister died," he said quietly, "I thought the gods had cursed me with her secret. Now it seems they've cursed me again — with a stranger who knows it."
I smiled faintly. "Maybe it's a blessing in disguise, my lord."
He didn't answer. For a while, we stood in silence, listening to the wind outside. I could almost feel the cold creeping down from the Wall already — a whisper of what was to come.
Finally, he said, "You'll stay here tonight. We'll talk more on the morrow."
"As you wish," I said.
He nodded once, then left the room, closing the door behind him.
I stood alone in the Solar, the firelight dancing over the maps and parchments scattered across his desk. Somewhere in the depths of the castle, music and laughter still echoed faintly from the feast.
But here, in this quiet room, the world had shifted. The first piece had moved on the board.
And outside, in the far North, beyond the Wall, the darkness stirred.
End of Chapter 3 — The Song of Ice and Fire