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Chapter Text

In the ancient annals of Westeros, long before the rise of the great houses and their legendary tales, there existed a time when the First Men first stepped upon this vast land. They encountered a realm teeming with peculiar beings that defied the very laws of nature. These beings, later named Pokémon by the Green Men of the First Men, possessed the extraordinary ability to manipulate the elements — be it water, ice, or the very earth underfoot.

At first, the First Men regarded these beings as divine entities, believing them to be gods that ruled the land. For many generations, the First Men endeavoured to claim supremacy over this mystical realm and its enigmatic Pokémon. However, the creatures fiercely resisted humanity’s encroachments, demonstrating a strength and spirit that could not be subdued. This stalemate persisted until a turning point arrived — an encounter with true deities, Legendary Pokémon whose powers could reshape landscapes and stir the deepest oceans. After a century of relentless conflict, a catastrophic event known as the Long Night descended upon the land, enveloping both the men and Pokémon in an eternal darkness.

The origins of this Long Night have faded into obscurity, but it is well-remembered that courageous Heroes of Men emerged, joining forces with their Legendary Pokémon to defend the realm against the encroaching shadows. This alliance marked a turning point, as man and Pokémon united as formidable protectors of Westeros. As the Long Night eventually came to an end, the Legendary Pokémon faded into the realm of myth, their stories becoming the foundation of legends passed down through generations.

From the celebrated Heroes of Men emerged the Great Families, which would later evolve into the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Over time, these kingdoms experienced the influx of Andal invaders, reshaping the political landscape of the land. An additional eighth kingdom emerged in the arid expanse of Dorne, led by the esteemed Princess Nymeria of Ny Sar and her Rhoynish progeny, who revered the waters.

Fast forward several centuries, and we find the realm under the dominion of House Targaryen, borne of fire and dragons. With over three hundred years of governance, the Targaryens, led by King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name and Champion of the Trident, have maintained a delicate balance of power among the Seven Kingdoms. Despite their legacy being tested through tumultuous times, their Pokémon, though not as powerful as in the age of legends, still command respect and fear among the populace.

Yet, as peace hangs precariously over the kingdoms, the journey through Westeros has become increasingly fraught with peril. A growing darkness looms beyond the horizon, threatening to return to the lands once again. Meanwhile, the nobles and royals, preoccupied with their own ambitions for power and vengeance, remain tragically unprepared for the trials that await.

Thus, the history of Westeros serves as a reminder of the delicate interplay between men and Pokémon, a legacy steeped in both triumph and tragedy.

289 AC

At only nine, Jon Snow was, according to his Lord Father, far too young to join the ranks of the Night’s Watch, even though it was his heart’s greatest desire. More than that, it was his hope to one day learn the truth about his mother, the elusive figure whose mention stirred both curiosity and pain in him.

He wanted to join the Night’s Watch not only to escape Winterfell and the cold estrangement of Lady Catelyn’s scathing glares but to find a place where he might belong. He’d come to understand, in his own quiet, thoughtful way, that Lady Catelyn wasn’t his mother. That truth had been a wound laid bare in cruel, pointed words and frosty silences. To make matters worse, Jon wasn’t even old enough to have his first Pokémon. Those creatures of wonder and power captivated him. The white, floating-furred Ninetales that shadowed his Lord Father fascinated him endlessly with its ethereal grace. But it was his Uncle Benjen’s red-furred Lycanroc, savage and steadfast, that ignited his awe and envy alike.

However, his father would always refuse when Jon pressed him for a Pokémon of his own, let alone the truth about his mother. Each inquiry would see the impenetrable ice of Eddard Stark’s demeanor harden further, his eyes dark and distant like a snowstorm on the horizon. Then, his Lord Father would wave him away, and for days afterward, he would avoid Jon altogether. Eventually, Jon was forced to accept the heartache of unanswered questions and unresolved longing. He feared he might never prove himself worthy of a Pokémon — or of his father’s pride.

Today was no different. He had broached the forbidden topic again, wishing for honesty from the man he looked up to. But instead, he’d been rebuked sharply. This time, his father’s voice had risen, his words reverberating with anger rarely directed at Jon. Even the crackling hearthfire seemed to falter after the outburst, and the white Ninetales nestled by Lord Stark’s feet bristled, its nine tails flickering like storm-tossed banners.

Wounded by both tone and words, Jon had fled the room, tears stinging his eyes. He bolted from the towering halls of Winterfell and out into the chill embrace of the dusk-shrouded forest beyond the walls. The stone sentinel castle loomed far behind as Jon ventured where few of his age dared. He ran until his legs burned and his breath sent fog spiraling, eventually emerging in Wintertown, a lively but modest settlement sprawled in the shadow of the castle.

Curiosity, as always, began to distract Jon from his pain. The townsfolk were moving about their evening routines, sharing bread, stories, and laughter. Ice and Dark Type Pokémon, the loyal companions of many Northerners, prowled or hovered nearby, their presence as familiar here as the biting northern wind. Occasional Ghost Types floated like pale half-forgotten dreams in the periphery — whispering proof of the North’s long, unbroken ties to its ancient past.

But Jon’s sharp eyes picked out other kinds of trainers, strangers draped in brighter clothing, often struggling against the cold in layers of foreign fabric foolishly thin for such climes. Their Pokémon, distinctly exotic to Jon’s experience, seemed equally discomforted by the North’s icy wrath, many absent altogether to escape the harshness.

At one stand, Jon exchanged two silvers for warm, roasted chestnuts, their sooty aroma wafting comfortingly in the wintry air. While the bag was still too hot to eat, he wandered the market further, canny eyes studying the crowd. There was always more to learn from the Pokémon people journeyed with, and Jon’s fascination burned brighter than ever as he imagined the day he would have a companion of his own.

“Boy,” a voice rasped, unmistakably female yet tinged with something ancient and uncanny. It was as though the words stirred the very air, carrying an echo that haunted the melody.

Jon froze mid-step, causing a merchant to grumble in passing as they swerved around him. Slowly, Jon turned toward the voice, its weight tugging at him like an invisible thread. “To your right, little pup,” the voice said again, like the rustle of leaves in the stillness of dusk.

Jon’s eyes landed on her then — a diminutive figure hunched in the shadowed corner of a crumbling building. Her wrinkled countenance, sharper than stone, carried a stark impression of both weakness and a strength that defied time. Brown, leathery skin framed eyes as clear and knowing as a scrying pool, and her long, brittle-white hair trailed down her hunched back like cobwebs caught in frost. Behind her, looming like a spectral guardian, perched a great bird-like Pokémon — its green leafy hood and sharp-edged feathers seeming half-part of it, half-part the earth it emanated from.

Jon’s heart thudded in awe as he approached, captivated. The Pokémon was nothing like he’d ever seen before. Its spotted brown plumage shimmered, and its curved black beak spoke of predation and sharp secrets. Though he was wary, he couldn’t deny the draw he felt.

“Fear not,” the woman croaked, her voice dry as old scrolls. “Decidueye will not harm you, little one.”

‘So it’s a Decidueye,’ Jon noted, as he marvelled at its strange elegance. He wondered what distant land had birthed such a unique creature.

“Are you…lost?” Jon ventured uncertainly, his gaze flicking back to the ancient woman. Around them, the thrumming heartbeat of the town seemed far away, as though this shadowed corner existed in a place apart.

Her thin lips twitched into a smile. “Nay, except perhaps in the way that all old souls are. A place of warmth accepts me not, as I have nothing to exchange for it.”

Jon frowned in puzzlement. “You need food or a bed then? It’ll only grow colder tonight.” His young hands dipped inside his purse, pulling out three Gold Dragons without need for thought.

“Here,” he said earnestly. “Go to The Winter Queen. They’ll have a bed and meal—and more importantly, a fire. It’s to the right, just past the smithy, first building on the street corner.”

The crone’s eyes glinted, and her crooked fingers wavered as she regarded his offering but made no move to take it. “These hands have carried many burdens and held more weight than gold,” she said solemnly. “Your offering is kind, but ‘tis not fortune I seek.”

Jon huffed with impatient kindness. “Then…use it for a thicker cloak if you’re determined to wander like this. Nights will soon be too harsh for any soul, no matter how determined or wise.”

It was his sincerity that softened her. “A steel heart beats beneath the fragile warmth of your little lordling chest. Such generosity is rare, and yet it will brand you light where darkness would seize the realm.”

Though touched by the cryptic wisdom of her words, Jon merely pressed her hand more forcefully, leaving the coins in her care. If she wouldn’t take them from his offer, she'd find them tucked in resolve. She touched him one last time, her fingers grazing skin and leaving a strange, cold jolt trough his skin. For a moment, it was almost like he saw the world different from what it was — black and blue in hue, yet so alive, — but it was gone just as fast. Perhaps a trick of his mind then.

Yet as he turned back in curiosity to ask about her strange Pokémon’s origins one last time— she and Decidueye were gone. Ghosts of fall’s bitter winds lingered faintly, leaving behind puzzled gratitude and an unspoken omen perhaps only time might unravel.

Jon wandered back to the castle from Wintertown, his mind still flashing back to the elderly woman cloaked in shadows. A chill lingered in his bones, sharp and unrelenting. Had… she done something to him?

‘No, don’t be silly, Jon. The time of magic and Aura Guardians ended when the last True Dragons of House Targaryen died.’

“Jon! Jon… by the Legends, where do you think you’d wandered off to?”

The young boy was brought back to the cold stone under his boots and the gruff voice of his father. Lord Stark’s grey eyes narrowed as Jon approached the towering doors of Winterfell.

Jon ducked his head, shame prickling under his skin. His father’s anger was rare, but when earned, it weighed heavier than ice. “I… went to look around the market,” he said in a small voice that barely carried through the gently falling snow.

His father’s brows furrowed deeper. His gaze sweeping over Jon as if checking for injuries. “You shouldn’t wander without word. Winter is harsh, and night crueler still. Get washed up and go to your room. I expect you at the dinner table, and on time.”

“Yes, father,” Jon murmured, slipping past the man. As he ducked inside, his hand brushed over the thick, glistening pelt of Lord Stark’s prized Ninetales. The creature’s nine tails flowed behind it gracefully as its gaze briefly tracked him, burning red like embers. A flick of its ear followed his departure with quiet acknowledgement.

His boots clattered over the worn stone as he rushed through the halls of Winterfell. The castle was draughty, but familiar. Safe. He didn’t look up until he reached his narrow chamber and pushed the door closed behind him. Only then did the tightness in his chest ease. He leaned against the door and finally exhaled.

Jon shoved the anxious thoughts of the strange elderly woman to the back of his mind. He cracked the thin layer of ice on the washbasin, splashing his face with the freezing water. ‘That’s it,’ he thought. ‘She was just an old woman trying to scare me, like Old Nan’s ghost stories.’

He stripped off his boots and flopped onto the bed with a weary sigh. The ache beneath his ribs was not physical, but it gnawed at him just the same. ‘When I get my Pokémon… When I leave Winterfell, Lady Stark won’t be there to look at me so coldly. Maybe I’ll get to see something better, something grander.’

As his head settled against the straw-filled mattress, the boy drifted into a restless sleep. In the depths of his slumber, dreams claimed him.

He was floating. No sound welcomed him, only the suffocating quiet of blue-and-black nothingness. It cradled him like a cold, feathery embrace, stealing the warmth from his skin.

“Where am I?” he whispered, his voice swallowed by the boundless void. Flailing, he grappled for footing, for anything solid. His heart pounded in the emptiness until suddenly, the blackness dissipated like mist scattered by a wild wind.

A new world replaced it—a storm of snow and darkness. Jon staggered, his tunic and breeches inadequate against the biting cold. It nipped at his skin, sapping his strength with every howling gust. The sky above churned, a tempest of shadows and frost stretching endlessly across a jagged, broken horizon.

The howl tore through the air then, blood-curdling and ghastly, followed distantly by a higher, keening wail. It was mournful and sharp as splintered ice, sending a shiver clawing up Jon’s spine. Dark shapes moved in the storm, blurred and monstrous. As they drew closer, he began to see them more clearly—hulking forms, half obscured by the swirling blizzard of night. Pokémon.

He recognized some: a Ninetales, its coat torn and frost-bitten; a Glalie hovering menacingly, fragments of its icy armour shattered; a Beartic dragging bloodied paws through the snow. Others were strange, shadowed, almost mythical to his eyes. Towering beasts with forms as cold and armo u red as the ruins of legends he’d only heard of in stories. A Mamoswine, its long ivory tusks arcing toward the swirling heavens like claws, rose like an eldritch creature from Old Nan’s tales.

An army of them marched forward, a symphony of death and inevitability in their steps. And through glowing blue eyes devoid of life, they marked him. A Mightyena, fur streaked with ice and shadow, snarled from their ranks and charged. Its movements were relentless, its intent unmistakably lethal.

Jon’s heart thundered, but his legs refused to respond. The snow at his feet rose inexorably, closing around him, freezing him to the marrow. The Mightyena lunged, teeth bared—

“Move!” The bark boomed from the storm. A hand gripped Jon’s shoulder, yanking him backward and away from the snapping jaws of death. A flash of pale light sent the Mightyena crashing into the snow, whimpering with some semblance of pain and regret.

Jon stumbled back, blinking through the snowy haze. A figure emerged before him, resolute against the swirling chaos. The man was clad in a tunic of blue and breeches trimmed with grey, tall boots stamping against the crunchy frost. Spiky black strands of hair framed eyes like mirrors of glaciers—piercing, sharp, and unyielding blue . On his hands glowed faint markings, rims of swirling light so faint they might have been an illusion.

“What are you doing here, boy?” the man said sternly, his voice cutting through the howling gale. “The battlefield of shadow is no place for a child.”

Jon shook his head in confusion. He tried to find his words, but they came stammering. “W-what battlefield? There’s no war. I don’t know where I am!”

The man seemed to appraise him for a moment, frustration tempered by something deeper. “Sheltered,” he muttered. “Blind to the truth, the deeper truths. All the more pity for it.”

Jon couldn’t make sense of his words, but he knew the man intended no harm. Stranger or not, he had saved him. He wanted answers, to grab hold of the shadows of confusion crowding him, but there was no time.

A Persian lunged from the blizzard, dishevelled and half-frozen, its dark claws gleaming with deathly energy. Jon didn’t even hear himself scream.

A piercing, primal roar cleaved through the storm as the dream crumbled into fragments like shards of a broken mirror…

Jon bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving. His heart felt as though it might tear through his ribs, and the icy touch of the storm still lingered on his skin. He shuddered, glancing wildly around the dim confines of his chamber. The familiar walls of Winterfell were still there… but the cold would not relent. Somewhere beyond the window, a lone Decidueye’s cry pierced the hush of the early morning.

The sharp sound of the door bursting open startled him further. Robb’s voice struck like a hammer. “Jon, what’s wrong? You’re breathing like you ran through the whole market.”

Jon forced an uneasy laugh, shaking off the remaining wisps of the nightmare. “Nothing… it was just a dream,” he lied, glancing away. “Go back to bed. The sun’s not even up yet.”

Robb narrowed his eyes but shrugged eventually. The door slammed again as he left. Jon exhaled deeply, staring out into the growing grey light of the northern dawn. The words from his dream swam back unbidden, eerie and unsettling.

Lies. Sheltered. “Shadows remember the truth, even if you don’t acknowledge them.”

And though Jon’s body warmed over the following day, his thoughts remained chilled by the warnings whispered in his sleep. The storm was a distance away, for now.

Chapter Text

291 AC

It happened on Robb’s tenth nameday, a few moons after Jon himself had turned ten. After the many lords and ladies of the North had arrived to Winterfell, each presenting well wishes and gifts to the heir, the men of the household set out to hunt.

Since it was Robb’s nameday celebration, of course the heir joined the hunting party. To Jon’s delight, he was allowed to join as well — whether because his age could no longer excuse his absence or because Robb had whispered a plea on his behalf to Lord Stark, Jon wasn’t sure. Nor did it matter. What mattered was the thrum of his horse’s hooves beneath him, the crisp bark of their Pokémon running alongside, and the shared, unspoken bond of the riders as they followed the trail of a Stantler herd deep into the Wolfswood.

Everything was still. The only sounds were the soft crunch of frost under hooves and boots, the occasional low growl of a hound or Mightyena marking their quarry, and the quiet chatter of the young lords trailing their fathers. Robb rode ahead with their father, speaking with the earnestness of a boy eager to prove himself a man. Jon, however, rode at the edge of the group, occasionally exchanging words with Asher Forrester, one of the few who treated him without condescension. Though Jon felt the strange sting of being included among his betters while still remaining apart, it was a pain softened by the thrill of the hunt.

Then, as swift as the wind shifting, the calm shattered.

From the darker depths of the forest emerged five riders, their garb ragged and cruel-faced. The bandits’ Pokémon launched attacks without hesitation — a blast of fire singed the frosted underbrush, a heaving wave of earth tilting the ground beneath them and scattering the hunting party in fractured confusion.

Jon’s mount, a nervous Stantler unused to sudden chaos, reared wildly. He shouted, gripping tightly to his reins, but the beast panicked, throwing him like a sack of grain. Jon hit the icy ground hard, gasping as the wind was forced from his lungs. Stars danced in his vision even as he struggled to rise, dimly aware of the cacophony around him: Mightyena snarling and snapping, blades clattering, frightened shouts from men and beasts alike.

A shadow fell over him. A hand, rough and strong, yanked him up by his furs as easily as one might lift a ragdoll. Jon flailed instinctively, but the man who held him barked something incomprehensible to his Wyrdeer. The Pokémon stomped with jagged power, rupturing the ground beneath the struggling lords and their Pokémon and then bolting. Jon found himself hoisted onto the creature’s back, clutched tightly to the bandit leader.

“Got ’im! Move!” the man growled, his voice harsh and triumphant.

Jon’s breath stuttered, panic coursing through him. He twisted but was held fast. Around them, the battle dissolved into a memory as the Wyrdeer leaped and galloped, carrying Jon and his captor away through the trees. He caught glimpses of his companions in the distance— Lord Glover unconscious on the ground, Robb shouting — but the rising rhythm of hooves soon drowned everything else. The forest swallowed them whole.

The ride was long and unforgiving. The cold bit through his clothes, and the sharp jabs of branches occasionally lashed his skin. Jon kept silent, his mind whirling like a tempest. Only when they finally stopped, far from Winterfell, did he fully grasp the danger he was in.

“He’ll fetch a fine price,” one of the bandits said with a leer, dismounting to peer at Jon with mean, calculating eyes. “The Stark heir, aye?”

Jon froze, his heart pounding. An idea struck like wildfire. He straightened as much as he dared, glaring at his captors with an effort to appear fearless. “I am Robb Stark of Winterfell,” he lied, his voice trembling despite himself. “And my father will hunt you down for this treachery!”

Their leader, a cruel-jawed man with a scar running down his cheek, laughed harshly. “He won’t find us, kid. Not before we reach where we have to be.” He struck Jon sharply across the face, making his ears ring. “Best keep that mouth shut before I have to shut it for good.”

Jon fell silent, biting the inside of his cheek to keep tears from spilling. If they realized who he really was, his chances of survival would vanish quicker than the snow melted in spring. He clung to his resolve, repeating in his mind: ‘ I am Robb Stark. I am Robb Stark.’

He would not die here. He could not die before uncovering the truth of his mother.

By the time they made camp, his body was screaming with exhaustion and bruises, but he refused to let weakness show. He was tied brutally to a tree, his wrists raw from the coarse rope. The fire flickered in front of him, casting long, taunting shadows across the clearing. His stomach growled as the scent of roasting Buneary wafted in the frigid air, but Jon knew better than to ask for anything from his captors.

The leader assigned a wiry, hollow-cheeked bandit to the night watch with an indifferent grunt before curling up beside the flames. Jon watched the rest succumb to slumber, one by one, though the chill gnawed at his own unwilling eyes.

Dimly, he became aware of flickering lights in the corner of his vision. His heart leapt as his gaze focused: tiny shapes — Morelull. Their luminous spores hung like faintly glowing motes in the night air. For a moment, amazement eclipsed his fear.

Could they help him? Uncle Benjen had spoken of such creatures, of people who could connect with Pokémon using a strength deeper than commands. It was rare, even mythical, but what choice did he have? He took a shaky breath and focused. Please, please help me , he begged silently, his gaze fixed on the tiny Pokémon. I need to go home.

For agonizing moments, the Morelull did nothing but tilt their mushroom-like caps. Then, as though coming to a decision, their spores brightened. Soft green energy radiated outward, glinting like dew-dappled leaves. The spores thickened into a shimmering wave, their soporific properties taking effect almost instantly.

One by one, Jon’s captors groaned and fell, limp as kindling, their Pokémon following suit. Even the watchman slumped over his spear like a broken branch.

Jon turned his head away from the cloud, burying his nose into his furs to avoid breathing it in. When the haze finally faded, he gasped for air, his elation blooming. The Morelull chirped in unison, as though pleased with their success.

“Thank you,” he whispered fervently, wriggling against the ropes still binding him. “Please… help me with these.”

One of the Morelull tilted forward, its faint bioluminescence catching the gleam of the bindings. Green light flickered as its natural energy hardened into fine, sharp blades of leaves. With astounding precision, the Pokémon severed the ropes, freeing Jon’s aching wrists. He rubbed them with a soft cry of relief, smiling despite himself.

“Thank you,” he repeated firmly, his voice steadier now. He knelt before the small creatures, feeling for the first time a sense of connection he could not explain. “Now let’s get out of here.”

The Morelull chirped again, their tiny forms bobbing as they flanked him, winking faint phosphorescence through the dark forest. Though the night was colder and more perilous than any he had yet weathered, Jon straightened his back, determination undeterred.

For once, he wasn’t alone.

Snow fell in silent whispers as Jon followed the faint glow of the Morelull deeper into the Wolfswood. Their soft luminescence provided just enough light to navigate the tangled maze around him. Each step was cautious, the sound of compacting snow beneath his boots muted against the backdrop of a vast, wintry silence.

He cast nervous glances over his shoulder every so often, half-expecting to see those bandits— or worse, their Pokémon — cutting through the trees in pursuit. The cold stung his cheeks and seeped through his clothes, gnawing at his skin like icy teeth. Hunger clawed at his stomach, relentless and aching yet dulled by the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

“I need shelter,” Jon murmured to himself, his voice barely audible even to his own ears. “Can’t make it to Winterfell at night…”

The Morelull continued their steady pace, oblivious to his despair. He gave up on his wish for warmth or food — the north demanded resilience, and Jon knew little boys who didn’t learn that lesson didn’t last long in its unforgiving grasp.

Eventually, the glowing Pokémon halted at a peculiar grove of trees. Their branches intertwined above to form a canopy of frost-crusted leaves, enclosing the space like a protective cage. Jon blinked, disbelieving his luck. Then the leading Morelull hurried to a hollow at the base of the largest tree, where its roots curved like cupped hands cradling shelter.

“Re, Morelull,” it chirped as it wobbled onward, its fellows trailing closely behind.

The opening revealed itself as a small cave, the earth beneath scooped into a shallow but snug retreat. Relief, however slight, crashed over Jon’s body like a warm wave. Muttering his thanks to the Morelull, he clambered down into the hollow. The roots provided a natural barrier from the biting wind, though they didn’t entirely lock out the cold. Wrapping his furs tighter, Jon curled into himself. The Morelull clustered close, their lights dimming softly to a soothing glow.

In the silence, his mind wrestled with fear and exhaustion. The indignity of being thrown like a sack of oats, tied to a tree, left in the grip of captors who saw him as nothing more than a coin purse… it churned within him, mingling with pangs of loneliness he dared not voice. Jon’s lips quivered — not from cold, but unfiltered emotion. He swiped a hand over his eyes angrily. A Stark doesn’t cry.

Soon enough, exhaustion wrestled him into slumber, his breath frosting the air as he fell into an uneasy sleep amidst his unexpected saviours.

Eddard Stark paced the length of his solar relentlessly, his steps as steady yet threatening as a caged Pyroar. His boots struck the stone floor in a rhythm akin to the restless heartbeat that pounded in his chest. Even Winterfell’s ancient stones, steeped in the cold resolve of House Stark, seemed unable to temper his boiling frustration.

“Damn it all,” he muttered under his breath. The mere words tasted foreign on his tongue, for cursing was not a habit he indulged lightly. This, however, was no ordinary grievance. The Lord of Winterfell, a man of measured calm and unshakable duty, could feel the grip of fear gnawing at his control.

Knowing that one of his sons had been taken — that his guards had failed, that he had failed, — not during war but a simple hunt, was an unforgivable stain on his House’s honour. Upon returning to Winterfell, Ned had dispatched search parties immediately, sending out riders in all directions. Time, however, was their most unforgiving enemy, and the longer Jon was gone, the harsher that reality weighed upon him.

The rustling of fur broke his spiraling thoughts. Standing sentinel at his side was his Lycanroc, Eira, her steadfast Midday Form a symbol of House Stark’s enduring strength and loyalty. The Pokémon whined lowly, sensing the turmoil in him.

Her piercing blue eyes scanned Ned’s face — her own concern reflected in equal measure. Ned stopped mid-stride and sighed heavily, his palm finding reassurance in the Lycanroc’s thick fur.

“We’ll find him, Eira. We must,” he said aloud, though whether the statement was to convince his Eira or himself, he couldn’t entirely decide. His mind struggled with competing thoughts as sharp as Valyrian Steel.

Was Jon truly the intended target? A bastard was hardly worth ransoming — unless someone knew. Knew the secret Ned had spent a decade protecting with all the quiet resolve of the North itself.

‘No,’ he told himself firmly. ‘ If anyone knew, half the Seven Kingdoms would be at my gates, and R haegar himself would lead the charge.’ But try as he might to bury his unease, those faint whispers crept into the edges of his mind. Whispers that relentlessly pried like the Peck of his foster father’s most cherished Skarmory.

He caught the faint scent of smoke lingering on his tunic—the remnants of a barely eaten supper. Meals had become hollow traditions since Jon went missing. The family was thrown into disarray: Robb restless beyond measure, Theon uncharacteristically subdued, and Arya—she wore her sorrow openly like a threadbare cloak.

Quite unlike Sansa, who, much like her mother, sealed her grief within a delicate lattice of propriety. Arya wept loudly, often, and without shame. If Jon were to never return, he feared this daughter would never forgive the world’s dismissal of her cry for justice.

“Lord Stark—” The timid voice of a steward drew him from his reverie. “Glover’s men report no sightings along the King’s Road.”

Ned waved the boy away, biting back his initial reaction. Frustration would not aid the situation — calculated resolve would. Yet Lycanroc growled low, her ears flicking as though in disagreement. Ned exhaled slowly.

If he allowed himself to linger in the memories of Lyanna — her promise, her final words — it would only temper his current grief into something darker.

He had vowed to protect Jon. Despite the pain wrapped around the boy’s existence, that vow held true. And not just for the memory of his sister. For the blood that bound them, stubborn yet unyielding as the winter winds that carved out the Stark legacy. And he would not let that icy legacy be tarnished by Dragons’ fire.

Ned tilted his head toward Eira, his voice steadier this time. “Let’s prepare to ride tomorrow. We’ll search the Wolfswood ourselves.”

The Lycanroc howled softly, her call echoing faintly in the still corridors of Winterfell, while Ned stood resolute in the haunting shadows of ancient doubt and a brother’s promise.

The faint light of the rising sun broke through the jagged silhouettes of ancient trees, casting long, ethereal shadows on the snowy ground. Deep within the forest, the Ånde stirred.

The ancient beast, pale as the frost clinging to the earth, uncurled from his place of rest. His ghostly fur shimmered faintly in the cold light, an echo of life that defied death. The distant whisper of the Warrior Gods thrummed faintly in his mind like a pulse syncing with his own.

“He is close now,” came the commanding, rolling voice of the first God, masculine and implacable. “The Chosen Child has wandered far. You will see him.”

The second voice, softer but no less powerful, followed. “Mind your approach, Ånde. Many fear what they do not understand. His heart is raw, his spirit fragile. Do not let your presence wound him.”

The Ånde rose, stretching his sinewy frame. His form was lithe as it was imposing, a creature sculpted by ancient power rather than time, woven into and out of the fabric of existence. His claws, long and sharp, dragged idle lines into the frost-covered dirt below. His yellow eyes burned with an intensity that matched the life he’d been forbidden to leave behind since the Gods breathed their charge into him.

Memories swirled in the recesses of his mind — echoes of times past, of forests untainted and whispers of the First Men. In those early days, the pact between the Starks and the forest Pokémon had bound them all. Now, he had little but disdain for most humans, for they had long since grown deaf to the voice of Aura, blind to the pulse of the land.

But not this child. The whisper of the Ancient Ones spoke differently of him. They carried whispers of paths not yet walked, struggles not yet endured, and choices that would shift the balance of everything. It was for this reason that the Ånde had stirred from his self-imposed slumber.

He moved through the forest with fluid precision, his steps leaving no trace in the snow. It had been moons since the Gods last spoke directly, yet now their intent was unmistakable. The boy was here — young, afraid, but resolute. The Ånde’s gaze sharpened as he crossed into the veil of shadows, his ghostly mane swaying behind him like forlorn banners. It was time to see this pup of ice and iron for himself.

Jon awoke to the world still wrapped in shadow, the sky above bruised-blue from the faint light encroaching on the northern night. His breath misted faintly in the air as he stirred, his joints stiff and unyielding from hours of cold and hunger. Pushing himself upright, he glanced uneasily at the silent forms of the Morelull that clustered protectively around him. Their glow was dimmed in rest, but their natural light brought him some comfort, however small.

But it wasn’t enough to banish the creeping unease gnawing at his mind. He was alone —utterly alone in the dense expanse of the Wolfswood. Winterfell seemed a world away, and with every crunch of snow under his boots, he felt the distance between himself and home grow impossibly vast. He had no food beyond the sour Aspear Berry earlier. The bruises on his wrists, though no longer bleeding, throbbed in protest whenever he moved. Worst of all, his heart pounded erratically, driven by an unyielding fear he dared not show even to himself.

Jon rubbed his forearms, attempting to banish the lingering memories of the bandits and their cruel, raucous laughter. Panic tried to claw its way to the surface, but he shoved it down firmly. Crying wouldn’t save him. Fear only made wolves pounce faster. He clung tightly to those words like his cloak, which did little to keep the cold at bay.

“Stay close,” he murmured to the Morelull, his voice small in the oppressive silence. The Pokémon stirred, their glowing caps swaying as they began to follow him through the trees.

The quiet was disconcerting. Though the soft whispers of the woods — little rustles of snow-laden branches, the distant crack of bark — were ever-present, they were too thin to mask the growing feeling of being watched. Every so often, Jon’s sharp eyes darted toward the shadows. The forest stretched deeper than he could fathom, endlessly dark, and seemed alive in ways he could barely describe. Yet something stirred within its silence—something with weight, with presence.

It was then he saw the shadow shift through the corner of his gaze. His breath froze in his lungs as he turned to find it in full view. From behind one of the ancient oaken trees came a towering form. It moved with unearthly grace, its ghostly pale fur catching the fragments of dim light breaking through the canopy. Crimson streaks rippled faintly along its mane, which flowed unnaturally, as though stirred by a phantom wind. The creature’s burning yellow eyes pierced through the veil of fog ringing the forest floor, cutting directly into him. Everything about it seemed imbued with raw, ancient strength.

Jon knew what this was. He’d heard the tales from Old Nan, and even whispered among the smallfolk: a northern Zoroark.

But this was no ordinary Pokémon; its spectral aura was unmistakable. This was no earthly creature but a creature reborn neath the Old Gods’ gaze —an Ånde. Its fur did not shine like the sunlight reflected snow; instead, it flickered like the half-hearted glow of dying embers clinging to life.

The boy’s knees nearly gave way under the weight of his terror, his pulse thundering in his ears. He didn’t even realize he was clutching at his chest until the soundless voice spoke directly into his mind.

“Do not run, little Rockruff,” the Ånde said slowly, its tone low and commanding. “I mean no harm to you.”

Jon yelped, stumbling back as his legs tangled with snow-hidden roots. He fell unceremoniously onto the cold ground, his wide eyes locked onto the slow, purposeful movements of the Zoroark. He trembled, his lips parting with shaky words. “Y-You… talk! In my head!”

“I speak where you may hear,” it replied evenly. “More importantly, I search where the Ancient Ones guided me. You are far from home, are you not?”

His breathing refused to steady, even as he forced himself upright. Fear warred with something more compelling — an inkling of understanding, a faint pull toward the creature before him. “I— who are you? Are you the Guardian of the Wolfswood? The… Ånde Old Nan speaks of?”

The great Zoroark tilted its head, regarding Jon with the same intensity as a predator sizing prey. Then it lowered itself to a rested crouch, its forepaws touching snow and for a moment Jon could almost believe it could move as swiftly on fours, as a Mightyena. Its voice resonated in his head, like a forgotten hymn. “The First Men called me Ånde. By the Southern’s tongue, you may have heard of me as the Guardian. By your kin’s word or memory, I guard this wood.”

Jon could not measure the span of his gaze, nor the sheer weight of the being’s presence. His fingers tightened into fists at his sides, though they trembled. “M-many say you hate us… humans…” His voice faltered. “Why would you help me?”

“Hate is an easy thing,” the Ånde answered, its tone unreadable. “The Starks were not so careless — were not so blind as others who shape this world past saving. The blood that binds you binds me still. By blood. By pact. That is enough.”

Jon’s sharp mind caught the distinct meaning behind the Pokémon’s cryptic phrasing. Its brief mention of family harboured a deeper meaning — something far beyond its unearthly wisdom. The full meaning eluded him, just like in Old Nan’s cautionary tales, until the aged woman decided to explain. His breathing quieted some. He cast wary eyes at the creature, though his fear had shifted into something more humbled.

The beast straightened, its spindly yet massive limbs moving deliberately. “You will not find warmth nor solace unless I lead you. The Gods willed it so.”

“Why—” Jon began, only to earn a sharp flick of the wind-stirred mane before the Ånde beckoned him forward impatiently. He struggled to match its relentless pace, the Pokémon far more attuned to the terrain than his fatigue-ridden legs could hope to replicate.

But somewhere, buried beneath the fear and distrust, a spark of something else stirred in his chest: awe. And perhaps, for the first time in this cursed forest, hope.

Not even an hour had passed since Jon had first encountered the Ånde , and now he found himself deep within the ancient Pokémon’s territory. The journey had been silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath their feet, but now their trek reached its destination: a cave nestled at the base of a frost-laden hill. The maw of the cavern yawned wide, its interior lit by an unnatural blue-white flame, dancing serenely by the rough stone walls. The cold was slowly beaten back by its otherworldly warmth, giving Jon a momentary reprieve from the northern chill that had clawed at him all night.

His breath wavered as he turned hesitantly toward the Zoroark, who stood just beyond the flame, its pale fur gleaming faintly, as though it reflected the very essence of the frost-touched dawn. Yet the creature showed no sign of discomfort, no weariness from their trek. Its presence was imposing and yet strangely protective, like the air just before a storm.

Jon finally broke the heavy silence. “Why... why did you come? Did the Gods send you for me?”

The Zoroark exhaled a slow breath that almost sounded like a sigh, its spectral mane shifting as it turned its burning yellow gaze on him. After a long silence, its voice resonated, soft, yet laden with an ancient weight. “Indeed, it was ordained. The Gods, old beyond the reckoning of your kind, have whispered to me their interest in thee. A pup of ice and iron should not wander these lands alone, for the dangers grow swift and cruel.”

Jon blinked, visibly taken aback by the reverence woven into the creature’s words. His heart drummed louder in his chest. “Chosen… of the Gods?” he echoed, his disbelief palpable. “I’m not—” Words faltered, his mouth dry. “I’m no such thing. I… I’m just a motherless bastard.”

The Zoroark narrowed its eyes, the glow of the ghostly flames flickering across its face. “Thy motherless state matters not,” it said with an air of finality, its tone laced with unshakable wisdom. “Thy blood carries echoes of wolves that once ruled this frosted land unchallenged. Blood that guided, endured, and stood unwavering against storms of iron and fire. You not without kin, though the path to this truth is veiled and treacherous.”

Jon’s furrowed brow betrayed his confusion, his mind wrapping tightly around the cryptic words. “Do… you mean there are others? Beyond the Starks? Other family?”

The Zoroark inclined its head, the gesture deliberate. The news landed with a weight Jon had not expected, a shard of unfamiliar warmth mixed with dread. He shivered — not entirely from the cold — his mind swimming with possibilities that had never before seemed feasible.

The Pokémon shifted, pacing with a measured calm, its pale fur glowing faintly in the ethereal light. Its movements were sinuous and deliberate. Finally, it lowered itself near the cave wall, curling into a regal coil. The flames seemed to brighten faintly, casting dancing shadows across the cave walls.

“It is cold. Hasten to the fire, young one. Were you to perish beneath my watch, the fury of the Gods would fall heavily upon me.”

Jon hesitated, his mortal fear of the creature fighting against his aching need for warmth. But necessity won out, and with careful steps, he approached the flame, drawing as near to the heat as caution allowed. He crouched low, warming his trembling fingers. “But wait,” he glanced back at the Zoroark, narrowing his eyes. “I thought y ou didn’t like humans?”

The Zoroark’s huffed in amusement, followed by what might have almost been a chuckle. “You are correct. In my time, ere-long and cruel, human hands drew much blood. For arrogance, thy kind is oft condemned. You only taketh without return, and leave bitter trails in reckless tread.” It scraped a long claw lightly against the frosted ground before adding, “Yet you art unlike the rest. Thy blood sings songs of frost and iron, of Lycanroc whose pact still binds me. This alone draws my protection.”

Jon set his jaw, his boyish features twisting in defiance. His fingers curled into fists, the firelight painting each knuckle in shades of crimson. “I’m no wolf. I’m a Snow.” He spat the hated word like a bitter drink, a reminder that gnawed at his pride.

Silence passed between them, and then, slowly, the Zoroark shifted its head to level its unreadable gaze upon him. “Names bear no power nor truth, more the pity for those who gift thee shame rather than pride. Look not to the mutterings of fools. Your Aura speaks louder than mortal tongues.” There was a noticeable pause as the Pokémon eyed him keenly. “Thy soul whines like a Rockruff. Billows of snow and steely resolve mark you. That, pup, is more truth than the labels pressed upon you by small-hearted men or the spoiled ilk of southern women and their daughters clad in empty faith.”

Jon opened his mouth to retort but faltered. There was truth — eerie, biting truth — in the Zoroark’s words. Lady Catelyn’s sharp rebukes rang faintly in his mind, her disdain cutting even in memory. And Sansa… well, she had never knelt at the weirwoods, gossiping with her sewing circle instead while Jon had prayed silently beneath the towering heart tree.

For a while, neither spoke. The whistling wind beyond the cave filled the silence, weaving its haunting song. Eventually, the rumble of Jon’s stomach tore through the quiet. His cheeks burned with embarrassment as he clutched his abdomen. “I, uh — sorry. It’s been… a while since I last ate.”

The Zoroark’s ears flicked lazily, and the faintest curve graced its lips—a smile, albeit foreign and unreadable. “Apologies are wasted, boy. Sleep, for thou are weary beyond measure. When next the sun rises, sustenance shall greet you.”

Jon hesitated, his brows knitted in faint protest. “I…”

The Zoroark’s voice turned faintly commanding. “Hush. The northern night cares not for restless minds. Sleep, Son of the Wolf.”

Unsure but too exhausted to argue, Jon let himself settle near the flames. For the first time in so long, he felt something close to safety. As the cold ebbed, he found himself leaning slightly into the edge of the Zoroark’s soft fur, its spectral presence eerie but oddly comforting. The massive Pokémon’s warmth radiated through him. His eyes gradually grew heavy until they slipped shut.

In the veil of dreams that followed, Jon saw Lycanrocs dancing alongside blistering dragons, their forms blurring in a maelstrom of sand, ice, and fire. He dreamed of packs uniting under bleeding skies, the shadows of gods painting the horizon red. It was strange, and beautiful, yet terrifying, and Jon instinctively knew that his waking days were already forever altered by a fate yet unseen.

Chapter Text

He shivered in the icy wind that carried snow and shards of ice. It was a kind of cold he’d never experienced before. He felt the heaviness of the leathers and furs, yet in the endless blizzard, the Sun hidden from the sky; it felt like he was standing in the snow naked, like the day he was born.

“Where… am I?” he murmured, looking around. 

The surroundings were covered in snow and ice. It was hard to see where he could possibly be. The only thing that stood out in the endless white was the circle of large columns — made from a mix of ice and stone, carved with old runes, just like the bands of the Pokéballs. (By now, no one knew the meaning of those runes, nor where they drew power from. All that was known, that they worked. Helped contain Pokémon in their Balls… but they did not work anywhere else.)

Still, the columns were covered in those runes, larger and easier to discern than on the Pokéballs. And somehow more powerful. He could feel that whatever this place was, the columns were meant to keep something inside.

There was a strange sound, almost like splintering ice… or a beast’s growl. Jon whirled around, and cold even sharper, deadlier than before, hit him in the face. Something seemed to move under the endless cover of white and sinister eyes — too light to be… red. They were that girlish shade Sansa liked.

“Sōnar Māzis syt ao, Sønn av Is og Ild.”

The growl grew louder, forming into… words he didn’t understand yet knew the meaning of, as icy fangs advanced towards him, threatening to end his life…

Waking up to the heat of fire being gone was not a pleasant experience. Shivers racked his body… from the terror and phantom cold of the dream or the real cold, he was not sure. And he did not even have the furs... Where had those slipped…

Jon sat up with a start, now suddenly wide awake. There were no furs. There wasn’t even a room, because he was not in Winterfell.

All that had happened came rushing back. The kidnapping, the Morelull, even the Ånde...

“I see you’re awake now, Wolf Pup.”

Jon turned his gaze, finding the massive Pokémon by the entrance of the cave, mane bellowing softly with its ghostly powers. Its amber-yellow gaze trained on him with its usual stern and commanding air. “How... much have I slept?”

“Enough that a new day dawned. But worry about the passage of time after you have eaten.”

Dark gaze followed the Guardian’s subtle movement, and Jon found a small pile of Berries there. He stood up and hurried over, stomach rumbling viciously at the sight of food. Gods above, he was starving!

He sat by the pile, smiling and nodding. “Thank you.”

“ You’re welcome, Pup.”

Jon gulped down three Berries before remembering what the Zoroark had said when they’d met. He paused mid-bite, swallowing sharply. “You said... you know things about me. Things that I don’t know.”

The Zoroark nodded slowly, its gaze unwavering like the tides of the sea. “Indeed, child. I hold knowledge of thee and thy truth. Secrets buried deep as the roots of the most ancient weirwoods.”

“And?” Jon probed softly, emboldened. “Are you allowed to tell?”

“I am,” it said, voice descending lower, “ For truth is thy right, as ordained by the hand of the Gods, old and ever-watchful. But heed this warning…”

Jon’s brows furrowed. “Warn me? Of what?”

“Even if you are to learn what lies veiled in shadow, you wil l not — must not — from this place flee.” The Zoroark’s fur rippled slightly as its mane billowed with spectral energy. “This den, long standing as the haven of the Winter’s Kings, shelters thee and thy destiny. Should thee yet stir from its shelter afore the Gods will it, thy fate may naught but falter.”

The gravity of its words tugged heavily upon him, but Jon frowned, his young face creased with uncertainty. “I… I don’t understand. I don’t. I... had this dream just now and I felt like… like I need to leave. That I should go somewhere. That I belong somewhere else.”

“Then go you shall,” the Ånde replied serenely, as if conceding, “but not while thy limbs remain tender as sprouted saplings, and thy heart strikes blindly as the hatchling Rufflet.” It leaned closer, eerie but calm. “ Too long hast thy instincts warred with thy shackles. Learn to steady thy claws and shield thy howl afore thee wander alone.”

Jon bit his lip, inching closer to the Fox Pokémon. “That’s… what Father always says. That the lone Lycanroc dies, but the pack survives.”

“Truly spoken by thy kin. Lycanroc seldom wander alone. Oft Midday do scorn Midnight, yet kin thou find even in rivalry. Always, kin you must trust. But trust not blindly. Never tru s t blindly, not even in kin. ” Here the Ånde ’s tone grew heavier, its power prickling eerily along Jon’s skin. “And… thy father whom you heed so speaks not in full truths.”

Jon’s gaze snapped sharply at the Zoroark, his voice cracking with confusion and defiance. “What are you talking about? He—he’s my father! That’s what Father said—”

“Nay.” It cut across Jon’s words with calm decisiveness. “That man thy heart calls Eddard Stark is no sire to you .”

Jon paled, his breath freezing midway as disbelief radiated outward from the deepest chasms of his heart. His hands clenched into fists. “T-that… that can’t be true. You’re lying!” His shout echoed against the cool stone. “My mother’s dead — that’s all he ever said! Or… or she abandoned me! But… he…”

The Zoroark’s manner grew sharper, though sympathy flickered fleetingly in its visage. “T’would do thy mother great wrong to let such lies fester unchecked. The blood running cold and steady through your veins cries truth aloud. You hold thy balance not only entwined with packs of the frozen forest, child — but with flames eternal, bought by fireborn kin you have never seen.”

He groped for reason, his knuckles whitening. “Fireborn? You mean… the South?” The words held as much distaste as confusion. Jon hated the South, a land searing with warmth that seemed alien. Winter had always been his home; the cold, his truth.

“Indeed.” The Ånde ’s amber gaze softened faintly as it contemplated him. The crackling fire cast flickering reflections across the ancient being’s fur. “Thy family awaits knowledge of thy name, yet it is not fit I unroll wholly the tapestry woven by fate. Dream thou whilst lingerest, son of woods and skies. Aulfadr Omd, the First’s breadth, maketh thy waking firm; the skies beyond skirts thee vast.”

Jon’s narrow chest heaved as he struck through waves of doubt and unsteady breaths drowned into questions. “Who’s my mother then? Or my father?”

The Zoroark paused, ghostly fields flickering dimly brighter as it spoke in measured tones like needles threading divine mean. “Swear me one thing on the Old Ones, if this truth I share with thee.”

“What… is it?”

“You will not leave the Winter Kings’ nest before the Gods will send their signal. You will know that signal, I assure you. But you will not leave before. Promise me that, Pup.”

Jon whirled the idea around in his mind, his breaths shallow and uneven. He stared into the Zoroark’s piercing, ancient gaze—a gaze that seemed far too heavy with truths untold. Something in that look made him nod, even as his lips hesitated over the words. “Right. I promise I won’t leave.”

The Zoroark inclined its head, satisfied, and stepped closer to him, its movements silent as snowfall. Its immense, ghostly form folded down until its muzzle brushed against Jon’s chest, a gesture both strange and oddly comforting. Jon chuckled softly, a sound born more of nervousness than amusement, as the Zoroark’s feather-light fur tickled him. The faintest curl of one tail brushed against his shoulder as if sealing their pact.

Then, something shifted. The air grew thick with power — ancient, commanding, and otherworldly. Ghostly light purled and rippled from the Zoroark’s flowing mane, spreading outward in waves of ethereal energy that painted the cave walls with eerie, violet hues. Jon gasped as the pressure of something vast and unknowable settled over his chest, tangible yet not.

In the next breath, he blinked — and the snowy cave melted away into darkness.

He found himself standing amid a blinding tableau of sunlit sand and snow, a clash of elements alien and profound. The vivid sight of a single blue winter rose—a bloom so delicate yet defiant — emerged amidst scorching dunes. Frost glazed its edges as if it held a secret alliance with the biting cold. Its petals bled red droplets that vanished into the shimmering heat rising from the sand.

And then, like a shifting mirage, he was no longer standing amidst roses and sand. Instead, he saw a room soaked in the bitter scent of blood. His father — or the man he had called such his entire life — thrust open the door. Lord Eddard Stark staggered forward, grey eyes wide with equal parts grief and desperation. Beyond him, a woman’s broken form lay tangled in a bed soaked with dark crimson.

“Lyanna, Lyanna! I’m here,” Lord Stark called. His voice cracked, reverberating through the dim, oppressive atmosphere. He discarded his sword as he dropped to his knees at her side. Lyanna Stark’s face, pale and matted with sweat-drenched hair, turned weakly toward her brother. A soft exhale, whispering his name, trembled on her lips.

A movement caught Jon’s eye. Two Pokémon stood near the woman’s bedside. One, a pale-furred Lycanroc—its posture watchful but desolate. The other, smaller and red-furred, trembled slightly yet clung with a fierce devotion to its side. The scene painted a bittersweet reunion of wolves divided yet bound by blood and loss.

“Ned,” Lyanna murmured, her voice as faint as the sigh of winter’s breath through dead branches. “Big brother… I’m sorry. Brandon and Father… all of this — this shouldn’t have happened.” Her words dissolved into fragmented apologies, interspersed with quiet weeping.

“Shh, calm yourself,” her brother said gently, though his own voice wavered. He reached for her hand, his warmth anchoring her restless, icy fingers. “It’s over now, Lya.”

Lyanna’s body grew weaker, her grip less steady, as her eyes drifted to a shadowed corner of the room. There, another presence revealed itself—a figure holding something tightly in their arms. As the figure approached, their burden took shape: a bundle wrapped in raw linen. Within it stirred life — a child.

“Ned…” Lyanna called softly, her voice more a trembling breath than a sound. “Meet your nephew.”

Eddard Stark remained frozen in place, the truth laid bare as the figure lowered the child just enough for him to see. The babe’s tiny face was distinctive—a marriage of Northern resolve and the ethereal charisma of another, faraway line. The child opened mismatched eyes: one silver like Lyanna’s and the other a deep, lilac hue.

“Please,” Lyanna whispered, her strength fluttering away. “His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen. Promise me — promise me he’ll be safe.” Her words broke into a sob as she gripped her brother’s hand with a sudden ferocity. “Promise me, Ned. Promise me!”

“They will care for him, Lya,” Lord Stark said hoarsely. “I swear to you.” The weight behind his words hung heavy in the air as Lyanna Stark’s final breath escaped her lips. She became still. Silence fell — pierced only by the infant’s sorrowful cries and the mourning howl of her loyal Lycanroc.

Jon staggered back as the vision unraveled, transforming scene upon scene in chaotic succession. White-hot tendrils of ghostly energy whipped around him, blurring reality as colors smeared into surreal vistas.

Suddenly, an immense throne imposed itself against the backdrop of his mind. A throne forged from melted swords — a symbol etched into the distant foundations of history itself. The Iron Throne loomed, its twisted metal sharp and unyielding, silent witness to countless legacies and bloodshed.

A king clad in black and red — the colours of House Targaryen — sat atop it. His face bore resolute nobility, though sorrow lingered faintly in his indigo eyes. By his throne, a banner waved silently, depicting a three-headed Charizard breathing streaks of scarlet flame.

Lord Stark knelt before this vision. His faithful Lycanroc rested in quiet vigil by his side, its posture low and deferent. In stark contrast, Jon watched as unfamiliar Lords and Ladies stood nearby, unease flickering across their expressions. Their eyes darted frequently between the ancient skulls of dragons lining the stone hall and the King’s legendary seat of molten power.

“Where is my wife? ” the King’s voice thundered, shattering the tense silence. He leaned forward, his fiery disposition barely restrained.

Lord Stark’s reply came low and heavy with grief — an explanation Jon couldn’t bear to remember clearly through the haze of sorrow now clouding the memory.

And then there was more sorrow. More loss. The Queen herself wept—their hands pressed together in shared mourning as her Dunsparce nuzzled futilely to offer shallow comfort amidst a realm of fractured lives.

Jon’s throat closed as ghostly winds spiral l ed stronger. He could no longer discern the figures in his vision; light and shadows danced so violently that all definitions seemed undone.

When the imagery finally fell still, Jon knelt back in the frost-crisped cave, trembling. The Zoroark studied him intently, the glow of its amber eyes unwavering.

“This… this is too much. No, Gods no.” His words spilled without focus.

“​Isn't it destiny that has made thee face thy own reality?” the Zoroark asked, its tone calm but final. “ Thy sincere intentions are leading you. Thy connections to others are strong and deep. The only thing that can reveal what comes next is time.”

Jon pressed his palms into his face, trying to catch his breath as emotions overwhelmed him. “I… my mother is dead. My father, Uncle Ned, he… lied—”

“Just like guardians who bring light into darkness t o keep it safe from predators, you should rise up, even though you might feel weak and torn between different forces.” The Zoroark’s fanged maw parted slightly, its mane shifting against the stone ground. “We are all connected by stories; however, it’s your actions that will shape the future, influenced by the knowledge passed down to us.”

Jon swallowed hard. “I don’t even know my own name…” he whispered. “Who— who am I?”

“You are as much a Dragon, as you are the Son of the Wolf… Jaehaerys.”

As the boy looked up, dark eyes filled with tears and his pale face contorted in a confused, painful mask… his orbs glimmered an ethereal indigo in the sunlight reflecting off the snow.

Unknown to the Lycanroc that paraded around the Seven Kingdoms with the antlers of a Sawsbuck... the child he had stolen from the sands of Dorne, was now aware of his idenity. And aware of his truth, yet not seeing his goal, Jon Snow Jaehaerys Targaryen already made the first step in the right direction, to be acknowledged as a Son of Fire and Dragons.

Far south, caught amidst the smoke of the Dragonmont and the cold, salty depths of the sea, a silver-haired Dragon dreamed of another: dreamed of small Dreepy, lost and crying for its kind, caught in the relentless snowstorm of the North. The roar-howl of a massive shadow overlapped with the soft cries of the Dreepy... and as the shadow’s power grew... so did the Dreepy’s, until blue-white light enveloped the little Lingering Pokémon and it grew... and grew in size and power, its roar shaking heaven and earth, as a new day dawned upon the Seven Kingdoms.

Chapter Text

After five days in the wilderness, the Ånde of the Wolfswood led Jon back to Winterfell — or at least, close to the ancient castle. From the edge of the forest, he could see the hills that concealed the ancient fortress of House Stark just beyond them, if he ventured a little farther.

He was beginning to feel cold and hungry again from his brief exploration that morning, all under the watchful gaze of the Zoroark. (He had been only semi-successful on that front; many of the local Pokémon feared the Guardian, despite the fact that the Zoroark was their link to the Gods and the overseer of the Wolfswood, preventing greedy humans from harming the forest and its inhabitants.)

“If you protect them, why do they fear you?” Jon whispered as he lingered beside the Zoroark.

Being part Ghost Type, the pale-furred creature barely made a sound, moving through the land easily despite being much larger than others of its kind — he still didn’t know the Guardian’s gender and felt a little shy to ask.

“To possess the power to do things others cannot is a lonely road. For such power can be used for protection and creativity, just as easily as it can be wielded for destruction. After the Gods appointed me as the Ånde of this corner of the land they rule, I admit that some of my anger towards humans subsided. But never completely. I am not truly alive, not like... a Morelull, and that is due to the harm humans have inflicted upon me and my kin.”

Jon bit his lip as he studied the Pokémon. “But you still helped me. You told me things I would likely have never discovered from... Lord Stark. I owe you for that.”

“You do not owe me, Child. I acted according to my duties and what I believed was right. I have not answered all your questions, and for that, I apologize. But some truths are best discovered on your own.”

“It’s not that I don’t have questions or that I’m not curious. But I also understand,” he whispered.

A brisk wind stirred, kicking up fresh snow that had fallen overnight and ruffling the pale grey-red fur of the Zoroark. Jon shivered slightly, pulling his furs closer around him. “You are wiser than many others your age.”

Jon shrugged. “Old Nan said bastards grow up faster…” he muttered.

“Except... you are no bastard, Dragon Prince,” the Pokémon growled.

Jon pressed his lips into a thin line, still grappling with this revelation. Ever since he could remember, he had wanted three things in life, some more attainable than others: to know who his mother was, to have a trueborn name, and to have a Pokémon partner of his own. Suddenly, two of his wishes had been granted: his mother was Lady — Princess? — Lyanna Stark, and his name was, apparently, Jaehaerys Targaryen. Did that mean Lyanna had married Rhaegar? But he knew the Targaryen King was married to the Dornish Princess long before Robert Baratheon’s failed Rebellion.

“The Dragons stand above the false seven-faced god and its doctrines. Just as with Pokémon, you humans have been given the choice to take more than one partner, yet only the Dragon-tamers remember this.”

Jon shook his head slowly. “The First Men never took more than one wife…”

“They did, for a time. But even though they repelled the invaders with their false god, the doctrines distorted the Old Way, and the North forgot. You claim the North remembers... and truly, we Pokémon of the North remember. It is you humans who have forgotten.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it. What could he say? Clearly, the Zoroark’s distaste for humans held some truth.

“Go now, Pup. Lie in wait for the sign... and then, your journey shall begin.”

“Thank your Ånde — wait… do you have a name? I can’t properly thank you if I don’t know your name.”

The massive Guardian looked at him in surprise before shaking its head. “Only those who are loved have a name. I was revered, I was feared... but never loved.”

Jon’s eyes glimmered with sorrow. He understood.

In Winterfell, he was tolerated but never truly loved. Now he grasped why. He knew but didn't fully understand why things had to unfold the way they had. Whatever vendetta Eddard Stark had against House Targaryen — or, Old Gods forbid, his own deceased sister — it meant stealing a child, a Prince, to be raised as a bastard.

“No one should be without a name,” he whispered. “I remember the servants saying that evil is born when someone is not loved, when they are alone.”

“ That is true, in a way. But I have never had a human by my side,” the Pokémon explained, its voice patient yet tinged with sorrow. “Unlike you, who will have a partner or perhaps more than one. Even if you call no name, your Aura, your heart will shine with love for the six that will, in time, join you, becoming extensions of your family and power.”

Jon was silent for a long moment, a thoughtful look on his face. “How do you say ‘warrior’ in the Old Tongue?”

Baleful yellow eyes snapped to him. Despite the Pokémon's impressive appearance and the constant cool, oppressive air surrounding it, Jon felt no fear — not after spending days with the Ånde.

“The word is ‘harjar’ . But why do you wish to know, little Rockruff?” the Zoroark said.

Jon smiled a little, carefully leaning towards the Zoroark, unsure how the Pokémon might respond to the gesture. “Old Nan tells stories, you know. She told us Guardians are real warriors, even more so than knights. You are alone so that you can protect the land you are bound to. But even so, the power of a single Ånde is enough to wake the Old Gods in times of need.”

The Pokémon huffed, almost seeming amused. “And this Old Nan of yours is a wise woman. What she said is true. For a long while, my displeasure with humans was what gave me the power to fight.”

Jon shrugged. “Not anymore. So... did the First Men have a word or a name for someone like that?”

“I believe the name that might suit you is Einar.” Jon hummed, thinking for a moment.

“Einar... I like it!”

“It was a respectable name in times of old, before the North was unified under the claws of Starks and their Lycanroc.”

The boy’s lips curled upwards. “Then... I’ll call you Einar from now on.”

“Call... me?”

Jon shrugged. “Well, yes. Didn’t you say that being called Ånde was like being called a Lord? Or a Prince?” he murmured.

“It is, I suppose,” the Zoroark agreed.

“That means you need a name, right? So you know you’re not lonely any more. I’ll come and visit you.”

“Visit me?” the Pokémon echoed, still baffled by Jon's words.

Jon nodded. “Yes. It’s not like I have many friends in Winterfell. And Robb spends more time with Theon these days,” he murmured.

He didn't want to say it out loud — he wasn’t a whining crybaby, after all — but it hurt that Robb spent more time with Theon than with him. They were blood, and Theon was just a hostage after his father’s rebellion years ago. But wasn’t Jon a hostage too, since the day he was born? If all was true, he should have been raised as a Prince...

“I see... Well, yes. I suppose you could say we are friends, young Jaehaerys,” the Zoroark said.

Jon hummed, carefully leaning close again. This time, the Zoroark answered the gesture by nuzzling his curling, dark hair. If he remembered the illusion correctly, the King — his father? — had slightly curling hair too. Was that something he had inherited from the man?

“You inherited much more than Rhaegar Targaryen’s curls. Your eyes are the same as his and your sister Rhaenys’.”

Jon looked up, his eyes widening slightly. “My eyes too...” he muttered.

“You are both Wolf and Dragon. Never doubt either.”

“I… won’t,” he promised, his deep violet eyes — so dark they were almost black, though in the right light, the mystical shade of Valyria was unmistakable — glimmering with determination.

“Now go, Child. Return to the Winter Kings’ abode and wait. When the time comes, you may not only run like a Lycanroc... but fly as Dragons do.”

Jon smiled, backing away. “Will... I see you again?”

The Guardian took a few steps back, moving silently through the snow. “If the Gods will it so, then yes. We may yet meet, Prince of Winter.”

Jon dipped his head and waved, turning away to hurry toward Winterfell. It was cold, and he felt hungry as well. The snow churned under his boots, and he wasn’t nearly as silent as the Zoroark who had earned his respect and affection in just a few days, even when others feared the Pokémon.

From the top of the hill, Jon turned back to look for the Guardian, but true to the otherworldly powers, the Ånde was already gone, leaving no trace behind. Shaking his head and pulling his furs closer, Jon continued walking.

He had spent enough time in the forest. No matter how small his room was, it was still warm and had a bed in it. (Lady Stark wouldn’t allow a 'bastard' to be housed with her children, so Jon was given quarters in the part of the castle where the servants lived, who came from outside Winter town.)

With a sigh, Jon — Jaehaerys? — walked towards Winterfell. Jaehaerys... the name sounded strange, even in his mind. It was a Valyrian name, associated with Kings and Princes, Dragonlords. ‘But you’re a Dragonlord too… And Jaehaerys was the name your mother had chosen for you,’ a part of his mind whispered. It was still surreal. It sounded like one of those silly stories from the South that Sansa liked so much. But he had seen it. What purpose would the Gods have to lie to a mere human? Which meant it was true... and his fath—uncle was a traitor. He wasn’t clear on all the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, but he had a feeling that kidnapping a child — a Prince! — was breaking at least one law. And kidnapping a Prince was probably worse.

He rubbed his face, feeling even more tired than before. What had his life turned into in just a few days’ time?

And what would his Targaryen family say about him, anyway? They believed his mother had given birth to a princess who died with her. Even if Einar had said he looked like a mix of his parents, would the King and his family believe him? He had no proof, no way to back up his claim. Besides, he would have died in the forest if the Gods hadn’t sent one of their chosen messengers to help him. He certainly would die if he tried to go anywhere near a Targaryen.

“And… Uncle likely wouldn’t let me leave, anyway. Especially not now, after what just happened, even if the men had originally wanted Robb.” He was jolted from his thoughts by the dull thump of hooves on the snow.

Jon looked up, his eyes darting around in hope. Sure enough, he saw a group of riders on Wyrdeers. Were they Stark men? Jon hurried toward the faint shapes of the riders.

“Hey! Hello! Could you please help me? I’d like to get back to Winterfell!” He ran toward the riders, calling out again and again, hoping to be noticed. After what felt like an eternity, the group stopped, and Jon’s heart leapt into his throat when he saw Jory Cassel. Seeing the Captain of the household guard made Jon sigh with relief.

“Jory!” The man’s eyes widened.

“Jon… by the Old Gods, lad!” He jumped from his saddle, looking him over. “Where have you been?”

Jon frowned. “I got lost in the forest. Can we go back? I’m cold and hungry.”

The man nodded, hoisting Jon up in one swift move and placing him on the Wyrdeer’s saddle.

“Back to Winterfell, then. Your family will be glad to see you. Gods know I am…”

Jon didn’t say anything. Lady Catelyn loathed him, and Lord Stark had stolen him from his other family. The only ones who would be glad to see him were Robb and little Arya.

Old Marna, the head of Winterfell’s servants, had dressed him in fresh, dry clothes, and her daughter Alarra had brought him fresh bread and warm honey milk. He was very grateful for the warm food. The berries he’d eaten had been good, but they were nothing like a warm meal.

“Next time, try to be careful, you rascal, Rockfuff,” Marna hummed as she poured another cup of honeyed milk. The way she looked at him made Jon — Jaehaerys? — imagine how an aunt or grandmother might look at a child of their blood. Jon smiled.

“Thank you. I… didn’t want this to happen, believe me. It was cold outside.” Still, a part of him was glad. The Old Gods weren’t always gracious, but they weren’t as cruel and unforgiving as the Southrons believed them to be.

“Your room’s clean, and Sara just went to light a fire, so you can rest after eating.” He smiled, feeling more grateful and touched than he could express.

The servants always treated him with kindness and respect — at least, the Northern ones. The women who’d come from the Riverlands with Lady Catelyn loathed him. They never acted around him the way they did around the Lord of Winterfell or Robb, but they always said that even if he didn’t have the Stark name, he had the blood of Winter Kings. They had meant it as a consolation, but it had hurt at the time. Now, he was just grateful for their words.

Marna tossed him another smile and left, just as the Great Hall’s door opened. Jon looked up and watched his uncle walk briskly, his Lycanroc, Eira, following with softly clacking claws.

Robb’s Tully blue eyes were shining with happiness at seeing him. “Jon!” his brother — cousin — called, running over. “Are you alright?”

He pushed away from the table just in time to hug Robb without spilling any food and nodded. “Yes. Cold and tired… but I’m fine.”

“What happened?” his uncle asked, giving him a fierce hug. It was warm, but not quite as warm as Robb’s.

Jon shrugged. “They wanted to take Robb for money. Someone wanted him, and… since I look Stark...” He faltered here. His hair and face made him look more Stark than Robb or Sansa, but he knew there was Targaryen blood in his appearance, too. “They thought I was Robb. I managed to free myself from the ropes when they fell asleep and ran.”

“Do you know what happened to them?” Lord Stark asked.

Jon shook his head. “No. A group of Morelull helped me. They used their spores to make sure the men slept. I stayed with them for a bit, but then I lost them. So… I wandered alone afterward.” He didn’t feel like talking about Einar. If he told them about the Spirit Guardian, he might not be able to hold himself back. The Zoroark had told him to be patient for now and that he could leave as soon as he saw the sign.

“Thank the Old Gods you’re safe, brother!” Robb said, hugging him again. “Don’t disappear like that again.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Next time, remind every random bandit that the Heir of Winterfell has red hair and blue eyes and doesn’t have the Stark colouration.”

Robb’s lips twitched; it did kind of bother him that Jon looked more Stark. But then he huffed. “Sure thing. I’ll go around with a shield on my back from now on, with ‘Heir of Winterfell’ written on it.”

They shared a look and chuckled at that.

That night, Jon — Jaehaerys — stood in the searing sands of Dorne again, the sandstone walls of the ruinous tower unable to keep the oppressive heat at bay. The air was stifling, pressing against his skin like an unwelcome embrace. Waves of heat shimmered around him, blurring the shapes of his surroundings and making each breath a laborious effort.

He saw the same moments he had witnessed in the Ånde’s Illusion, replaying like a vivid tapestry of pain and revelation. Eddard Stark burst into the room, his presence breaking the unbearable stillness like a sudden storm. The thunderous sound of his boots striking the stone floor echoed with each step. In his grip, the dark Valyrian steel blade of Ice dripped crimson rivulets, leaving a sinister trail behind — the silent testament to a grim act committed moments before.

Jon heard the voices — faint and distorted through the haze of memory. Lyanna Stark’s voice, though frail, held a defiant clarity as she reassured her brother. She spoke haltingly, with the last reserves of her strength, insisting she had not been kidnapped. Each of her words hung in the air like fragile icicles, ready to shatter at the slightest disturbance.

Her red-furred Lycanroc stood close at her side, unyielding despite the relentless Dornish heat that visibly wore it down. Its loyalty to its mistress was undeniable, reflected in every movement and labored breath, as its protective stance never wavered.

But then... came the divergence — the moment that turned the tide of the illusion. Lyanna’s silver-grey eyes, dulled by agony and exhaustion, strayed from her brother. And unlike the illusion before, they settled directly on Jon — on him, Jaehaerys. Her gaze pierced through the veil of time and memory, unearthing a truth far greater than the boy standing before her in the present.

“His name is Jaehaerys Targaryen,” Lyanna breathed, voice strengthened by an unyielding determination that defied her fading life. “A Prince of the Realm... he shall be Aegon’s Hand.” Her words faltered momentarily as her breaths grew shallow, yet the resolve in her eyes never wavered. “Promise me, promise me he’ll be with his family, taken care of.” She clung to her brother’s hand, her grip weak but filled with an intensity that conveyed the weight of her plea.

Eddard Stark, known for his stoicism, faltered visibly. His grey eyes, wide with shock and grief, bore the weight of her revelation. He looked to the tiny bundle in her trembling arms— a babe whose mismatched eyes, one silver-grey and the other a deep lilac, marked him as the undeniable heir of two G reat H ouses. The evidence of his heritage could not be hidden.

“Promise me, Ned. Promise me,” Lyanna implored again, her voice growing softer yet no less insistent. Her gaze never left the child cradled against her chest, as if she sought to will her strength into him through the very act of looking.

“He’ll be taken care of by his family,” Lord Stark finally swore, his voice low and burdened with the solemnity of an unbreakable vow. Yet Lyanna’s eyes were no longer fixed on her brother, and her unwavering gaze remained on the infant she held — on Jon.

Jon — Jaehaerys — trembled, his throat constricting with emotion. The word broke from his lips unbidden, a prayer soaked in grief and yearning. “M-Mother.”

The sorrowful howl of the Lycanroc pierced the heavy air, filling his ears with a sound that carried through time itself — a lamentation so powerful it seemed to threaten the heavens, as though the loss it mourned was too great for mortal hearts to bear.

Jon woke with a gasp.

For a moment, he lay motionless, staring into the suffocating darkness of his small room. His chest heaved as he struggled to steady his erratic breathing. His body remained frozen, gripped by the vivid echoes of the dream that had consumed him. It was as though his heart had thundered through ages in that single, fleeting vision.

When clarity began its slow return, Jon forced himself into a sitting position. His bedding felt unbearably thin against the cold shadows that wrapped around him. He ran a trembling hand through his dark hair, his sweat-dampened forehead cooling too rapidly in the icy night air.

He looked around desperately, his gaze scanning the room for any sign of Einar, the ghostly Zoroark. He did so despite the small voice of rationality in his mind that insisted it was futile. Though many Northmen feared these spectral Pokémon, Jon had found unexpected solace in the Ånde’s presence. There had been a connection, fleeting as it might have been. In Einar’s brief companionship, he’d felt less alone, less lost. But, predictably, the Baneful Fox was gone, as though it had never been here at all.

Groaning softly, Jon fell back onto his small bed, pulling the threadbare furs tightly around him as if seeking their meager warmth to stave off the storm of questions raging within him. The dreams returned clearer and more urgent each time, pressing against him with truths he could not fully grasp.

Why had this happened once again?

He thought of Einar’s illusion, the memory now seared into the core of his being. It had shown him something — no — a truth so immutable that it could not be ignored any longer. The King and Queen had mourned for Lyanna and her ‘daughter.’ The tragedy had reverberated far and wide. And yet… wasn't it him they mourned, the truth veiled by the darkness of secrecy?

Jon’s lips trembled as he whispered into the quiet darkness, “So… Mother had spoken true. She loved them, and they loved her. But… why had he taken me?”

He exhaled heavily, his mind wandering down impossible pathways. He knew next to nothing of the Royal Family except whispers from southron merchants who journeyed north. They painted a picture of the Targaryens as beloved, even mythical in their greatness. But maybe… maybe they were something to fear? Not just loved, but dangerous enough to warrant his uncle stealing him away to the frozen expanse of the North.

Even in his confusion, one thing seemed achingly clear: the truth of his birth was his to know. And yet, Eddard Stark remained silent, offering no clarity, no relief. Jon felt it deep within his bones — if he could, Lord Stark would take the secret of Jon’s Targaryen ancestry to his grave.

With a heavy sigh, Jon turned onto his side, his pale eyes shut tightly against the haunting spectres of memory and revelation. “Maybe I’ll never truly know,” he murmured bitterly. “Maybe I’ll never truly rest.” But as much as his mind rejected the notion of peace, his body betrayed him. The ache of weariness tucked him back into restless slumber, though his questions lingered, unanswered and unyielding, like snowdrifts against the castle walls.

By northern custom, ten was the age one was deemed ready to receive their first Pokémon. For Jon, this had always been an unfulfilled dream. Though he had turned ten long ago, being a ‘bastard’ meant he was at the mercy of nobler optics. It wouldn’t do for the so-called Stark Heir to be overshadowed, so Lord Stark decreed both boys would choose their Pokémon together on Robb’s nameday.

But unforeseen delays — Jon’s abduction most of all — had twice postponed that moment. And Robb, with his characteristic stubbornness, refused to proceed unless ‘his brother and future bannerman’ stood at his side.

Now, at long last, the day had come. After a grand breakfast worthy of the occasion, Jon and Robb hurried through the biting winter air, dressed in their finest clothes, their breaths rising in clouds. Lord and Lady Stark followed, keeping a measured pace as Hullen, the kennelmaster, undid the chains to reveal the promise inside — a small yard filled with four Rockruff pups tumbling over one another in play.

“Do you know what you’ll name yours?” Robb asked, his grin nearly as wide as the horizon.

Jon shrugged, keeping his pace. “Not really. Do you?”

Robb’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “I was thinking of Shadow, or Icy Wind,” he declared proudly.

Jon shot him a deadpan look, eyebrows raised. “And when someone commands their Ice Type to use Icy Wind, your Lycanroc’s going to think it’s dessert, jumping around like it’s been promised a feast.”

Robb scowled, crossing his arms. “Hey! At least I’m thinking ahead, unlike you.”

“Boys,” came Lord Stark’s chiding voice, laced with both patience and authority. His grey eyes narrowed slightly as he gestured to the kennel. “You’re here.”

Indeed, they were. Inside the yard, the four pups rolled and yipped, their white-tipped tails wagging excitedly, oblivious to the significance of this moment. Hullen stood by the kennel gate, nodding to them. He swung it open with practised ease, gesturing the boys inward.

Standing before their choices, Lord Stark’s voice deepened, carrying a weight only years of loyalty and duty could grant. “Choose wisely, boys,” he intoned. “A Pokémon’s bond is for life. It will guard you fiercely, train with you endlessly, and — should the day come — fight and die beside you. The Lycanrocs have run with Starks since before our words were first carved at the Neck—‘Winter is Coming.’" His gaze lingered momentarily on Jon, though his expression never wavered.

While the Warden of the North delivered his solemn counsel, Jon felt the faint sting of Lady Stark’s disapproval radiating nearby. He could imagine her frown, even without turning to see it.

‘How Grandfather ever thought a Tully sour as vinegar fit to rule Winterfell, I’ll never know,’ Jon mused darkly. Einar’s words floated to the forefront of his thoughts, the Ånde’s disdain for Lady Stark echoing through Jon’s doubts. It wasn’t comforting... but it wasn’t wrong, either.

Robb broke Jon’s reverie with a decisive step forward. His keen blue eyes swept over each pup, assessing their merits with a curious mix of exuberance and deliberation. Finally, he crouched low and reached for the largest pup — a gray-tinted Rockruff whose sharp, intelligent movements set it apart from its siblings.

Grasping it gently by its white scruff, Robb declared confidently, “I choose you.”

Hullen nodded approvingly, his rough voice filled with pride. “A fine choice, Robb! That one’s the fiercest of the brood.”

Robb grinned wide as he cradled the squirming pup against his chest, unconcerned by its enthusiastic attempts to lick his chin. “We’re going to train harder than anyone in the North,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over its soft fur. “You’ll grow as strong as Father’s Eira, and we’ll be the best of friends.”

Behind him, Lady Stark clapped her hands softly, cooing words Jon didn’t catch. He turned his gaze to the remaining pups — three pairs of earnest blue eyes stared up at him, their tails wagging like banners at court.

Hullen broke the silence with a cough. “Jon?”

The sound of his name made him flinch lightly. He wondered briefly if ‘Jon’ was even his name at all; the Ånde, Einar, had revealed truths to him that only deepened his sense of alienation. Born as Jaehaerys... the name of a Prince unspoken.

Jon crouched lower, hesitating. Of the remaining pups, two met his gaze with playful, eager curiosity, and the third — a more reserved little one — sat quietly apart. Its blue eyes carried none of the reckless joy of its siblings; instead, they mirrored something calmer, older — a stillness Jon couldn’t quite define.

Extending his hand, Jon neared one of the playful pups, but froze mid-reach as an odd sensation shivered through him, seizing his breath. His heart stuttered as if gripped by unseen forces, and the world grew distant, meaningless, save for the quiet pup’s unwavering gaze.

The air seemed to shimmer faintly — not unlike the faint green light the Morelull had cast over him that fateful night. For a fraction of a moment, the pup’s unassuming blue eyes pulsed with an emerald glow, like some divine flicker nestled deep within its being.

Jon swallowed hard, his hand retreating from the playful pup and reaching instead for the quiet one that refused to look away. Its thin, warm body quivered only slightly as he lifted it into his arms. As though sensing his hesitation, the pup gave a soft, almost imperceptible sigh and nuzzled close, burying its snout in the crook of Jon’s arm.

The moment lingered between them, unbroken by words. Then, from among the quiet halls of Jon’s thoughts came a whisper of instinct, an unfamiliar certainty: ‘This is the one.’

Behind him, the other pups began to bark and yap at Robb’s pick, their playful energy directed at their chosen sibling. Jon couldn’t help but smile faintly down at his own companion. That brief green flicker was already gone, but its ghost had sunk into his mind like footsteps on fresh snow.

Jon clutched the small Rockruff closer to his chest, its warmth radiating faintly despite the encroaching chill. “I choose this one,” he murmured with quiet resolve.

Lord Stark gave a solemn nod while Lady Stark’s face pursed faintly. Still, if she had an objection, she chose not to voice it.

Jon glanced down again at his new partner, his chest heavy with quiet turmoil. Questions still lingered — questions about his family, his future, and whatever fate awaited him beyond Winterfell’s frosted walls. Yet, holding the little Rockruff in his arms, he felt the stirrings of something he hadn’t experienced in years: hope.

Whatever path awaited him, Jon vowed silently to walk it — steps guided by the Old Gods’ whispers, however faint. He wasn’t sure where the journey would take him. But he knew, with unshakeable conviction, that it would lead far beyond the walls of the Night’s Watch… or the North.

That alone was enough for now.

Chapter Text

late 291 AC | four moons after The Choosing

It took Jon a few days to find a name for his Rockruff that they both liked. After several sleepless nights, they finally settled on ‘Ghost,’ as the Puppy Pokémon was just as silent when moving around as Einar. This was especially noticeable compared to Robb’s Rockruff, which he named ‘Grey Wind’ due to the pup’s speed and the grey tint in its fur.

Now that both of them had their own Pokémon, their days grew busier. They had to juggle not only chores and Maester Luwin’s lessons but also battling strategies and actual battles overseen by Ser Rodrick. This wouldn't have been a problem for anyone else, but Jon was different. To everyone else, he was just the bastard son of Eddard Stark — the only blemish on the Warden’s otherwise immaculate honour.

Catelyn Tully-Stark did everything in her power to undermine Jon. He had more chores than Robb, which meant he had to wake up earlier or work later to finish them. This often resulted in him being late for Ser Rodrick’s lessons, meaning he could only practice swordplay and not Pokémon battling. As a result, Grey Wind was in better condition. Robb had won their last three fights, and Theon, that insufferable Octillery, just wouldn’t leave him alone.

In retaliation, Jon gleefully referred to the Heir of the Iron Islands as ‘Octillery’ whenever he could, just to provoke him when Theon wouldn’t take the hint to back off. It always worked. Theon was proud of being a Greyjoy, and likening a Tentacruel — the sigil of House Greyjoy — to the much weaker and less intimidating Octillery was an insult Theon could not tolerate.

Unfortunately for Theon, Jon had yet to lose a battle, despite Rock Types being weak against Water Types. (Being a year older, Theon had come to Winterfell with his newly chosen Piplup.)

But today, Jon had arrived late as well. Still tired from completing his chores, he noticed Grey Wind and Theon’s Piplup already curled up on the other side of the field.

‘At this rate, neither Ghost nor I will grow stronger,’ he thought to himself.

Gritting his teeth, Jon walked towards the rack to pick up a wooden sword. “I’m glad you could make it, Jon,” Ser Rodrick called out.

There was no mockery in his tone. The servants and soldiers of the castle understood why he was always late. It was only Lady Catelyn’s southron followers and the residents of Wintertown, who were unaware of the situation, who held a grudge against him.

“I’m sorry for being late, Ser Rodrick,” Jon replied, testing the sword as the knight had shown them.

“Warm up a bit; your first spar is against Robb today,” Rodrick instructed. Jon already knew this without needing to see them.

Deep down, he sensed that Lord and Lady Stark were watching the spars. He understood how Lady Stark reacted every time Robb — her golden son — lost either a sword or Pokémon battle. He didn’t have time to deal with her today, so he fumbled his steps, allowing Robb to knock him into the snow. Robb celebrated, while Theon just rolled his eyes.

Only Ser Rodrick looked at him with a sad, knowing expression.

After the spars, Jon slipped away, trying to be as silent as his Rockruff. The little Rock Type Pokémon watched him wash up and get dressed again. Once he was done, Jon glanced at him excitedly.

“Come on, Ghost! I want you to meet someone today.” The Rockruff stood silently, only his ear flicking in interest, as Jon slipped out of his room.

The corridor was quiet, but the hidden prince chose to use the servants' passages. He was certain the northern ones wouldn’t say anything; they didn’t like Lady Catelyn any more than he did. Even though his own family was at odds with him (as sad as that was), he found allies among the people serving in Winterfell, as Lady Catelyn upset them just as much as she did Jon.

Getting to the courtyard didn’t take long, but slipping past the guards was harder. However, it had become a sort of game between him and the men dressed in Stark colours. Not even Jory said anything because, while trying to find him, the guards grew more vigilant in their duties to ensure the safety of the Starks and the rest of Wintertown’s residents. When the guards weren’t quick enough, he would slip by and go about his business, and no one would say anything to any Stark. If Jory or another guard caught him, Jon would have to stay inside that day, missing out on extra practice.

Neither Jory nor the men under his supervision were fools. They knew that by allowing Jon to escape, they gave him a chance to memorise their daily routine and the times of the guard changes. Jon had even pointed out a flaw in their formation, and since then, that particular corner of Winterfell was watched more thoroughly. But they also understood Jon’s desire to leave Winterfell, and no one truly blamed him. Their Lord was quiet and serious but never unjust or uncaring — unless it came to Jon.

Everyone had noticed that.

And Jon was, well, a quiet boy with good manners who caused little trouble and helped wherever and whenever he could. This reminded the older residents of a younger Benjen, especially when he wasn’t up to some mischief with his late sister. The resemblance, combined with Jon’s attentiveness, endeared him to most over time. Jon smiled to himself; another successful escape executed. A guard noticed him — too late now — and he grinned. The man stared, frowned, and then rolled his eyes, making a gesture to shoo him away.

Jon whirled on his heels and bolted towards the forest, getting further from Winterfell. Once he deemed himself hidden enough by the Wolfswood, he leaned against a massive tree to catch his breath. Being away from the ancient castle felt like a relief.

“Ruf?” Ghost whined, bumping his nose against Jon's leg. Jon hummed and crouched down to rub the Rockruff’s back.

“I’ll be fine, boy. Don’t worry about me.”

“It does not seem so, Son of Dragons.” Jon perked up at the sudden whisper pervading his thoughts, brushing against his very soul each time it occurred.

Soundless as always, the Guardian of the Wolfswood approached from the shadows. Jon gave a wan smile. “I’ll be alright.”

The Ånde’s eyes narrowed sharply. “What happened?”

“You know how Lady Stark is. She gave me chores, and I did them because if I don’t, I might not get dinner. But it makes me late for practice. So Ghost and I...” He didn’t finish, but he didn’t have to.

Einar understood, and a bone-chilling growl escaped him. “She wants you to fail . If you’re sent on the tour unprepared, the cold or the wild Pokémon may get you.”

Jon scowled. “I know. Especially if Ghost can’t practice to get stronger. He’s my first partner, and for a while, he might be the only one. If he’s not strong enough, I’ll fail before I even start my first Trial.”

There was a long silence as Jon gently tugged Ghost closer, rubbing his neck between the small rocks where he liked it the most. “I want to get stronger,” he murmured, staring down at the layer of snow. “I want to be strong enough to go on without having to worry about Lord Stark tossing me out and then freezing. And I don’t want to go to the Night’s Watch. But if I want to leave and make a life for myself or even try looking for the Targaryens, I’ll have to be stronger.”

“Then you shall,” Einar said. Jon's head snapped up, his eyebrows knit in confusion.

“How, if I can't practice with Robb and Ser Rodrick?”

The Zoroark walked closer, the oppressive power he radiated growing stronger. “By practicing with me, little Rockruff.”

He observed a lonely, desolate boy, sitting in a dim corner of the playroom while the other children laughed and revel l ed in their games. A small, silent Rockruff curled protectively in his lap, its soft, fur-lined body contrasting with the boy's forlorn demeano u r. “Too small and too silent,” a voice in his heart whispered, tightening the ache that blossomed within him for the boy’s plight. He recalled the somb re tales surrounding Rockruff; it was a beloved creature, yet its life was said to be painfully brief, if it was too small .

Suddenly, he found himself standing on a pristine field of untouched snow, the ground blanketed in a thick layer of white, surrounded by towering trees whose branches groaned beneath the weight of winter. The snow crunched underfoot, growing increasingly deeper until he realized he was almost ankle-deep in the cold, powdery substance.

“The... North?” he muttered in bewilderment, casting his gaze around the hauntingly quiet landscape.

Just the thought of that silent, frigid corner of the world made his heart heavy with unease.

“Ghost, use Bite !” The command echoed through the chill air, prompting him to scrunch his eyebrows in confusion. How could a ghost use its teeth? And what on earth was a child doing out here, alone, in such inclement weather? The voice had sounded youthful, almost innocent.

He hurried toward the source of the call, adrenaline surging through his veins. As he reached the clearing, a sight froze him in place, terror seizing his chest. Before him stood a dark-haired child, his back turned, facing off against an imposing Pokémon. A small Rockruff

dangled perilously from the larger creature’s clawed forelimb, its tiny body vulnerable in the face of danger. The opposing Pokémon was a pale-furred Northern Zoroark, its form majestic yet fearsome, much larger than the conventional ones he had heard of. Even at a distance, he could sense the creature’s immense power; it was undeniably a Guardian, revered and feared in equal measure.

The child was all alone. Why, in the name of all the gods, was a child braving the depths of the forest, staring down a Guardian that could easily overpower him?

He watched in horror as purplish-black energy crackled around the Guardian’s free claws. The Zoroark struck out with a devastating Shadow Claw, sending the innocent Rockruff hurtling through the air as if it were nothing more than a rag doll. Then, the creature’s fierce, yellow eyes locked onto the child, and it let out a ground-rattling roar that sent shivers down his spine.

Gasping for breath, he bolted upright, finding himself tangled in the silken sheets of his chambers.

“A dream...” he murmured numbly, rubbing his weary eyes. The dark energy of the Zoroark had even penetrated his slumber, probing at the depths of his very soul. The mere thought of a child putting themselves in such peril made him feel ill.

“Rhaegar?” The gentle call of his name pulled the King back to reality. He squinted at his bleary-eyed wife, who sat up in their bed, concern etched on her face. “Are you alright?”

Rhaegar offered a weak smile, the weariness clinging to his features. “Of course, Elia. Please, go back to sleep. It was just a dream,” he whispered, his voice laced with exhaustion.

The Queen frowned, her brow furrowing as she perched herself on the edge of the bed, reaching out to draw her husband closer. Their marriage had been challenged; intimacy had faded into a distant memory. Lyanna had ignited a flame within him, but with her and Visenya’s tragic deaths, he felt much of that light extinguished.

They were far from perfect, yet shared grief had forged an unexpected bond between them, compelling them to seek understanding and unity as they rebuilt their recovering Kingdoms.

“It’s never simply a dream,” the Dornishwoman said, her voice steady but laced with concern. “Not for you. What is it that you have seen this time?”

Rhaegar frowned, pulling her closer as he settled against the heavy pillows of their bed. “A child. Alone, standing firm against a Guardian Zoroark. He was not faring well. I think he might be even younger than Egg.”

Terror flashed across Elia’s face. Guardians had vanished from the South long ago, remnants of ancient times that the Andals had buried in their conquest.

But in the North, they still lingered, links to a world long forgotten. It was hardly surprising that above the Neck, the Seven had no substantial power, and the presence of septons and septas was scarce. Guardians were mostly figures of lore and legend, akin to the Legendary Pokémon. Yet Elia was acutely aware of a single Guardian still residing in Dorne — a massive, ancient entity bound to the waters of the Rhoyne and rumoured to possess unfathomable strength.

She had heard enough tales of Zoroark to know that their Northern counterparts were infinitely more vicious and confrontational than the Dark Type ones lurking in the shadows of the forests past the Riverlands.

“Merciful Gods! Who would allow a child as young as Egg to confront a Guardian?” Rhaegar shook his head, rendered speechless, a heavy silence falling between them. “And why have you seen this? Who was the child?”

The Targaryen was contemplative. “I don’t know. A boy, I believe. Dark-haired, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of his face.”

Elia pressed her lips into a thin line, her mind racing with countless unanswered questions. “Curious…”

Jon smiled gratefully as he accepted the vibrant, ripe Berries that Einar, the Zoroark, had carefully gathered for him and his companion, Ghost.

The training sessions had been grueling, and it was painfully evident that the Ånde was more powerful, dominating every encounter with ease. Ghost simply didn’t stand a chance against such raw strength.

Yet despite the odds, Jon didn’t feel a sense of despair; each battle had its own lessons, and the struggle hadn’t felt entirely hopeless. A flicker of hope ignited within him — perhaps one day, Ghost would find a way to conquer their formidable opponent.

“Thank you for training with me, Einar,” Jon said, his voice filled with sincere appreciation.

“Think nothing of it, Pup,” Einar replied, his voice warm and reassuring. “Soon, you’ll leave the protective nest of the Winter Kings, and when that day comes, the red fish won’t hold power over you any longer. Remember, fish do not possess power over Lycanroc… or dragons.”

Jon huffed softly in response, shaking his head as he processed Einar's words. “Except… I don’t feel like a dragon,” he admitted, a hint of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

The Zoroark lowered himself, nuzzling Jon affectionately, his deep-set eyes glinting with encouragement. “Soon, little one. Soon. Just listen to the song of the G ods and trust in your journey…”

Chapter Text

As recorded in the annals of House Stark, who are particularly fond of the Lycanroc due to their symbolic resonance with the wolves of the North, this peculiar creature stands as a testament to the entwining of the natural and mystical realms. Properly classified among both beasts and elements of stone, the Lycanroc exhibits traits deeply rooted in the predatory instincts of wolves, yet imbued with the geological strength that defies typical classification. Lycanroc is known to exist in two principal Forms: the Midday and Midnight. Much scholarly debate concerns their behaviors, their loyalty, and their rumored “third form,” which exists as yet only in folktales.

On Sociality and Hunting Custom

The Midday Form of Lycanroc has been observed to dwell in tightly-knit packs, often numbering six to eight, with rare accounts whispering of even ten within such bands. Their cohesive social structure belies an affinity for familial bonds — a trait most valued by Houses seeking companionship and loyalty. These groups are purportedly less contentious and more harmonious, sharing in hunts and the mutual defense of territory.

Contrarily, the Midnight Form of Lycanroc is a study in contrasting solitude. While they occasionally form pairs or small troupes, it is far more common to find them prowling the wilds in isolation. It is speculated that this disparity in pack structure stems from the heightened aggression of the Midnight Form, whose dominance rituals often lead to fractious divisions within the group. These Lycanroc prowl and howl at the moonless night, their near-blind eyes perceiving little of the visual world but compensating with a stony attunement to the shifting earth beneath their claws.

Senses and Elemental Resonance

Both Forms of Lycanroc boast a keen olfactory faculty, their ability to scent prey surpassing most of Westeros’ hounds. In terms of vision, the Midday Form retains modest proficiency akin to other predators of the natural realm, while the Midnight Form compensates for its meager sight with an uncanny resonance to the earth’s tremors. This ability is thought to stem from their alignment with the elemental force of rock, granting them insight into changes within their environment and making them capable hunters even underground or amidst dense forests and mountains.

Of note is their effectiveness as a deterrent to violent Ghost Pokémon. The Midday Form, imbued with the immunity of Normal Pokémon, provides a steadfast defense. Meanwhile, the Midnight Form’s partial Type advantage in prowess against such spirits positions it as a fierce adversary and vigilant guardian.

Behavioural Traits and Loyalty

The Lycanroc is fiercely intelligent, ever testing the mettle of its trainer or leader. Much like those of Myghtiena, if one takes to training one, their loyalty must be earned, not demanded. Rockruffs, their pre-evolved state, display a tenacity that borders on unruliness, and this spirit is not easily tempered even upon evolution. Midday Lycanroc are somewhat forgiving of human shortcomings, yet it is well-recorded that the Midnight Form will forsake a feckless master, retreating into the wild in search of worthier allegiances or true solitude.

Within the North, this process of “challenging the alpha” has prompted the Starks to integrate the Lycanroc into the philosophy of their leadership, stressing the virtue of earning respect rather than inheriting it. A poor master, Stark lore claims, is one whose Lycanroc abandons them.

On the Third Form: Folklore or Fact?

Legends persist of a third Form of Lycanroc, whispered of in old tales brought to northern children by Wooodswitches and Green Men. It is said to arise under rare cosmic conditions, combining the traits of Midday and Midnight Forms in perfect unity. Yet, such tales are fleeting and lack the corroboration of history or evidence, leading most Maesters to relegate these accounts to the realm of myth. Whether such a Form exists or not, the enduring allure of such a creature speaks to the mysticism surrounding Pokémon and their unyielding mystery in our mortal understanding.

Conclusion

Thus, the Lycanroc stands as both a mystery and a marvel, blending tangible Nature and mysticism, loyalty and contestation. To the Starks and those who honour the wolf’s symbolism, they are a reflection of feral integrity, a reminder that strength comes not from raw power alone, but from the bonds forged through loyalty, wisdom, and respect.

On the Nature and Peculiarities of the Lycanroc: A Scholarly Investigative Text by Maester Aemon of Castle Black

Gaining insight into the identity of his mother — a woman shrouded in silence —, eased the turmoil in his heart, yet that very knowledge also left him teetering on an emotional precipice.

Meeting Einar had irrevocably altered the course of his life — profoundly transformative yet curiously stagnant. Winterfell, with its towering stone walls and ancient battlements, now felt like a suffocating cell rather than a sanctuary. Disappearing into the embrace of the surrounding forests became his refuge, but the persistent weight of Einar’s Illusion clung to him like an unshakeable fog, failing to resolve the gnawing disquiet inside. As fiercely as he yearned to flee, he found himself ensnared.

The Ånde’s cryptic command lingered in his thoughts: wait for a sign. With a resolve as sturdy as the castle gates, he decided to endure a little longer. He would sidestep Lady Stark’s probing gaze a while yet, and find satisfaction in outmaneuvering Theon in their relentless sparring sessions.

“Isn’t it quite the irony? A Prince of the Realm, confined to the quarters of the servants. I never sought a crown, yet I can’t help but ponder what Muña would think of this.”

In the quiet corners of his mind, he found solace in song and the lyrical intricacies of the Valyrian language — his secret passions, hidden away from the prying eyes of the Starks. Did talent flow through his veins, inherited from the storied Rhaegar Targaryen — the Bard King himself? The question clung to him like a haunting melody. But soon, he would embark on an extravagant Trial tour — just a fleeting moment of liberation that promised to sever his ties with the past.

“Jon?” Called back from the recesses of his daydream, the Bastard of Winterfell looked up to see Robb, his elder brother, hesitating at the threshold, an air of tension surrounding him.

“What is it?” he replied, a hint of irritation escaping unfiltered.

“It’s time for supper,” Robb said, his tone casual yet marred by an undercurrent of strain. As the Heir to Winterfell, Robb often lamented the weight of responsibilities he must shoulder. Yet today, his silence spoke volumes, laden with an unspoken worry.

Had their father confronted him? Earlier in the day, Grey Wind had joined Robb in a spar that had met an unexpected and rare defeat. In his arrogance, Robb had underestimated his opponents, still grappling with the challenge of dividing his focus in combat. Frustration simmered within Jon, pressing his lips into a thin, displeased line.

How maddening it was! Eddard Stark’s unwavering vendetta against Jon’s father threatened to unravel House Stark from within well before they ever faced an external enemy. The thought stirred bitterness in him; he lacked the fortitude to confront the Targaryen King and address the tumultuous legacy that loomed over his head. ‘Curse you to your wife’s Seven Hells,’ he thought, weariness enveloping him like a heavy cloak.

Though he hadn’t yet crossed into his second decade, the burdens of his lineage weighed upon him unbearably. “Just give me a moment to gather myself,” he called, attempting to find balance amid his swirling emotions.

Robb’s blue eyes were filled with brotherly concern, the depth of their bond evident, but he simply nodded, respect evident in his silence. Steeling himself, Jon closed his eyes, inhaling a deep breath as he prepared to confront the uncertainties ahead. ‘It’s time to tackle the fears lurking in the shadows, much like the chilling tales spun by Old Nan. Surely, this can’t be worse than the Night King and his spectral minions, can it...?’

He stood in a shadowy, frigid corridor, the chill of the stone walls seeping through his clothing like a thousand icy fingers. Surprisingly, despite the utter darkness enveloping him, he could see with startling clarity.

On either side, lifelike statues of Midday and Midnight Form Lycanroc flanked him, their expertly chisell ed features capturing the fierce elegance of these Pokémon. Occasional figures of Myghtiena graced the dimly lit passage, their piercing eyes seemingly watching his every move. The cold here was intense, yet it lacked the soul-numbing bite felt elsewhere in Winterfell. It took him a moment to comprehend his surroundings fully — he was standing in the crypts below Winterfell, the hallowed resting place of the Stark family. In this sacred ground, every Stark lay encased in stone, each interred with a sword clutched in one hand and their first Pokémon partner by their side. Most often, those partners were the steadfast Lycanroc; however, some Starks showed a preference for the fierce Myghtiena or had chosen an Arcanine or even one of the various forms of Eevee to accompany them in eternal rest.

To his astonishment, a delicate, ethereal singing reverberated from the depths of the crypts, echoing off the cold stone walls. "What in the name of Legends?" he pondered, intrigue surging within him. With cautious steps, he advanced toward the source of the haunting melody, each note growing clearer as he ventured deeper into the shadows, the mystery of the song drawing him closer.

This is me, for forever
One of the lost ones
The one without a name
Without an honest heart as compass
This is me, for forever
One without a name
These lines the last endeavor
To find the missing lifeline

Call the past for help
Touch me with your love
And reveal to me my true name
Oh, how I wish
For soothing rain
All I wish is to dream again
My loving heart
Lost in the dark

He froze, when he arrived in front of four familiar statues. Lord Rickard Stark and his wife, Lady Lyarra... and their two dead children, Lord Brandon Stark... and his mother, Lady Lyanna. The song echoed in his ears still, even as he could see no one around. He was alone...

“Māzigon, Jaehaerys. Gaomagon daor dakogon,”  something... someone hissed behind him. He whirled around only to face a filed of snow littered with blooming, frost-blue roses...

He bolted upright, sucking in a sharp breath. Deep violet eyes darted around the room, and despite the gloom of night, he recognized that he was in his own space. It had been just a dream — or was it?

Dreams like that had plagued him since he met the old woman as a child. Now, he wondered if she had anything to do with them. Or were the dreams becoming more vivid because of his connection to Einar?

Everyone knew that the remaining Guardians, scattered across the North, still held a powerful link to the Old Gods, which was why they were as feared as they were revered. They were the remnants of times long past that did not wish to be forgotten — literal living tales and legends.

This wasn't the first time he’d dreamt of this. He would often find himself in the crypts, among the spirits of Starks with whom he did not belong. He would always hear the Valyrian words beckoning him, yet he had never summoned the courage to follow and discover what lay beyond the whispers.

‘Maybe one day?’ he thought. But if he followed and found something that undeniably proved his Targaryen ancestry... what then? He scowled.

“The King might not care, the Martells would probably react like Lady Catelyn... Even Einar might be mistaken...”

He shook his head to chase away the thoughts. He had embraced the name his mother had given him with her dying breath, and he longed to meet the man who sired him. Yet, the idea of encountering Targaryens unsettled him, even knowing that his mother had willingly gone to Rhaegar Targaryen and had not been harmed.

With a heavy sigh, Jaehaerys shifted on the small bed and burrowed deeper into the furs. He needed to get some sleep if he wanted to be useful during the day.

295 AC

Jaehaerys sat atop the Broken Tower, looking down at Winterfell below. The moon was rising, and aged residents were hurriedly retreating to their homes as the cold sharpened with the arrival of nighttime.

At fourteen years old, he was old enough to start his Journey, and tomorrow, on the first day of the new moon, he finally would. He had waited patiently, just as Einar had instructed, but even his patience was wearing thin now.

The older he grew, the colder Lady Stark’s glares became. He wanted to hurl insults back at her every time she called him a bastard. It didn’t help that two days ago, he overheard her speaking to her husband about sending him to join The Wall. Eddard Stark seemed only slightly hesitant about it.

Sleep often eluded him these days, for even with his eyes closed, he was haunted by visions. The dreams had become more frequent and increasingly vivid. He wasn’t sure which side of his family to blame for that. Both the Starks and Targaryens came from ancient lines deeply connected to the magic that the Andals had shunned. The young man stood up and carefully descended the crumbling tower, nearly as silent as his Rockruff.

At the base of the tower, he hesitated, his eyes darting to the gate. “I should probably visit him one last time,” he mused.

His hands instinctively moved to the small sack where he kept his Pokéballs. Six in total, as was customary for every noble child — a sore spot for Lady Stark — but at least this Eddard Stark did not deny him.

The fact that his parent(s) were noble born, regardless of whether he bore the name, meant that he had a chance to rise above his ‘status.’ After all, Eddard Stark had ‘acknowledged’ him as a ‘bastard of his blood.’

Baseborn children could only keep three Pokéballs with them if they managed to care for that many. While Pokémon, even those that had been captured, often found food on their own when given the chance, one still needed coin to feed them if necessary. Currently, only Ghost’s ball was in use, although the little Rockruff loathed being confined, so Jaehaerys did not force him inside.

The Puppy Pokémon was somewhere in the yard, but as long as Ghost was in Winterfell, he wouldn’t be looked for. Jaehaerys preferred having the soundless little Rock Type by his side; without Ghost, he felt… unarmed.

He hurried toward the gate, slipping out of the ancient stronghold of the Starks. He kept to the shadows, the crescent moon providing just enough light to see — or not. He wasn’t complaining, as the darkness hid him while he sneaked outside the castle when he should have been sleeping.

Venturing too far from Winterfell wasn’t wise, but he had no idea where the Ånde was. Most often, it was deep in the Wolfswood, serving as its overseer and as one of the Pokémon who participated in the Trials, as designated by the Old Gods. “I wonder how deep I’ll have to go into the forest… if I’m out too long…”

“Do not seek me in the forest, Child, for I am here.” Jaehaerys’ eyes snapped toward the ghostly whispers, and he watched as the spectre with flowing mane melted out of the gloomy whiteness of the snow-covered land.

His eyes lit up, and he hurried over to the Guardian. “Einar,” he called happily, hugging the massive Zoroark and expertly avoiding its wicked claws.

“Should you not be resting? I believe you will start your tour for the Trials on the morrow.”

“I will,” he confirmed, pulling away but keeping his hand on the cool fur. “But… I didn’t want to leave without…”

The Zoroark tilted his head, curiosity flashing in his yellow eyes. “Without what, little Rockruff?”

“Without… saying goodbye. We won’t see each other for a while,” he murmured. “You are bound to the Wolfswood as its Guardian, but I will be travelling around the North with Robb.”

“Will you?” Jaehaerys scrunched his nose, eyes narrowing.

“Of course I will! I’ve been waiting for this for years. Always… but the desire to leave has only grown since we met. Now, the castle that should be my home feels like a dungeon.”

“Are you trying to fool me or yourself, little Rockruff?” the Guardian asked gently, nudging him on the shoulder. “I know, as well as you do, that if given the chance, you’d go South to seek Dragons.”

Jaehaerys snorted. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I have no proof of my claims, and your kind is not seen favourably. Not even your southern cousins, much less you and yours from the North. The nobles will call it witchcraft.”

The Zoroark huffed, and Jon was unsure if it was a gesture of amusement or derision. “Call it whatever they may, but the power of the Gods cannot be denied. Even if those in the South show themselves less than those who dwell in these snowy hills and forests.”

“I think I’ve learned that by now, but…” The Fox Pokémon shifted to lay on the snow, lowering himself so it wouldn’t tower over him as much. In doing so, his flowing white-red mane reached Jaehaerys’ hands, tickling them.

“What comes before the word ‘but’ is…”

“A pile of Sawsbuck shit,” the boy finished with a grin.

The Baneful Fox nudged him. “You won’t be alone. The journey toward what you desire will come with its hardships, but you won’t have to face it by yourself.”

“I know. Ghost will always be around. And I’ll think of you too.”

“Why think of me like a swooning Southern maiden when I will be right there with you?”

Jon let out a startled sound. “B-but you’re the Guardian of the Wolfswood! You can’t leave. The Gods…”

“It was they who granted permission, Pup,” the Zoroark replied, amused. “Should you desire it, I am allowed to join you. But even so, the journey will not be easy. I do not know what hardships await; I only know it won’t be as simple as slipping past the Haunted Marshes of the Neck.”

Jon blinked quickly to chase away the sudden sting in his eyes as he hugged the pale-furred Spirit. “I’d… like that very much, Einar. I’m sure Ghost will be just as happy. It’s just… after travelling so long with Robb, you can’t be seen.”

“I am aware,” the Baneful Fox said, nodding. “However fond you are of your cousin, your fate lies elsewhere than his. Your journeys do not lead to the same destination. He is but a Lord… while you are a Prince whose voice will be — nay, must be — heard.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully, carefully sinking his hand into the long, dishevelled mane. “So… would you… come with me, then?” he asked softly, slowly reaching for an empty Poké Ball.

He showed the small wooden object to the Pokémon, opening its latch and studying every twitch made by the Guardian.

“It would be my pleasure, Dragon Prince,” he said, bumping his nose against the Ball. It opened and sucked him inside with a flash of red.

The ancient runes carved into the wood flared blue-red for a moment before the latch closed. Jon felt the Fox Pokémon settle inside the Ball, and he couldn’t help the triumphant grin that crept onto his face. “Got my first catch! And it’s even before I officially start my Journey,” he chuckled to himself, carefully sliding the Ball back to where he had taken it. “Robb will be so jealous once I tell him…!”

“I advise you to keep my existence a secret for now, as you did with your knowledge of your parents. The time for truth shall come, Jaehaerys, but not on the morrow.” Jon yelped a little, taken aback at hearing the Baneful Fox’s whispery voice (which anyone else would have called eerie or blood-curdling) inside his mind.

“H-How? You’re inside the Ball now.”

“The Ball confines my body, little Rockruff, not my power. The same ancient power I command lies dormant within you as well. With some practice, we may converse without anyone hearing us. Perhaps even with Ghost. As a Stark, you have a special bond with him.”

“But why don’t people… learn to use that power?”

“Aura is the essence of everything living,” the Pokémon explained. “But few have learned to harness it. Your silver-haired ancestors used Aura to tame their Dragons and share a soul with them, so the Fire and Dragon energy would not mar their bodies and souls. They called their most skilled users of the arcane Shadowbinders, Bloodmages. Your northern ancestors referred to these individuals as Greenseers, who could see the past and future through the Weirwoods, and those who saw the present through the eyes of Pokémon they bonded with… Wargs. In the south, those who dwell in sand and water called their most masterful practitioners Watermages.”

“Down… south?” Jon murmured. “You mean… Dorne?”

“I believe that is what humans call the southern lands,” the Fox huffed. “I only know that those who inhabit the sand and water possess powerful skills, even if they are fading. Their abilities wane, just as Dragons and Bloodmages diminish, and Greenseers lose their Sight. Magic has long been fading from the world; those who carry it bound to their souls have forgotten the ancient ways.”

“But… that doesn’t sound… good,” Jon frowned, muttering under his breath as he slipped silently back into Winterfell.

“It is not. Darkness stirs awake, and humans have forgotten the most powerful ways to defend themselves. They fight alongside us, Pokémon, but they do not fight beside us as they used to.”

“So… Aura isn’t just a fairy tale… and I suppose Aura Guardians aren’t either?”

“No,” the Pokémon agreed. “What this land calls Aura Guardians are the warriors of spring, of good and light. Any man or woman can train to be a Bloodmage or a Greenseer, as long as they have the right ancestry. It is, in a way, bound in the blood. However, only the strongest of the strong, those favoured by the Gods — whether they are the Old Ones who slumber here, the Fourteen Forgotten of Valyria, or the one the Children of Water call their Mother — can become Aura Guardians. What differentiates them from a Seer or a Mage is their power. They are far more powerful, favored by the Gods they serve in a way that others are not.”

Jon paused for a moment, processing this information. “Interesting. So, it’s not entirely impossible that Queen Visenya was a witch, as some history books suggest? Or that Starks are Wargs?”

“No. She may have been a Bloodmage or a Shadowbinder, or perhaps both. Only the Gods of Fire and Blood could confirm that, and I am not one of their children. Most of you, Son of Fire, share a soul and eyes with your Lycanroc. Yet, that ability remains dormant—forgotten. The claws bestowed upon you human Lycanroc to combat Winter have dullened so much that you even forget you possess them. Similar things can be said about those like you in the South.”

For a while, he remained silent. He had discussed magic and the Gods with Einar before, but the Guardian had never shared so much. It was… intriguing.

“You say our claws are dulled, but… why would we need them?” he whispered as he entered his room.

“Because Winter lies in wait, little Rockruff. Those caught unaware will become its servants, Spectres in the endless Night, trapped in eternal misery. Your ancestors spoke the truth when they said, ‘Winter Is Coming.’ You humans say the North Remembers, but you do not. The North remembers, yet you humans have forgotten, and you do not perceive the signs.”

Jon slipped under his furs, frowning. “What… signs?”

“ The signs sent by the Gods,” the Zoroark huffed. “They may have withdrawn from this realm to give us space, but they do not desire the Cold One to stand triumphant. They have sent signs and still do, but so few of you understand…”

He stood once more amidst the snow, but this time the landscape resembled a vast training field, marred by time, with towering, crumbling walls looming ominously around him. Curiosity piqued, he furrowed his brow as he tried to identify the colossal structures.

“Is that… Moat Cailin?” he mused aloud, the name heavy with historical significance and memories.

Suddenly, a bone-chilling howl pierced the air, causing him to whip his head in its direction. The sound could have come from a Myghtiena or a Lycanroc, but from this distance, distinguishing between the two was nearly impossible.

“Now, Ghost! Use Continental Crush! ” a youthful male voice declared triumphantly, the command echoing through the cold air.

He recognized the dazzling light of a Z-Crystal illuminating the scene, flickering with energy. His attention turned to the Lycanroc. Was it the Midday Form? He squinted, trying to make out the creature’s features through the swirling snow.

With powerful grace, the Lycanroc leapt into the air, summoning a multitude of massive rocks that rose from the ground like enormous fists. It concentrated them into a single, colossal sphere, a display of raw strength and skill. With a decisive flick of its tail, the beast sent the rock ball hurtling downward, aimed squarely at the Froslass hovering ominously below.

The impact was thunderous, a roaring explosion that sent tremors through the very ground he stood on, shaking the snow beneath his boots. As the dust began to settle and the swirling flakes danced in the aftermath, he caught sight of the Lycanroc, its outline still somewhat obscured, standing triumphantly and howling to the heavens as if claiming victory over the world.

The man on the opposite side of the battlefield, now revealing his identity, recalled his unmoving Froslass with a gentle wave before striding toward the dark-haired boy. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and as Rhaegar observed him, he reached into a pocket with an air of anticipation.

“You’ve done remarkably well. Your Lycanroc possesses great power… and an undeniable uniqueness,” the man praised, his voice warm and encouraging, brimming with approval.

The boy emitted a sound that was an intricate blend of acceptance, skepticism, and shock. “Thank you, My Lord,” he replied, his voice faltering slightly as he grappled with his emotions.

The man extended a small, brown crystal toward him. Rhaegar noted that it was larger than average, glinting with the promise of potential. “This is your reward for successfully completing the Trial.”

With a mix of reverence and awe, the boy accepted the Z-Crystal, his expression shifting to one of gratitude. “Thank you, once again.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Dragon’s Son… your true trials are only just beginning,” the short man cautioned, a melodic hum escaping his lips as he gazed past the boy, a shadow of depth in his eyes. Rhaegar felt a shiver run down his spine as he realized the man’s gaze was locked on him.

Those muddy-green eyes, filled with a knowing intensity and an undercurrent of regret, held him captive. “Seek the truth where it lies… go to where it began,” the man urged, his voice laced with an enigmatic weight that resonated in the chilly air.

Rhaegar bolted upright in bed, his body bathed in sweat, the thin sleeping silks clinging uncomfortably to his form.  ‘Had… that man  seen  me? But… it was a dream. And yet…’

What… did all of this mean? Sometimes, Rhaegar wished he understood more of his dreams.

The next morning dawned bright and bustling with excitement as a grand feast unfolded in Winterfell’s Great Hall. But Jon Snow felt the weight of exclusion; this celebration was not for him — never for the bastard.

Instead, it was a lavish send-off for his brother, Robb, the Heir, the future Lord Paramount of the North, who was embarking on his Trial journey. The air was thick with anticipation, and everyone assumed Robb would triumph — no one entertained the thought of failure. Earning at least four Crystals was seen as the bare minimum for proving oneself worthy. To fail would not only deny Robb honour but would cast a shadow on his fate — failure would suggest the Gods had deemed him inadequate to lead, and the prestigious title of Heir would then shift to one of his siblings who had succeeded where he had not.

Jon watched the festivities from a distance, marvelling at how he had failed to notice the extensive preparations that must have consumed the week prior. The long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, loaves of freshly baked bread, and overflowing pitchers of ale while banners proudly displayed the Stark sigil. Yet, Jon had lost himself in the more tranquil embrace of the forest, practising his swordplay and retreating to forgotten corners of Winterfell to delve into the ancient magic of his ancestors — both Stark and Targaryen.

He felt the pull of both lineages, a duality he struggled to reconcile within himself. Einar, his Guardian, insisted that the King would not begrudge him an audience, even if he had been thought dead for a decade. Jon felt a twinge of doubt about that. Still, he believed that even death by Martell poison — something he imagined would be swift and merciful — would be preferable to enduring the cold, indifferent disdain of Eddard Stark, his so-called ‘father’.

He had meticulously prepared his travel gear: three sets of well-worn clothes that he had patched countless times, thanks to the practical lessons imparted by the kind-hearted servants — Old Gods bless them — who had taught him how to wield a needle and thread. While it was traditional for a child departing on a journey to receive a small purse of coins, Jon was fully aware of Lady Catelyn’s propensity for subtle sabotage; he half-expected her to diminish the amount he would receive. Thus, he had been saving his own coins over the years, and he felt a swell of pride knowing he had gathered enough for a passage to Pentos if the need arose, with a few coins to spare afterward.

As Robb reveled in the feast amidst their family — sharing laughter and stories — Jon sat apart at the lower tables alongside the servants. He had grown accustomed to this position, perhaps even preferred it; less scrutiny directed toward him meant he could observe everything in silence.

Yet, every fleeting glance at Eddard Stark filled him with a mix of disappointment and simmering anger. “Fret not, Son of Winter Rose,” Einar’s voice broke through his thoughts, smooth and reassuring. “Your time will come.”

“I know,” Jon replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Before you leave, steal away to the crypts,” Einar urged. Jon’s brow furrowed at the unexpected command, though somehow, the Zoroark sensed his uncertainty. “The way to prove your name and blood lies buried in the dark. Take it now and hide it where only you can find it. Perhaps next time you visit, you may not have the chance to claim it.”

Jon chewed on the inside of his cheek at the foreboding words. He had no intention of ever returning to Winterfell — not if he could help it.

The whims of the Gods, however, were inscrutable. Despite his youth, he understood that the favour the Gods had shown him also meant he was their tool, an instrument for purposes he didn’t yet comprehend.

Why they would choose him, a bastard, a Prince who was ignorant of the weight of a crown, baffled him, but he chose not to challenge their will. To argue with the Gods, or with his Guardian, would be an exercise in futility. With a low hum of agreement, Jon lowered his head and took a bite from his plate. He sensed one of the nearby girls looking at him curiously, but he shrugged off her attention.

Soon, he would leave the familiar walls of Winterfell and embark on an uncertain future, with a resolve that solidified in his heart: he would not come back.

Chapter Text

Slipping away to sneak down into the Crypts, following Einar’s instructions, was not as hard as Jon had imagined. With the feast well underway, no one paid any mind to a bastard.

Stepping into the cool outside air was refreshing, but the idea of going down into the Crypts was somehow daunting. They’d played there once with Robb, and it had been fun in a childish way. However, Eddard Stark had certainly not been impressed by their adventure. As punishment, both of them had to stay indoors for an entire week and spend an extra hour under Maester Luwin’s supervision. After that, Jon never attempted to venture into the Crypts without an adult.

He shook his head and veered off toward the glass gardens. He remembered Uncle Benjen saying that Aunt Ly — his mother — had loved winter roses. It would be his first visit, so it would be nice to bring her some. He slipped into the glass dome, huffing happily at the warmth inside. His gaze roamed the greens, searching for frost-blue petals. He spotted the roses in the farthest corner and hurried over.

For a moment, he paused to admire them, smiling softly. “I think I understand why you liked winter roses so much, Mother. They’re beautiful.”

He grabbed one in full bloom and carefully tore it off. When it came away from the bush with a satisfying snap, Jon turned and hurried back the way he came. Gods knew when his absence would be noticed. Best not to linger too long. Snow crunched under his boots as he all but ran back, taking only a dozen or so steps before reaching the simple yet imposing door.

He hesitated for a moment.

He had not been in the Crypts for years, and even that one time had felt like childish folly. Despite this, he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible as he crept through the yard covered in a thin layer of snow. When he reached the door, he glanced behind and around to make sure no one saw him. Nothing.

He opened the heavy door just a crack, enough for him to slip inside, and closed it just as quickly. To his relief, a few torches lined the walls, casting an orange glow over the resting place of all his Stark ancestors. He carefully grabbed a torch, using one hand for support against the wall while holding the rose between two fingers.

He slowly descended the steps, walking past many, many stone carvings of Starks, their most faithful Pokémon — Lycanrocs, Myghtiena, or the occasional Eevee evolution —captured in stone for all eternity. As he reached the last section, the newest stones, he noticed the rock was new enough that it had not yet been discoloured by time. His uncle Brandon’s sculpture appeared as stern as his father, even though he recalled Eddard Stark briefly mentioning that his older brother had been a jovial, though rash, person who enjoyed life. Lady Lyarra Stark’s face looked long and solemn, a kind of beauty he could not quite name. And her only daughter seemed even more beautiful, but Lyanna Stark looked terribly young, even set in stone.

The sight made his heart ache with a pain he could not express. “Muña, gōntan ao henujagon nyke?”

The question still confused him. Why would a married man, like the King, look at another woman? Even if what Einar had shown was true and Queen Elia mourned her death along with her husband...

“I told you already, little Rockruff. Dragons stand above the teachings of the false, human-faced gods. He married one woman out of duty and the other out of love. His Queen’s heart I know not, but the Children of Water are not what the Andals believe them to be.”

Jon frowned thoughtfully as he placed the single rose by the statue’s feet, studying the stone face. “I should have come sooner,” he murmured. “I’m sorry, Mother.”

Predictably, the sculpture did not answer. Yet, he felt strangely at peace now, at least in part. He knew that unless he faced the King somehow, at some point, he would not gain the answers he sought.

Einar knew only so much. The Ånde had answered questions that had haunted him for a long time. But with those answers, new questions emerged — ones not even the Zoroark could answer.

“I’ll leave Winterfell. Robb thinks I’ll journey with him, but...” he frowned, “...I don’t think I want to. I want to meet him, you know. The King. You can’t answer the questions I have. He could…”

There was a long silence. For a moment, he simply stood there, gazing thoughtfully at the statues of his family.

Jon’s reverie was disrupted by a flash and the soft sound of a clicking latch. His eyes darted to the side, where he saw Einar's massive yet lithe form. The gloom of the Crypts made the Zoroark appear even more menacing, his mane shifting and his yellow eyes glowing in the faint torchlight. “The proof of your birth had been hidden in the tomb.”

Jon moved to the side, seeing the massive stone slab that kept his mother’s resting place sealed. “How do I open it, then?”

Einar stepped closer, his movements soundless, placing his paws on the stone slab. Jon watched as the animal strained against the stone, his body enveloped in a ghostly energy, cold wind stirring where there had been none before.

The tomb opened loudly, stone scraping of stone.

Despite the cold, he felt his hands growing clammy, as the Pokémon stepped away. He swallowed hard and stepped closer to look inside. 

A small, colourful object greeted him first and he blinked in bewilderment, needing a moment to realise, that Lyanna Stark had died in Dorne.

“Her body was burned, as befitting a Princess of the House of Dragons. But make no mistake, it was not the Wolf Lord’s respect for the Dragons, that made him do it... but necessity.”

Jon hummed, not quite understanding that. Later when he understands, the memory of this talk would spark disapproval in him, for even without knowing the House of Dragons, he knows that creatures and tamers of ancient power do not disrespect tradition, that is bound in blood and magic.

Beside the cold, ashen remnants of the past, a moderately sized box made of dark wood lay nestled against the damp earth. Einar’s calloused hands reached for it, extracting the box and setting it down gently upon the ground.

At the sight, Jon’s breath caught in his throat, a rush of memories flooding him. It was the same exquisite ironwood from which the ancient door of the Crypts had been fashioned. “Ironwood.” Einar huffed, a hint of reverence in his voice. “It’s notoriously difficult to work with, and its numbers have dwindled in the South, unlike in days gone by.”

Jon knelt down, his fingers gliding over the intricate carvings that depicted the fierce horns of a three-headed Charizard. “House Targaryen…” he breathed, the weight of his heritage settling heavily on him.

“Your family,” Einar affirmed, his voice low but resonant. “Yours by blood and hers by choice. She despised the Sawsbuck Lord, the man she was intended to wed.”

“Robert Baratheon, right? Lord Stark’s foster brother?” Jon pressed, struggling to contain the tumult of emotions swirling inside him. His lips pressed into a thin line, the name of the man who had once held dominion over his mother’s fate tethering his heart to the past. Einar gave a solemn nod, and Jon’s gaze shifted back to the box.

With a deep breath, he slowly lifted the lid, allowing it to creak open. Within, in the faint light filtering through the gloom, he found letters — dozens of them.

His sharp eyes noted the differences in penmanship, suggesting three distinct authors. Beneath those letters lay official documents, their signatures proclaiming their importance: a Septon, Elia Martell, Rhaegar Targaryen, and Lyanna Stark...

“B-Benjen Stark?” Jon’s voice trembled with disbelief.

“Yes,” Einar replied, his tone grave. “They were wed in both the Old Way and the Valyrian Way. Benjen Stark, loyal to his sister, gave her away in place of their father. Eddard Stark lied to him, as well. When deceit wrapped itself around the truth, the youngest Wolf did not question his brother or the existence of his nephew, nor the death of his sister and her supposed daughter. His soul was drowned in grief.”

Jon released a long, shaky breath. Did Uncle Benjen know the truth? Or had he, like so many others, been ensnared by the web of lies? Old Nan had once whispered that grief and anger are the most perilous emotions, capable of blinding even the most pious Septon to commit unspeakable acts. Had Uncle Benjen fallen prey to such darkness? Had he been so consumed with sorrow that he failed to scrutinize his brother’s words?

“Perhaps. But why search for a lie from the mouth of one we deem the most truthful, our most trusted?” Einar posited, a furrow forming in his brow.

Jon frowned, the truth of Einar’s words weighing heavily on him. It was difficult to accuse someone you loved and trusted of deceit, not without substantial reasons. Uncle Benjen had believed Eddard’s lies because he had trusted his brother—known widely as an honorable man. ‘He’s the farthest thing from honourable...’

Closing the little box, Jon — now Jaehaerys —turned to the Ånde. “Can we hide this somewhere, where only you and I can reach?” His voice was a mere whisper, laced with urgency. “I don’t want to leave it here... but if Robb...”

The Zoroark emitted an understanding growl. “I can take it to my lair... and we shall reunite when you’re already on the road. The Red Rockruff should not see me yet.”

Jon nodded his consent, opening his mouth to speak, but his words faltered when a soft, yet eerie shriek reverberated through the crypt, freezing him in place. His Targaryen-purple eyes widened as they darted around the shadowy depths.

“What was that?” he hissed through gritted teeth, apprehension seeping into his voice.

Einar’s ancient eyes scrutinized the darkness, fixating on a corner that remained untouched even by his years of wisdom. “Eight thousand years of history lies here, buried deep, Dragon Prince. Do you believe all your ancestors were as foolishly ‘honourable’ or spiteful towards the Silver Ones? The Silver Ones who tamed Dragons and brought magic to oppose the Cold One?”

The cry — a haunting croon — echoed once more through the stones and earth, intertwining with the whispers of time. Cautiously, without a word, Jon beckoned Einar to follow, curiosity propelling him toward the sound, which rippled and intensified as he moved further into the crypt's shadows.

As darkness enveloped him, Einar’s power surged forth, igniting a circle of purplish-blue flames that flickered to life, casting a soothing glow around them.

“Eeeep...”

At that moment, Jon caught a glimpse of movement. “Is... something here?” Panic laced his voice.

“Spirits linger in places such as this,” the Ånde explained, the gravity of his words hanging in the chilled air.

“Eeep,” the sound echoed again... And this time, within the bluish glow of Einar’s Will-O-Wisp, Jon beheld a tiny creature. It floated before him, vibrant green with a darker head adorned with horns and sparkling, oversized yellow eyes.

Jon’s head tilted in curiosity, marvelling at a Pokémon he had never seen or even heard of before. Behind him, Einar couldn’t suppress a sound of amusement. “Even if you are unsure, the Gods are adamant you take the path they’d intended for you, Dragon Prince.”

Scrunching his nose, Jon’s eyes flicked from the mysterious Spirit Guardian to the ethereal Pokémon. “Do I even want to know?” he murmured, a mix of intrigue and wariness in his voice.

Einar laughed heartily, but the tiny ghost vanished into the shadows of Winterfell’s crypts, leaving the air thick with mystery and uncharted possibilities.

Chapter Text

At the heart of every Trial lies the essential task of collecting Z-Crystals — unique tokens that are infused with the energy of the land and Pokémon they are connected to, an ancient blessing from the Old Gods, so we may be ready to combat the Long Night for all the days and nights to come. Participants in the Trials strive to acquire four or more Crystals from various landscapes, demonstrating their adaptability, courage, and skill throughout the experience. These Crystals symbolize the balance between the elements, representing diverse types such as Ice, Fire, Rock, and Ghost.

While there are set time limits for completing the Trials, the focus is more on the quality of the Crystals collected rather than merely finishing quickly. A powerful warrior might arrive on time with fewer Crystals and still face defeat against another participant who, despite being late, possesses more elemental Crystals earned through a more thoughtful approach.

Additionally, the Trials present personal challenges that are unique to each region. For instance, in the Wolfswood, candidates must demonstrate mastery and patience while navigating the gruelling Northern terrain, facing Ghost Type Pokémon that might employ trickery over cruelty… or perhaps display both. This particular Trial tests both wit and survival skills, as participants encounter moral dilemmas — such as choosing whether to spare a hostile Pokémon instead of capitalizing on a vulnerable target — adding layers of complexity to their journey.

 

 — a Greenseer’s musings on the Northern Crystal Trial Tour

Jaehaerys watched as the small Pokémon melted into the eerie darkness with a sense of bewilderment.

“Was that a Dragon Type?” he asked.

“Indeed. It’s a kind that was rare to see when dragons soared. Now, it’s more common — if one knows where to look. But no one bothers them, not even those with the bloodline to tame dragons,” came the response.

Jaehaerys blinked and raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

“Because that Pokémon is too weak to be a threat. Only when it grows does it become one of the strongest dragons known. But it takes time, and for some, that time is deemed too long.” Jaehaerys hummed thoughtfully, glancing into the darkness where the dragon had disappeared. “We should leave, little Rockruff, before you are missed,” he suggested.

Jon nodded in acknowledgment. With one last glance at his mother’s tomb, he began the trek back. He was about to start climbing the slippery stairs when he realized Einar was still with him, following silently.

“Will you be able to leave without being noticed? Or should I get you out of Winterfell in a Ball first?” Jon asked.

The Zoroark shook his head silently. “Worry not for me, little Rockruff. My kind's Illusion is stronger than what humans can see through, and mine is even more precise, by the blessing of the Gods. Go back to the castle, and we shall meet again soon, Jaehaerys.”

Jaehaerys nodded, smiling faintly. “Alright. Farewell, Einar,” he said as he opened the door.

“This is not a farewell, Chosen Son. It is the beginning,” the Guardian replied.

As they both slipped out of the crypts, Jon looked back and saw not Einar but an unassuming Furret, its rings and long body almost slithering through the snow.

Smiling slightly, Jon shook his head and hurried back to the castle. He still needed to check his belongings and coin purse — money he had saved over moons and years, always putting away coppers and silvers instead of fully spending them — before setting off tomorrow. Let Robb celebrate...

As Jon rounded the corner and approached the side door leading into the castle from the garden, a familiar voice rang out behind him. “Didn’t you get enough sulking time, Jon? You’ve been lurking out here the whole evening.”

Jon flinched, composing his expression quickly before turning to face Robb. His elder brother approached with a grin that aimed to be charming, but the soberness of Jon’s mood dulled its effect. Ghost padded silently a few steps behind Robb’s Rockruff, Grey Wind, the two Pokémon sniffing the cold air lazily as if to subtly remark on the late hour.

“I wasn’t lurking,” Jon shot back, keeping his tone flat, although guilt twisted in his chest. He had gone out of his way to plot his departure unnoticed, but now, the Warden's heir seemed to catch everything.

“Oh really? Then let me guess...” Robb’s sharp grin widened as he crossed his arms smugly. “Planning your speech to charm the Septon? Or were you trying to remember the exact steps for catching your next Pokémon?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Gods, Robb, can you cut it out? Not everyone can prance around as if the North falls at their feet.” He turned, setting his hand on the door handle, but before he could slip away, Robb reached out and grabbed him roughly by the arm. “Ah, ah—don’t even think about sneaking off. You’re coming back to the feast! You're supposed to celebrate with me. Everyone knows all the Starks are supposed to get drunk together before finally taking their Trials!”

Before Jon could argue, Robb was already pulling him back toward the hall at an enthusiastic pace, half-dragging him through Winterfell’s quiet corridors. For a moment, Jon considered wriggling free, but one look at Robb’s overjoyed expression tempered his annoyance. “Alright, alright. Slow down,” he muttered, falling into step beside his eager brother.

“You won’t regret it,” Robb said firmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Think about it —we’re about to head off together, out of Winterfell, away from the constant watch of Father, Maester Luwin, and most importantly—” Robb leaned in conspiratorially, his grin mischievous—“Mother’s lectures about honour over sport!”

Jon forced a laugh, nodding. “Sounds tempting.” He kept his vague smile intact as his thoughts drifted away. Einar’s words echoed freshly in his mind. ‘Your cousin shall be a Lord, and you shall be far more. Stay your path, for where you go, he cannot follow.’

As Robb rattled on about their route through the Northern Territories, the Pokémon Gyms they would encounter along the way, and the honourable prizes they were sure to win, Jon strategically smiled and responded with placating hums. He absorbed the vague details without committing to Robb’s vision of their shared future.

Internally, he was already recalculating the steps he would take to slip away. He had trained his steps into silence beneath the boughs of the Wolfswood, mastered guarding his inner thoughts against prying companions, and spent entire days imagining the perfect diversions to cleave away from Robb. The world that awaited him wasn’t made for the unquestioning unity of brothers — it demanded he choose paths his noble cousin wouldn’t even dream of walking.

By the they reached the Great Hall, Robb finally stopped talking, but his grin persisted as he nudged Jon forward. Jon scanned the room, saw the revelry, and adjusted his mask of dutiful assent. One more long evening… then they would ride.

The dawn was still a pale sketch on the canvas of the northern sky. Wisps of pink and lavender stretched across the horizon, soft against the biting chill that nipped Jon’s cheeks. He fastened the last buckle on the harness of his Wyrdeer, the great beast standing stoic and strong beneath his touch. Ghost sat nearby, his steady presence a quiet reminder of his bond with Jon. This was it. They were leaving Winterfell.

Beside him, Robb stood in animated conversation with a nearby stablehand, adjusting the positioning of their satchels and gear on his own Wyrdeer. The Stag Pokémon snorted and pawed at the snow, eager to set off into the wilds. Grey Wind hovered nearby, his silver-tufted tail swishing impatiently.

Jon cast a glance back at the towering walls of Winterfell, their ancient stones bathed in the soft light of sunrise. A flicker of sadness snaked its way into his chest, but he pushed it down. He had spent too long feeling bound to this place, its icy grip choking his spirit. Now, there was a whole world ahead — less certain, perhaps, but full of possibility.

“You ready, Brother?” Robb’s voice broke through his thoughts. The Stark Heir was grinning, his enthusiasm impossible to ignore. His Wyrdeer tossed its head in agreement, its antlers catching the morning light. "We’ve got to pick a good place to start this Tour of ours!"

Jon smiled faintly, though his heart wasn’t quite in it. He tightened the strap of his pack and swung into the saddle with practiced ease. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With their packs securely fastened, their Pokémon at their sides, and a long road ahead, the boys mounted their Wyrdeer and set off. The ride beasts moved gracefully through the snowy paths, their hooves leaving deep impressions in the frost-covered ground. The morning air was crisp, and every breath rose in faint clouds of mist.

“I was thinking,” Robb began, casting Jon a sidelong glance. “Should our first stop be Karhold or Torrhen’s Square? Both are close enough to reach by sunset if we time it right.”

Jon shook his head, his tone measured. “Torrhen’s Square isn’t part of the official Tour stops, Robb. If your goal is to impress the Gods and earn their favour, we need to stick to the designated path.”

Robb frowned, his brow furrowed. “But we’re only just starting out, and we’ve barely got a team! Just our Starters. It’s not like we can take on full-blown Trials with one Pokémon each.”

Sitting a little straighter in the saddle, Jon gave a thoughtful nod. “Exactly. That’s why we need to find Pokémon that suit us and start training before we reach any of the trial stops. It’s better to be prepared than waste time failing at something we’re obviously not ready for.”

Though clearly reluctant, Robb eventually relented. “Fine, fine. Let’s look for something today and decide on our route tomorrow. But I’m holding you to that plan. If this backfires, I’m blaming you.”

Jon smirked faintly, sharp enough to silence any further protests. As the morning stretched into the afternoon, they wandered beyond Winterfell’s main grounds. The edge of the Wolfswood beckoned with its dense thicket and the promise of adventure. Snow crunched beneath their Wyrdeer’s hooves as the boys scanned their surroundings, spotting Pokémon darting through the underbrush or patrolling the frozen terrain.

A Spheal waddled across a frozen stream, its round body bouncing as it moved—adorable but hardly threatening. Not far off, an Entei-like Growlithe padded through the snow before vanishing into the trees. There were Glalies drifting eerily between tree trunks and more common types like Swinub foraging for food beneath the white expanse.

Still, no Pokémon caught their fancy. Jon’s dark gaze lingered for a moment on a young Snover before he shook his head. Robb, on the other hand, seemed intent on something grander—more powerful. Grey Wind bristled beside him, sniffing at the chilly air as though the Rockruff shared his anticipation.

The day passed quickly, snow and pine trees blurring into one another as they searched high and low. But by the time the light of sunset sank behind the hills, their hunt had yielded nothing but tired limbs and growing frustration.

“Well, that was a bust,” Robb muttered as he worked to set up camp. The designated clearing was small but sheltered by the surrounding trees, their towering forms stretching into the reddening sky. Robb rummaged through his pack, pulling out a small flask of oil for the firewood he had gathered earlier. “No point in wasting more daylight; let’s just call it for the day and try again tomorrow.”

Jon nodded, not bothering to comment. Instead, he knelt in the fading light, pawing through a patch of snow-dusted thorns and roots. Ghost padded silently nearby, his nose catching faint scents as he sniffed along the forest floor.

A faint smile tugged at Jon’s lips as he unearthed a small collection of edible mushrooms and berries, their colors vibrant against the backdrop of white.

He returned to camp as Robb finished stacking the firewood, tossing the foraged goods into a neat pile between them. His elder brother glanced up, his expression shifting from mild fatigue to disbelief.

“Where’d you find all this?!” Robb demanded, his voice tinged with genuine surprise.

Jon shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Just took a look around. People who actually put in the effort usually find what they’re looking for.”

Robb snorted but looked faintly impressed despite himself. “Fine, you win this round. But next time, I’m foraging while you do the heavy lifting,” he added, motioning to the campfire.

A short while later, the Wyrdeer grazed lazily at the edge of the clearing, their breath puffing like delicate smoke against the twilight air. And as the warmth of the fire flickered against the encroaching cold, the boys sat huddled together, roasting their dinner over the open flame. The meal was simple but filling, the roasted berries crackling faintly as they turned a deeper, richer hue.

The faint rustle of wind through the trees added an eerie undertone to the atmosphere — a sound that wrapped itself around them like a spectral shroud. Perhaps that was what prompted Robb to speak up, his voice grinning yet serious.

“You ever hear the stories about the Ånde of the Wolfswood?”

Jon tensed but hid it well, glancing at Robb from the corner of his eye. “You mean old wives’ tales meant to scare children?” he replied, his tone deliberately indifferent.

“It’s not just a children’s story,” Robb shot back, leaning forward to emphasize his point. Grey Wind shifted beside him, his ears twitching as though the mere mention of the Guardian Pokémon had intrigued him. “Every Northern family has heard it. A Zoroark that’s not-quite-alive but not-quite-dead either. They say it’s a protector — or a punisher —depending on whether you show proper respect to the Gods and the woods.”

Jon didn’t miss the flicker of excitement in Robb’s eyes, but he forced himself to remain calm. While it was true that even the smallfolk believed the Wolfswood to be sacred —watched over by the Old Ones and their Guardians — the last thing he wanted was for Robb to connect that story to Einar. If his elder brother ever discovered Einar’s existence... well, Jon wasn’t ready to consider what might follow.

“It’s probably a tale stretched by villagers who got lost in the woods and started seeing things,” Jon remarked after a pause. “Disturbing Spirits and Gods doesn’t sound like wise adventuring to me.”

Robb grinned, taking no offence to Jon’s scepticism. Instead, he jabbed at the fire with a stick, his grin only widening. “Point is, we’re gonna find it. Take a look around and—”

“No.” Jon cut in sharply, his words firmer than he intended. “We’re here to train and prepare, not chase stories we can’t prove. Do you really want to risk offending something you don’t understand?”

Robb hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty passing across his face. But it was quickly replaced with a defiant laugh, his boyish arrogance pushing aside caution. “If it’s there, the Gods will let us find it. It’ll be fun!”

Jon remained silent, his lips pressed tightly together. The logic was flawed — dangerously so — but he doubted anything he said would dissuade Robb now.

As the fire dimmed into glowing coals, both boys eventually crawled under their shared tent, each retreating to their side with quiet thoughts. Ghost curled up close to Jon, his presence familiar and grounding, while Grey Wind shifted near Robb.

Jon tried to relax, but Einar’s earlier words about paths and distance echoed quietly in the back of his mind.

The morning sun rose sluggishly, half-shrouded by clouds that seemed reluctant to leave the crisp sky. The boys broke their fast near the dying embers of their campfire, their spirits seemingly rejuvenated by the promise of adventure. Robb was particularly animated, his voice bubbling with plans to continue their search for the Guardian of the Wolfswood, a task he saw as a rite of passage that would bolster the legend of House Stark.

Jon, however, remained quieter than usual, cradling the faint unease that gnawed at his composure. He had no intention of explaining the real reason for his reluctance — after all, how could he reveal the truth about Einar without risking the Guardian’s trust? Still, he resigned himself to following Robb, silently navigating the tension between duty to his cousin and unspoken loyalty to Einar.

“Today’s the day, Jon! I have a good feeling about this!” Robb announced through a mouthful of bread, gesturing grandly to the snow-draped forest beyond the camp. “The Gods wouldn’t have let us come all this way if they didn’t mean for us to find him!”

Jon forced a smile, masking the apprehension that swirled beneath. “Let’s just hope you’re ready for whatever we find,” he murmured.

They saddled their Wyrdeer with practised efficiency, allowing their Pokémon to stretch and scout ahead. Grey Wind, tracing a small perimeter, never strayed far from Robb, while Ghost upheld his usual silent vigil at Jon’s side. The pack pressed onward into the depths of the Wolfswood, the chill air filled with the faint calls of distant Pokémon and the creak of ancient pines bending under their burden of snow.

Hours passed without so much as a whisper of the elusive Guardian. Despite Robb’s enthusiasm, their progress seemed directionless, looping through stretches of forest that, to Jon’s sharp eyes, felt eerily familiar. Yet Jon was patient, biding his time until he detected it— the almost imperceptible sensation of Einar’s presence brushing against his thoughts like a concealed whisper.

“Maybe this way,” Jon suggested casually, subtly directing their Wyrdeer down a narrower path framed by leaning birch trees. Robb didn’t question the shift, his focus squared on surveying their surroundings.

The forest grew steadily quieter as if holding its breath. Snow crunched like whispers beneath their mounts, and every cracking branch seemed heavier against the stillness. Jon could feel the tension building — a charge in the air he knew signalled Einar’s proximity.

They came upon a glade where sunlight spilled unevenly through gaps in the canopy, painting small pools of amber light on the frostbitten earth. And there, nearly obscured by shadow, stood Einar.

The pale-furred Zoroark’s ghostly form flickered faintly in the shards of daylight, his yellow eyes burning bright and unblinking as they settled on the intruding pair. His spectral mane billowed ever so slightly, though no wind stirred the glade. There was stillness, ancient and otherworldly, emanating from his presence.

Grey Wind let out an uncertain growl, and Robb froze, all the bravado he carried into the forest colliding with the reality of finding the Ånde of the Wolfswood itself.

Jon tightened his grip on Ghost’s fur but said nothing, willing himself into the background as Robb mustered his courage to address the Guardian.

“You’re… the Guardian, aren’t you?” Robb’s voice wavered for only a moment before his Stark pride steadied him. “I, Robb Stark, son of Eddard Stark, challenge you!”

Einar was silent, his gaze sharp and unwavering as it rested on Robb. The seconds stretched, folding into a weight that hung between them like the stillness before a storm. Finally, and with deliberate calm, the Zoroark inclined his head, acknowledging the challenge.

Jon found himself stepping backward, resigning to the role of an observer even as unease twisted in his gut. Robb dismounted, standing tall with Grey Wind braced beside him, his hand brushing the top of the Rockruff’s head in a brief show of solidarity.

“Grey Wind, ready yourself!” Robb declared, his voice ringing with the authority his father had cultivated in him. His Rockruff lowered its stance, blue eyes locking on Einar with fierce determination. The Guardian, unperturbed, remained utterly still, his expression unreadable.

The battle began swiftly. “Double Team!” Robb barked, and Grey Wind surged forward, his form fracturing into multiple illusory clones, each circling Einar in an unpredictable dance.

Einar made no immediate move, letting the Rockruff execute its strategy unchallenged. Grey Wind advanced as Robb followed up with a command. “Bite!”

The true Rockruff darted through his illusory doubles, fangs bared as he aimed a fierce lunge toward the Zoroark’s flank. For a brief moment, Jon felt his heart quicken — it almost looked as though Robb had gained the upper hand.

But Einar’s retaliation was seamless, an elegant mix of precision and overwhelming power. Without so much as a feint, he turned, his claws glowing with a faint sheen of ghostly energy from Shadow Claw.

Einar’s paw slashed with brutal speed, dispelling both Grey Wind’s illusions and his momentum in a single, calculated stroke. The Rockruff yelped as he scrambled to regain his footing, but Einar offered no reprieve, already following up with a haunting, shimmering light from his extended claws.

“Hyper Voice!” Robb shouted desperately, and Grey Wind released a piercing howl that reverberated through the glade. The sound waves collided with Einar’s Bitter Malice, but the ghostly fire burned undeterred, enveloping Grey Wind in its smouldering wake.

Though the battle was brief, it became clear that Einar’s intelligence far surpassed Robb’s expectations for a Pokémon—and his power was a force as natural and unyielding as the ancient forest itself. Within moments, Grey Wind collapsed to the ground, panting heavily as his strength gave out. And still, Einar stood, impossibly composed and without so much as a scratch marring his pale fur.

Robb’s expression twisted with disbelief. He clenched his fists at his sides, a flush of humiliation painting his features. “How—” The words died in his throat.

Jon stepped forward tentatively, placing a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Enough, Robb,” he said softly. “You fought well, but this was never your fight to win. Not yet.”

Next, Einar’s cool whisper invaded their minds, making Robb jump in fright. “You are not yet strong enough. Do not seek me again Red Wolf! I have no business with those, who cannot understand the will of the Gods.”

“I understand very much!” Robb called back, crossing his arms, bravado flaring.

The Zoroark moved closer, silent, his long claws gleaming in the light and Robb gulped. “You do not . If you did, you would not have searched for me so relentlessly! If you did understand, you would have listened to your brother, when he cautioned you against seeking me. Return here only when you hear what the Gods have to say and not before! If you do return before that, I will show you why your kin sees me as a baneful spirit!”

A wave of cold ghostly wind rippled into exitence from the Zoroark’s body and Jon tugged his brother away from the looming form of the Guardian.

As they slowly left the clearing, leaving the Ånde behind, Jon stole one last glance at his Pokémon friend, but Einar merely watched them disappear into the forest in silence.

The night was far too still for Robb to find anything resembling sleep.

Upturned memories of their failed attempt to challenge the Ånde played endlessly in his mind, each replay sharpening the edges of his humiliation. His tent was heavy with the scent of oiled leather and damp wool, but despite the chill creeping through the forest, his body burned with restlessness. Grey Wind stirred slightly beside him, the Rockruff’s breathing shallow yet steady, a far cry from the energy the pup usually exuded.

Robb ran a hand down his face, frustration coursing through his veins as if it had replaced his blood. In failing to best the Guardian to prove himself a worthy Heir in the eyes of the Gods, he’d inadvertently revealed something else — a gnawing fear that perhaps he was not ready for the mantle of Winterfell. He shifted to look at Grey Wind, who remained unyielding in his loyalty despite their defeat. That unwavering faith only deepened the pit of doubt threatening to swallow Robb whole.

The moonlight filtered weakly through the fabric of the tent’s entrance, casting soft fragments of silver light upon the ground. Robb stared blankly at the patterns they formed, his mind a whirl with thoughts of inadequacy. Finally, unable to endure the confines of his restless solitude, he threw off the fur blanket and stepped outside barefoot into the sharp, freezing air of pre-dawn.

The campfire had long since died to ash, their faint smouldering coals painting the clearing in dim red hues. Robb’s breaths puffed into the air, each exhale a quiet exclamation of his inner turmoil. He turned his face skyward, staring at the stars scattered across the canvas of midnight with envy. They seemed eternal — untouched by the weight of expectation, unburdened by the ordeal of perceived failure.

As the hours bled into each other, Robb wrestled with the decision he knew, deep down, he had already made.

Jon had cautioned him time and again about the hazards of overconfidence, but the sting of the Ånde’s dismissal had pierced a wound too deep for even his brother’s loyalty to soothe. If he was to reclaim his honour and prove his worth, it would have to be on his terms.

To stay by Jon’s side, constantly guided by his quiet strength, felt tantamount to admitting inadequacy. No, this trial — this growing into the heir he was destined to become — would require solitude.

When the first streaks of gray crept across the sky, he sighed heavily, turning back toward the tent, resigned but resolute. Robb knew he would not sleep any more, but rest was no longer what he sought. He would rise in the morning and tell Jon of his decision.

Jon had begun breaking down the camp by the time Robb emerged from the tent, his movements deliberate as he tied up the last of their provisions.

The forest seemed alive in the half-light of morning — quietly breathing as the faint crunch of Wyrdeer hooves punctuated the thawing frost.

Jon’s sharp gaze immediately caught the sombre determination etched into Robb’s face. Ghost hovered beside him, alert but subdued, as though sensing his partner’s growing unease. Jon straightened, the tension in his shoulders ticking higher. “You look worse than the fire pits this morning,” he said plainly, attempting levity without much success. “Something tells me it’s not just the cold.”

Robb ran a hand through his dishevelled auburn hair, his jaw tightening. “We need to talk, Jon.” His voice carried an uncharacteristic weight that silenced whatever retort Jon might have formulated.

The two walked a short distance from the camp, the silence between them brittle and taut as branches snapping under the weight of snow. Robb finally stopped, his breath clouding the morning air as he turned to face Jon. For once, he looked at his cousin without the mask of the Stark Heir — he was simply a boy trying to find his place in a legacy far greater than himself.

“I’ve been thinking,” Robb began, and Jon immediately recognised the telltale stiffness in his tone — the precursor to a difficult truth. “About what happened with the Zoroark, about us, and what comes next.”

Jon didn’t reply, his dark eyes locked firmly on Robb, who scuffed at the dirt underfoot before continuing. “I think… I think I need to do this alone. Without you.”

The admission hung in the sharp morning air like a frost-coated blade. Jon’s stomach twisted, though some part of him had already anticipated this conclusion. A treacherous nook of his heart even relished it.

“You don’t have to do this, Robb,” Jon said quietly, his voice carrying none of the frustration he had expected to feel. Instead, there was only a quiet resignation — a deep understanding that his cousin had reached this decision not out of impulsiveness but necessity. “You’re not the only one dealing with failure.”

Robb shook his head, his expression hardening. “But you weren’t the one who charged ahead without thinking. You weren’t the one who thought strength alone would be enough to prove themselves. Jon, I can’t follow you anymore — I have to lead, even if that means leading myself for now.”

The words dug deep into Jon’s chest, but he nodded slowly. “Just be sure that this isn’t pride talking. The wilderness doesn’t care about your honour, Robb. Neither do the Trials.”

Robb acknowledged the caution with a solemn inclination of his head. “I understand. But I’m not a child playing at wolves and kings anymore. This is what I need to do — to grow into what I’m meant to be.”

“Then we should set a goal,” Jon replied, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “The first to complete the trial — four Z-Crystals. We reunite in Winterfell, no sooner, no later.”

The agreement formed swiftly, their voices steady even as the weight of parting settled between them. They clasped forearms as brothers would, their resolve interlocked in that brief, unspoken exchange.

Yet Jon couldn’t shake the ache twisting his gut as he watched Robb turn away — for all his agreement, for all his outward calm, the lie stretched taut across Jon’s heart like a bowstring.

The sun barely crept above the horizon when Jaehaerys finished preparing for his departure. The camp was empty now save for him and Ghost; Robb had set out hours earlier, the Stark heir’s silhouette fading swiftly into the embrace of the Wolfswood. Jon stood on the edge of their clearing, his heartbeat unsteady as he cast one last, lingering look at the path Robb had chosen.

Ghost padded silently beside him, the small Rockruff’s ears twitching as if sensing Jon’s emotions. “Well, boy,” Jae murmured softly, crouching down to ruffle the pup’s silvery fur. “It's just the two of us now.”

The familiarity of the gesture was grounding, anchoring Jon in the present as he stood and adjusted his pack one final time. “We have to keep moving. The next crystal isn’t going to find itself.”

Their path ahead was dotted with the soft glow of frost-tipped underbrush, the eeriness of the forest tempered by the occasional flicker of sunlight piercing through the branches. Jae found himself stepping carefully, his mind distracted by equal parts anticipation and unease. Every step away from their shared path brought an ache to his chest — a quiet, insistent reminder that despite their pact to meet again, he doubted the outcome as fiercely as he hoped for it.

They walked for hours, the muted crunch of snow beneath their boots and paws harmonizing with the occasional whisper of wind. The woods, though vast and sprawling, felt still — its silence both a comfort and a challenge. Jon knew better than to trust the supposed safety of its stillness. Out here, even shadows harboured dangers.

An unexpected rustle ahead tore through the quiet, and Ghost immediately stiffened, his keen eyes narrowing as his posture lowered. Jaehaerys halted mid-step, his heart quickening as he scanned the trees trying to pinpoint the disturbance. But no ill omen presented itself — just the tentative flicker of light desperately swaying through the silhouetted trees.

“It's alright, boy,” he finally whispered, though neither he nor Ghost truly believed the words.

He darted back to the grove where Robb had faced Einar, his heart racing with anticipation. Jon suspected the Guardian would still be there, patiently awaiting his return. The Zoroark had previously hinted at their paths crossing again, lingering in his thoughts as Jon left Winterfell behind.

Emerging from the dense cluster of ancient trees, he found the familiar clearing blanketed in pristine white snow, shimmering under the pale winter sun. His dark eyes scanned the treetops, searching for even the slightest whisper of wind that might betray the Ånde’s presence. Ghost, his loyal companion, trotted silently beside him, his white fur pristine against the cold landscape, leaving no trace in the fresh snow as they moved together.

“Einar,” Jon called softly, his voice barely a whisper as it was carried off by the biting wind swirling around him.

Silence enveloped the clearing, a sense of anticipation hanging heavily in the air. He waited a heartbeat, the cold creeping into his bones.

“Einar! Are you here? I come alone!” he shouted more assertively this time, his voice echoing off the surrounding trees, the urgency lacing his words.

Moments later, shadows shifted, and the massive Zoroark emerged from the left, his presence almost ethereal. His majestic mane billowed with vibrant, volatile spiritual energy that flickered like flames in the chilly air. “Greetings, little Rockruff. Have you come for your Trial battle as well?” he asked, his voice deep and resonant, filled with the wisdom of centuries.

Jae offered a small smile, relief washing over him, but he quickly shook his head. “I know there are other Guardians like you. It would be both unfair and dishonourable to challenge you and take a Crystal, especially after all we've been through together.”

The Zoroark regarded him with a steady gaze, his amber eyes piercing yet warm, as if evaluating Jon’s resolve. After a long moment, he finally spoke. “Honorable Pup. Wise beyond thy years. So tell me, why have you come ‘ere today?”

Jae took a breath, gathering his thoughts. “Robb left. I must journey alone now, and I was hoping you would consider joining me on my tour around the North. Once I’ve completed my Trials... I want to find my family — my Targaryen family. Perhaps you could... help me?” His voice trembled slightly, betraying his uncertainty.

Despite having heard the Guardian mention before that their destinies were intertwined by divine will, Jae felt apprehensive about asking Einar to abandon his sacred post in the Wolfswood. He worried about the consequences of leaving such a powerful protector without guidance. What if something dire happened in Einar’s absence?

The massive beast fell silent, contemplating Jon’s request for a tense minute. The weight of unspoken words lingered in the chilly air. Jon waited, his heart pounding — Einar had been a friend from the moment they met, a steadfast ally, unlike anyone else he had known. “I will gladly join you. And do not fear for my place here; the Old Ones have granted me their permission to leave,” Einar assured him, his voice echoing with a blend of power and warmth.

Jae’s eyes sparkled with joy as the Baneful Fox leaned down to nuzzle him affectionately. He let out a soft giggle, grasping the pale, red-streaked strands of Einar’s mane with one hand to steady himself while rummaging through the small waist bag he carried, searching for his Pokéballs. “Thank you, Einar,” Jaehaerys whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a mixture of gratitude and excitement flooding his heart.

This was the beginning of an important journey — a journey to reclaim his identity and find the family he longed for.

Chapter Text

Jon steered his ride Wyrdeer towards Deepwood Motte in the morning after spending the night at the Guardian’s cave.

Ghost was perched at the front of his saddle, excitedly observing the world from his higher vantage point. Einar, being too large and recognisable, had chosen to stay curled up in his Pokéball. Initially, Jon was anxious about it at first — Einar had been a wild Pokémon for as long as anyone could remember — but the Zoroark didn’t seem to mind this change in how he travelled.

“Why Deepwood Motte, Dragon Prince?” the Ånde asked.

He wondered if that was an endearment from the Guardian or a subtle reminder of his truth… he did still slip into old habits ingrained into him, having lived a life of a bastard, and Einar wasn’t so fond of said habits.

Jon hummed, glancing at the small bag on his waist where his Pokéballs were tucked away. (Only two were ‘in use,’ even though his Rockruff never quite stayed inside his, as Ghost hated the Pokéball.)

“Robb said he was going to Torrhen’s Square. Deepwood Motte is in exactly the opposite direction,” Jon whispered.

“You do not wish to meet him again,” Einar observed after a long moment of silence.

“No,” Jon replied quietly. “Not yet. If we were to meet again, Robb would insist on travelling together. I couldn’t go south with him. His place is here in the North. Mine… I don’t know where my place is, but if I am who you believe me to be, I want to meet the Targaryens at least once.”

“I understand. A wise choice,” Einar responded.

“And maybe… I’ll come across another Pokémon for my team. You may be here with me, and I’m grateful for that, but I’m not sure I’d want anyone knowing about you just yet. I also want to win my Trials…” Jon trailed off.

“Without my interference,” the Zoroark’s ghostly voice finished for him.

“N-Not that I’m ungrateful…” Jon stuttered.

“I understand,” Einar said sharply. “Fret not, young one. You wish to prove your strength. My help is something you have because of the path ahead of you. But there is a part of the path you wish to walk yourself, to show that you do not rely solely on me.” Jon swallowed thickly, humming in response. “A noble decision, one I will honour. I will not ask to join any fight unless I see you in mortal danger. For the Old Gods tasked me with your safety, and I will not fail in that task for your desires alone,” the Guardian said firmly. “However, if you call for me in a fight, I will assist you.”

Jon nodded solemnly. “Takk skal du ha , Einar,*” he said, the words of the Old Tongue a little awkward on his tongue. Yet, saying them filled him with warmth, for he took pride in his First Men lineage and he took any lessons on the olden days from Einar, to heart, may those be about traditions, values or the near-forgotten tongue of his ancestors.

Afterward, they moved on in silence.

They stopped for the night at the edge of the Wolfswood, a mere hour of ride from Deepwood Motte. While they could have gone on, Jon had decided against it, knowing that even if he told Lord Glover he’d come for the Trial, the Lord would postpone it to the next day.

As they found a spot to settle, Jon dismounted his Ride partner, stroking the thick, grey fur. “Thank you for the ride. Rest well.”

“Deer,” the Big Horn Pokémon huffed, leaning into his touch for a moment, before pulling away to find himself some grass and berries to graze on. Jon watched his companion meander further into the underbush,

“There you go,” Jon murmured. “I don’t think anyone will be around this part of the forest so until we reach Deepwood you can stay out.”

“Ruf, Ruff,” Ghost barked, although the sound was quiet even now, compared to Grey Wind.

Jon rolled his eyes, glancing at his friend. “Don’t be so impatient, Ghost. I’ll set up camp and after we can have food.”

“I shall go and hunt. It would do well for both of you, Pups, to have some meat, not just the berries you might find here.” Einar said, looking at him with those sharp, yellow eyes.

The corners of Jon’s mouth lifted in a grateful smile as he turned to gather dry branches for a fire. He barely registered Einar slipping into the shadows, though he caught sight of the majestic Pokémon’s white-red mane billowing behind him like a banner of prowess. Ghost stayed close, helping Jon collect firewood — and some berries, thank the Gods for Rockruffs’ sharp noses.

Once Jon deemed his pile of branches sufficient, he arranged it meticulously, just as uncle Benjen had taught him during their lessons in Winterfell.

He rummaged for the flint from his saddlebag to coax out sparks. It took several trials and errors — Einar had it easier, lighting fires with his Will-O-Wisps, — small orange tongues reached for the darkening sky. He tossed some more dry moss and branches on the small fire, carefully blowing on it and watching in triumph as the flames grew in size and intensity.

Ghost, just as grateful for the heat as Jon himself, drew closer to the circle, calmly settling beside him. Jon smiled and sat as well, his hand absently stroking his pup’s pale brown fur.

A strange feeling overtook him, like ice-cold water trickling down his back. Jon straightened, his back taut with unease, his eyes darting around the surrounding darkness. Ghost perked up, seeing his tension, but then Jon relaxed, as the feeling grew more profound and familiar.

Moments later, Einar broke away from the lengthening shadows of the forest… and in his long claws he dragged a large Piloswine with him. “I believe this will be sufficient for all of us,” the Guardian said, his eyes darting briefly to the unmoving, hairy creature.

Jon smiled, his stomach already rumbling, as he imagined the smell of roasting meat. He reached for the knife, tucked in his right boot, as he murmured a prayer of thanks to the Old Gods for the food.

Soon, with the Pillowswine skinned and roasting above the flames, Jon’s eyes darted to Einar, who had settled a little further away from the fire, just at the edge of its warm, golden circle.

The Baneful Fox shifted around, looking at him inquisitively, having noticed his staring. “Perhaps, something’s on your mind, Jaehaerys?”

Jon stiffened, his eyes locking on the Guardian in shock. He had not expected Einar to use his… Valyrian name. Despite both of them knowing it, the Zoroark rarely used it. Jon bit his lower lip, unsure for a moment but then released a soft breath. “When you returned from the hunt, I felt your approach… It was like cold water poured down my back.”

Einar raised his head a little further up, blinking once, twice. “Your Aura… is growing in strength, it seems,” he mused.

Jon pressed his lips into a thin line, wary and intrigued at the same time. “And… what does that mean?”

Einar tilted his head slightly, his grey-silver fur shimmering faintly under the faint light of the moon and campfire. “Aura is… how can I describe it to a fledgling like you…” he began, the Zoroark’s voice carrying its characteristic mysterious tone. “It is life’s energy distilled into presence, into purpose. It’s a force that connects all living creatures, a web that ties us together — though most go their whole lives unaware of it.”

Jon furrowed his brow, weighing Einar’s words. “Like magic?”

“Yes and no. Magic, as it had been practised by the Dragonlords, by the Woodswitches and Shadowmages… is a more direct, more… human-like form of it. Incantations, prayers, rituals and sacrifices. Aura is the raw energy, that is formed into magic. It is the web, from which the spellcasters of old could grab a single thread to twist and twirl it to their purpose.”

“And I… I felt you through this ‘web’? Is that what Aura does? Makes us… sense each other?”

Einar’s clawed hand rested on the ground his posture both predator-like and oddly serene. “That is one of its many uses, yes. To feel life, to measure intent. But Aura is not merely a tool for the senses. It can bolster strength, it can heal. It can crush a m an ’s resolve or inspire legions to march across unforgiving land. It is the life force of everything, the spark behind every Shadow Claw, every Rock Throw. Humans need somewhat different methods of using it, but a part of it, they can use. Some individuals more instinctively, than others.”

Jon froze at the weight of those words. “Then why… why don’t people know about it? If it’s so powerful, why isn’t everyone using it?”

Einar’s grin revealed his gleaming, sharp teeth. “Ah, and there is the trick, young wolf. Not everyone can use it. It’s not common, not entirely understood, and not always benign. Just as it’s human-shaped cousin, magic is not always benign either. Strength in Aura draws attention. It swirls the currents of fate.” He gestured toward Jon, his pointed claw extended. “You feel it now, do you not? That unease when you sense what others cannot? That is Aura’s burden alongside its gift. To know the world at its fullest. To know good and bad, even when you would wish for silence.”

Jon turned away for a while, looking at their roasting dinner, carfully turning the makeshift skewer so the meat could cook evenly, instead of burning to inedible crisp.

“It’s… alive, almost,” Jon said at last, his voice quieter now. “Like a beast lurking in a forest, waiting to see what I’ll do with it.”

Einar gave a slow nod of approval, his crimson eyes glimmering. “You are wiser than you let on. Yes, Aura is alive. It can be bent, shaped… but it will not bow easily. It has a will, as does every soul from which it stirs.”

Jon’s hand moved to Ghost’s head, rubbing the silent Rockruff’s fur. The pale puppy had been still but listening, his stoic presence somehow calming Jon’s racing heart. “And why tell me this now? You’re holding something back, Einar.”

The Zoroark raised his head further, mane rippling with energy. “Because the time will come, Princeling, when merely sensing will no longer suffice. Aura will demand of you a choice. And if you falter, if you shrink from its call…” His voice turned into a low growl. “Then it will destroy you, not out of malice, but because only the resolute may wield its strength.”

Jon pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes glinting with sharp defiance. “I did not ask for this power.”

“Yet the Gods had given it to you. For you have a path to walk. We can shape our lives, but we cannot choose our destiny, nor can we escape it.”

Jon turned to look at the flames, listening to it sizzling as droplets of fat landed in the flames. “So I’m a toy for their whims?”

“We are all subject to the Gods, young one, but we are not their toys. We have choices and there are choices not even the most powerful can challenge. But know this… all gifts are given with a reason. You do not yet understand the full power of your gifts, nor do you know their full potential. Do not rebel against the Gods, before you know more than mere morsels. Wait and see and learn. And once you had learned… and you still do not like what is ahead, believe me, you will find a way out, if you truly wish. The Old Ones are many things, Jaehaerys Targaryen, but they do not make thralls out of the living or the dead. That is a foulness used only by the Cold One.”

Jon hummed, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Afterwards, they spent their dinner in silence and Jon curled up to sleep soon after, feeling the weight of travelling and cold pressing down on him. Soon enough, he was sleeping soundly, with Einar watching over him silently.

Jon woke abruptly, his eyes spying the dark, star-strewn sky. The fire had long died out and even the memory of its warmth had faded. Ghost was curled tightly into a ball, his bushy tail covering his nose. Around him, the forest murmured in whispers with the occasional creaking of branches under the weight of snow.

Jon sat up, brushing stray pine needles from his layered furs. The cold bit sharply at his exposed skin, its intensity serving as a vivid reminder that he was well and truly away from the sheltered halls of Winterfell.

His attention was caught by a faint sound in the distance—a whine, soft and plaintive, carrying just enough urgency to set his senses on edge. Ghost flicked an ear, though he didn’t stir from his curled-up sleep. Einar, resting not far from the dying embers, remained motionless, his spectral mane barely shifting in the slight breeze.

Cautiously, Jon rose to his feet, each deliberate step muffled against the forest floor. The air carried the faint acrid scent of snow mixed with pine, broken only by the occasional snapping of twigs beneath his boots. He doubted himself for a moment, wondering if the sound had been a figment of his dreaming mind, but a second faint cry confirmed otherwise.

With a quiet breath, he pressed onward, leaving the relative safety of the campsite behind. As he moved carefully through the frostbitten underbrush, the forest’s dense shadows proved as much an ally as an enemy, obscuring his form but threatening to ensnare his footing with every hidden root and slope.

Through the silvery shafts of moonlight filtering through the towering canopy, Jon’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of a trembling figure ahead. It was small, its round form shuddering visibly in the cold. A tattered ear flicked reflexively at every distant sound.

An Eevee. And it was hurt.

The moonlight illuminated the sheen of red matting its smoky fur, and Jon swallowed hard, his chest tightening at the sight. It was rare to see such a Pokémon wandering alone, especially not so close to campgrounds. He could hazard a guess — an altercation with a predator perhaps, or worse, poachers — but either way, the poor creature was vulnerable out here.

Jon extended a hand slowly, trying to appear as non-threatening as one could in the eerie stillness of the night. “It’s alright, little one,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I won’t hurt you.”

The Eevee’s deep, amber eyes darted toward his outstretched palm, suspicion gleaming behind them. Its tiny body trembled, poised as if weighing the impossible decision to trust or flee. Jon froze where he stood, every muscle taut, hoping against hope that the gesture would coax the terrified Eevee into calmness.

For a fleeting moment, it seemed to consider him, its tail flicking once, hesitantly. But then a louder creak — a branch somewhere collapsing under the weight of ice — shattered the fragile tension.

The Eevee bolted, its sudden movements so quick and frantic they sent loose tufts of fur scattering into the wind. “No, wait!” Jon called out instinctively, taking a hurried step forward, only for his foot to catch a hidden root and nearly pitch him off balance. By the time he recovered, the small Pokémon had disappeared into the surrounding trees, melding into the dark like a wisp of shadow given life.

Cursing softly under his breath, Jon stood where he was for several moments, inhaling sharply against the cold. He’d hoped to at least inspect its injuries — but following the wild blur of movement through the dense forest in near-total darkness was as foolish as it was futile.

The Eevee was gone.

Reluctantly, he turned and began the trek back to camp. His thoughts lingered heavily on the injured animal, shadowing his sense of composure. If he left it out here another night, it might not survive whatever had caused its wounds in the first place. Yet, even with that grim possibility weighing on him, he knew there was nothing to be done now. He would have to look again come daylight.

Arriving back at the campsite, he settled beside Ghost, smoothing his companion’s thick fur absently as his mind played over his plan. Tomorrow, as soon as the sun breached the trees, he’d search for the Eevee again. And this time, he’d make sure it wouldn’t have to fend for itself any longer.

The next morning, Jon spent breakfast in silence, splitting the food they had between the three of them, although saving a couple of berries for the Eevee he planned to find, in case it was hungry or just too weak to do anything.

He saddled his Wyrdeer again and mounted without hesitation. Einar grabbed Ghost gently, and placed the Puppy Pokémon on the saddle. Jon smiled, rubbing his friend’s head and steered his Ride Pokémon towards the forest, where he had wandered off to at night.

“The humans’ stone nest is in the other direction,” Einar said, glancing in the castle’s direction.

Jon nodded his understanding. “I know. But last night, I woke up to whining. I saw an injured Eevee. I want to find and help it; if it were to stay out any longer it might not survive.”

“I don’t understand every human practice… but I believed these Trials, the way you humans framed them, were a matter of time.”

Jon scrunched his nose. “Yes and no. The number of Crystals collected during a… loosely set amount of time is what matters. But if I were to arrive later with four crystals, while Robb had been exactly on time with only three, I’d be seen as the more skilled. Besides, you know I likely won’t return. Once I have my Crystals, I plan to go South, instead of back to Winterfell.”

Einar tilted his head to the side in though, his mane moving with his ever-present spiritual energy. “I see. In that case, I can only approve of your desire to help an injured critter. It shows you value lives and bonds over the glory of success,” he said, dipping his head slightly, as if to show reverence.

Jon’s cheeks dusted pink at the praise. “To be honest… I’ve no idea how could I find that Eevee, actually. It ran away last night, and…”

Amusement flashed in the ancient yellow eyes. “You’re lucky both your Pup and myself have strong noses.”

Jon nodded, pointing out the general direction where he’d headed to at night. As they trecked the snowy forest, both Einar and Ghost kept their senses alert for anything unnatural, the (former) Guardian of the Wolfswood traversing the forest much easier, than Jon had. (Although now, in daylight he himself had an easier time.)

Soon, Jon halted his Wyrdeer, looking around feeling a little lost. “I think… it was around here somewhere, but it bolted into the dark. I didn’t want to follow alone.”

Einar nodded and Ghost jumped off the saddle, pressing his small nose against the snowy ground. Jon waited patiently as his partners searched around. A few minutes later both Ghost and Einar looked in the same direction almost like someone was pulling them on strings.

“It should be that way,” Einar said. Without questions, Jon steered his mount in the given direction. He just hoped they wouldn’t e late. He wasn’t sure about the extent of the Eevee’s injuries, or how long it had been out here. If they were too late, no matter what he could do, it might not make it… That is, if it even allowed him close enough to try tending to its wounds.

Jon dismounted his Wyrdeer as they reached the glade Einar and Ghost had led him to. The rustling trees and faint calls of distant Pokémon filled the air, giving the snowy forest an atmosphere of eerie serenity. Jon’s sharp gaze scanned the surroundings carefully, his heart racing slightly as his boots crunched lightly in the snow. He clutched a small satchel filled with ripe, sweet berries, hoping the Eevee might approach him more easily this time.

“Careful,” Einar murmured, standing tall and silent beside him, his piercing yellow eyes scanning the area like a sentinel. “The little creature is close, but its fear runs deeper than its wounds.”

Ghost bounded ahead but kept his pace measured, his snout tracing trails in the snow as Jon followed cautiously. The silence was broken by faint whimpering — a sound that made Jon’s throat tighten. He exchanged a glance with Einar, who nodded gravely, his mane rippling faintly with otherworldly energy.

They finally found the Eevee curled against the hollow roots of a massive oak, its fur glinting faintly in the dim, diffused sunlight. It flinched as Jon approached, its body pressed tightly to the gnarled wood, amber eyes wide with terror. The pale silver-cream of its fur — a delicate and rare Shiny colouration — shimmered even beneath its obvious exhaustion and fear.

“Oh, poor thing…” Jon whispered. His voice was soft, soothing, but the Eevee visibly trembled, releasing a sharp, pitiful sound. It cowered further, flattening itself as though trying to melt into the snow.

“Shh...” Jon crouched low, offering the Eevee some berries in his outstretched hand. His heart ached as he remained frozen in place, trying to seem as harmless as possible. “You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. You must be so hungry.”

The Eevee hesitated, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air faintly, tempted but too fearful to move closer.

“You think it was hunted?” Jon glanced up briefly at Einar, whose unwavering gaze stayed fixed on the injured creature.

“Almost certainly,” Einar replied coolly, his fur shifting gently with the wind. “Its pale fur is unique. For some humans, it is worth more than the life it adorns.”

Jon clenched his teeth, anger sparking briefly within him. What kind of monsters would hunt such a small, defenceless creature for its rare colouration alone? But he pushed the thought aside — dwelling on it wouldn’t help the Eevee now.

Hours passed as Jon remained steadfast, sitting on the cold ground with the berries still extended outward. Though the muscles in his arm grew sore, he refused to lower it, his resolve unwavering. Ghost and Einar kept their positions close but remained non-threatening, careful not to startle the frightened Pokémon further.

“Jon...” Einar finally said after a long silence. His tone carried an edge of gentle persuasion. “The Trials are waiting. Staying here beyond reason jeopardises your path.”

“I don’t care,” Jon answered firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. He didn’t turn to face Einar, his eyes locked on the Eevee. “This is important. I can’t just leave this little one like this. If it doesn’t trust me today, then I’ll wait here tomorrow too. As long as it takes.” His fists curled slightly, but not out of impatience — out of determination.

Einar’s piercing gaze softened faintly, though his expression remained inscrutable. “Stubborn as ever... you might very well be your mother’s child,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then, louder, “Very well, then. We shall stay. But the hours are not endless, little Rockruff.”

Giving a short nod of thanks, Jon shifted slightly on his knees. He extended his hand just an inch closer, enough for the berries’ scent to waft further toward the Eevee. The tiny Pokémon tilted its head, its eyes never leaving him, suspicion giving way to a timid curiosity.

Whether it took minutes or hours from that moment, Jon remained patient. He wasn’t leaving until the Eevee began to trust him — and, perhaps, until it understood that not all humans would bring it harm.

Jon returned to the glade at first light, snow crunching softly beneath his boots. Sunlight broke timidly through the dense pines, scattering faint amber patches on the stark whiteness around him. The forest felt still, as if new beginnings quietly stirred beneath winter’s frosted breath. Ghost padded beside him, his ears twitching at every faint rustle.

Jon’s thoughts churned with unease as they retraced his steps. The wounded Eevee haunted his mind — its timid, trembling form, the flash of panic in its amber eyes, and the small puffs of bloodied fur left trailing in its wake. Just because he’d spent yesterday around Eevee, didn’t mean the poor thing hadn’t tried to find a new dwelling, despite its injuries. Jon just hoped it hadn’t gotten too far from where he had found it before. The Wolfswood was vast, even if Einar knew its every nook and cranny.

Ghost let out a low “ruff” in response, his nose twitching as he caught faint scents on the frosty air. Jon’s stomach churned with doubt. What if the Eevee wouldn’t let him help? Yesterday, it didn’t seem too happy about having him around. He clenched his fists, cursing himself for not doing enough. But what else could he have gone? Capturing a wounded Pokémon seemed dishonourable, even if he had done it out of the desire to help. The thought of leaving it helpless and alone in the untamed forest itched at his conscience.

They soon came upon a patch of red-stained snow, trampled with tiny paw prints leading deeper into the trees. Jon crouched by the marks, inspecting them as his breath clouded in the chill morning air. “It must’ve gone this way,” he said softly to Ghost.

The hunt resumed, slower now as Jon followed the faint trail of prints while Ghost’s keen nose guided their way. The minutes stretched long and uneasy until, at last, the trail led them to a narrow hollow near the roots of an ancient oak, a little east from the previous dwelling. It was there that they saw it — the same pale, injured Eevee, huddled as if the roots might somehow shield it from the cold and cruel world.

Jon knelt slowly some distance away, careful not to startle the Pokémon. “There you are,” he whispered, relief softening his voice. “You don’t have to be afraid, little one.”

The Eevee’s ears twitched at the sound of his voice, but its muscles tensed as its wide amber eyes regarded Jon warily. Jon could feel the fragile thread of trust strung between them, so he stayed rooted in place, speaking softly, allowing his presence to be felt without pressure.

“I brought something for you,” Jon added, reaching into his satchel and pulling out a handful of berries. He laid them in front of him on the snow, then slowly backed away by a few steps to show he wasn’t a threat. “They’re yours if you want them.”

When the Eevee’s gaze flicked briefly to the berries, Jon held his breath. It hesitated, its nose twitching as it caught the sour-sweet scent on the air. After a long moment of flickering indecision, it shuffled forward, one tentative step at a time, to sniff at the tiny offering.

Jon’s heart clenched as he watched the Eevee nibble hesitantly on the fruit, wincing but persevering through what Jon guessed was pain from its injuries. This time, he gave it space, letting it choose the pace of their fragile interaction. Moments stretched into minutes, and though the Eevee kept glancing at him as if poised to bolt at any second, it didn’t flee.

“You’re braver than most men I’ve met,” Jon whispered, almost to himself, filled with a strange mixture of awe and sorrow. How long had it been hurt and alone out here? Had it lost its family? Its pack? Had it ever felt safe?

He remained motionless as Ghost approached with even greater stealth than usual, his pacing deliberate and neutral. The Eevee tensed — almost bolted — but Ghost, with unassuming grace, lay down far enough not to appear a threat but close enough to radiate warmth and calm. His quiet display seemed to soothe the frayed nerves of the tiny creature.

As the last rays of early morning kissed the frost-covered ground, Jon allowed himself a tiny smile. He didn’t reach for the Eevee, letting trust build that no words could rush. “You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he murmured quietly, steady and patient. “I’ll help you. If you let me.”

The bond wasn’t forged fully that day, but cracks formed in the wall of fear that surrounded the tiny Pokémon. Day by day, through calm patience, soft words, and offerings of trust, Jon hoped to build something with it — not just trust, but understanding.

Jon held his breath as he spotted the Eevee again the next morning. True to the promise, this time he’d made camp close to the tiny fox-like animal’s dwelling. Close enough to be sensed by it, to be seen by it, but not close so that it would feel trapped or otherwise threatened. Its pale cream fur shimmered faintly under a shaft of golden morning light, but the patches of dirty brown and red across its flank were stark reminders of its injuries. Layers of dried blood mixing with fresh dorplets, as it kept moving around, no doubt slowing the healing process. Jon was sure… it needed attention and fast. Eevee were adaptable creatures, but not immortal. Immortality was reserved for the Gods — and Ghost Types, but did that even count, when those weren’t alive the way a Lycanroc or a Dubwool?

He stayed where he was, not daring to move closer yet. The Eevee’s large, trembling ears twitched at every crunch of snow or distant whisper of wind. Restless eyes darted to the slightest shift in the forest, and its small body was low to the ground, on edge, caught between flight and exhaustion.

For a long moment, Jon said nothing — he just watched. The Eevee’s fragility stirred something deep within him, a familiar ache he couldn’t quite name. He saw himself in it; the way it clung to shadows, tensed against the world. They were both creatures of the margins, he realised — both cautious, both uncertain, both yearning for something they couldn’t yet trust to be real.

Clearing his throat softly, he shifted just enough to draw its attention. “Hey,” Jon called out gently, careful to keep his voice steady and calm. “It’s me again. The stubborn one who won’t leave you alone.” He smiled faintly, even though his heart clenched.

The Eevee’s head snapped toward him, amber eyes narrowing with suspicion. Its small body curled tighter against itself.

Jon moved slowly, lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the snow-covered ground. He placed his satchel between them and rummaged through it deliberately, letting the crinkling of the bag’s leather ease into the quiet. Finally, he pulled out a handful of dried berries, holding them up where the Pokémon could see.

“I brought these for you,” he said softly, setting the berries down on the snow a few feet in front of him. His hands remained open and empty as he sat back. “They're safe. No tricks.”

The Eevee eyed the offering warily, its nose twitching as the sweet scent wafted toward it. Despite its mistrust, hunger glimmered faintly in its amber eyes. But still, it didn’t move. Jon sighed quietly, pulling his knees closer to his chest for warmth.

“You don’t trust me yet. That’s alright,” he went on after a pause. There was no anger or frustration in his voice — only understanding. “I don’t think I’d trust me either, not if I’d been hurt like you.”

The Eevee didn’t respond, save for a flick of its tattered ear. But it also didn’t bolt, and Jon decided that in itself was progress.

He let his gaze drift to the surrounding wood, his thoughts unrolling like loose strings. “When I was little,” he began, not entirely sure if the Eevee even understood him, “I used to spend a lot of time on my own. Before Ghost became my friend. Not because I wanted to, but because… I was different. I didn’t belong inside those stone walls as much as the others did.”

His tone softened, like he was confessing something to a part of himself reflected in the small, frightened creature before him. Ghost, who had been a spectre so far, following him, now stood silently, befitting his name and curled on his lap. Jon noticed the Eevee’s ears flick in interest, but didn’t react. Instead, continued his tale, his hand absent-mindedly brushing through Ghost’s pale brown fur.

“Some people decided, without even knowing me, that I was something to avoid. To look down on. They wouldn’t come near me, so… I stopped trying to come near them.” He hesitated, his breath curling like smoke in the frosty air. “It gets lonely. Doesn’t it?”

The Eevee blinked at him, its stiff posture melting slightly, as if his words chipped away at some invisible barrier between them. But it still didn’t move, curled tight in its self-made shell of protection.

Jon’s lips lifted in the faintest of smiles — bitter, maybe, but genuine. “The thing is, staying alone… it feels safer at first, right? Like maybe if you don’t let anyone close, they can’t hurt you the way they did before.” He tilted his head, studying the Eevee. His breath hitched when the Pokémon finally shifted, just enough to pull its tail closer to sit beneath its body, a movement so tentative it was like a whisper.

“It helps at first,” Jon continued, his voice unwavering in its gentleness. “But the longer you’re alone, the heavier it gets. You start wanting to trust someone again, even if the thought still scares you.”

The Eevee’s eyes lingered on his, longer this time. Its trembling had quieted, though tension still wired its small frame.

Jon knew he couldn’t rush it. Bonds weren’t forged in moments.

“I’m not asking you to trust me now,” he murmured gently. “I’m just asking you to know that I’ll be here. Even if it takes some time.” He leaned back slightly, lifting his hands in a gesture of non-threat. “I have nowhere else to be but here, alright?”

Rising slowly, careful not to spook the fragile thread of peace between them, Jon stepped back and sat beneath a nearby tree. He didn’t leave, true to his word, but he placed distance between them — a show of respect for the Eevee’s boundaries.

As the minutes trickled into hours, the sun climbed higher, and the forest stirred with life. Jon stayed where he was, unmoving but present, his watchful eyes scanning now and again to ensure no predators lurked nearby.

Eventually, the Eevee unfurled just the slightest. It edged toward the berries, one cautious step at a time, glancing repeatedly at the silent figure under the tree. When it reached the small pile, it paused, sniffing hesitantly before taking the first tentative bite.

Jon smiled faintly, not daring to speak lest he startle it. Instead, he watched, his heart swelling with quiet relief as the Eevee finally allowed itself the smallest flicker of trust.

The little creature ate in silence, still skittish and wary, but Jon didn’t mind. This was only the beginning.

And as he sat beneath the icy canopy, the parallels between them settled in his chest like roots — a shared loneliness, slowly unravelling under the faint warmth of connection.

The first rays of dawn filtered through the trees, turning the snowy expanse of the forest into a patchwork of amber and violet hues. Jon was tracing the faint tracks left in the snow — a delicate trail leading toward the denser thickets. The prints were light, hesitant, and uneven— proof of the Eevee’s injury. Ghost padded quietly beside him, his sharp nose to the ground, trying to catch any lingering scent.

But before either he or the Eevee could settle for the day, like before, the air split with a low, guttural growl from the trees beyond the clearing. Jon’s heart jumped as a great, white shape emerged from the shadows — a Beartic.

“Oh no…” Jon rose slowly, placing himself instinctively between the predator and the injured Pokémon. The Beartic meandered forward, its huffs leaving cold, white puffs in the air

The Eevee cowered, flattening itself against the ground, its amber eyes wide and terrified. Jon felt his pulse quicken as he reached for Einar’s Pokéball, as Ghost crept forward to face the Freezing Pokémon. The Beartic roared and Jon did not have any more time to weight options. Fight or flee… it will be a tough fight, against a fully evolved Pokémon, even if Ice Types were weak against Rock. But if he fled, it might follow anyway… or worse, get the injured Eevee.

Jon’s eyes flashed. “Get ready Ghost, we fight.”

Ghost crouched low, snarling silently at the towering Ice Type.

Jon’s voice cut through the frigid air. “Double Team — now!”

Ghost blurred, his form splitting into a dozen mirrored copies that darted around the clearing. The Beartic’s small eyes narrowed as it swung its great claws at empty air, the slash scattering a few illusions like mist in the morning sun.

The Beartic roared, raising its arms skyward. Fragments of ice formed, cruel and jagged, condensing above before they plummeted like spears. Ghost’s speed became his salvation; the illusions flitted and danced, vanishing under the frosted rain. The real Ghost darted behind a tree, growling low and feral.

“Rock Throw!” Jon barked, fists clenched.

The true Ghost crouched low, then sprang, twisting mid-air to hurl sharp debris at Beartic’s thick pelt. The icy shards struck hard, cracking against flesh, but the beast barely winced. Its bulk was its armour, shrugging off blows from smaller enemies.

The predator’s retaliation was sharp and immediate — an instinct-driven Ice Fang. The gleam of its frosted fangs caught the smouldering light of dusk as it drove forward in an arc of cold fury. Jon's heart pounded wildly as Ghost sidestepped the lunge, silent as snowfall, leaving only scattered patches of gray and white fur where the fang struck earth instead.

Jon’s breath came out in quick, frosted bursts, his mind reeling. As powerful as Ghost was, the Beartic’s relentless strength and stamina meant this was not a fight they could win head-on. He craned his neck to take in the surroundings, eyes flickering between the frost-coated boughs, and it hit him.

The forest itself was their weapon.

“Ghost, draw it out! Keep moving, silent and fast!” Jon’s shout reverberated through the clearing.

Ghost complied, weaving between glistening trunks as fleeting as a wraith. The Beartic became a thrashing force of rage, following Ghost deeper into the labyrinth of trees where its bulk hindered it, its claws snagging on bark and losing traction on icy stones. Each failed lunge saw it roaring more angrily, but its powerful strikes became telegraphed in its frenzy.

Jon called after Ghost, staying at the treeline, his eyes darting. “Stay behind its reach, watch its movements — wait for your chance!”

Each time the Beartic swung wide, Ghost navigated the tight undergrowth with ease, every dodge compounding the predator’s mounting frustration. The air crackled as the Beartic slammed its clawed paws into a tree trunk, trying to bring down branches to trap them, but Ghost snaked through the maze like liquid shadow.

Behind the beast, Jon found his voice again. “Now! Rock Throw!”

With a low growl, Ghost sprinted, his paws pressing silent across the snow. In a single motion, he turned around, flicking his tail, newly materialised, sharp rocks launching at the back of the Beartic’s thick neck. It reeled forward. The advantage was finally theirs.

But before the Pokémon could complete its attack — before Jon could bark his next command — the Beartic froze.

The wild beast’s eyes locked with Jon’s for an uncomfortably long beat. A guttural rumble rose in its throat, but this time it felt uncertain, not threatening. Something changed in its posture — less aggression, more caution—as though it sensed something Jon could not see.

Jon’s breath hitched, confused by the shift in its demeanor. “What is it… what’s wrong with it?” he murmured.

But the predator didn't wait for them to figure it out. With an almost reluctant growl, it swung its hulking body away, retreating back into the shadowed forest from whence it came. Ghost stiffened, ready to pursue, but Jon held up a hand, signalling for him to stay.

The clearing fell silent, save for the soft crunch of retreating snow.

Jon exhaled shakily, lowering himself onto his haunches. His voice cracked, both from relief and bewilderment. “Why… why did it just leave?”

Ghost padded toward him, his silver fur moving like mist under the pale moonlight. The Eevee peeked out from its hiding spot, shivering but unharmed.

Jon’s thoughts spun. That wasn’t a victory won. Something else had unnerved the Beartic —something beyond the here and now. As far as he could tell, there was no reason why its primal rage dissipated so suddenly, turning to fear. Unless…

“Einar, that was your doing?” he asked quietly.

“It was,” the Guardian said. “I told you I will only interfere if I see your life in danger.”

“I could have won,” Jon said, crossing his arms.

“No, you couldn’t have, even if your Rockruff had a Type advantage. That Beartic was bigger and stronger, thus it had more stamina. Rockruff are fast yes. But that Beartic would have eventually noticed you kept standing between him and his intended prey. To stand between a predator and its prey is the worst idea. Never do that, unless you are certain you can win.”

Jon bit his lower lip, then his eyes narrowed. “I could have won…”

“You know you could not have, not yet. That is merely the pride talking. I fought fairly against your cousin and he had not won. That Beartic was driven by hunger and anger.”

Jon wanted to argue further… but then he remembered what Old Nan had said once. That Pokémon sensed the world differently from humans and sometimes, they knew things a human couldn’t. Pokémon that had questionable reputation like Ghost Types or certain predator Pokémon could sense danger. Could gauge the power of prey and other predators, that would challenge them.

“Was that Beartic like you?” Jon asked after several moments of silence. “Was he a Guardian?”

“No,” Einar admitted. “But it was older than either you or Ghost. Old and angry at the world. And in its misery you even stood between it and its food, something that no one would appreciate. Sometimes, darkness and bitterness lurks in hearts, Dragon Prince. And very few are as lucky as I was — to have a little one show me something good in a world I’d long thought rotten by greed and misery. You have a good heart, which is a true treasure under the Sun. But not everyone can be helped.”

Jon pressed his lips into a thin line, recalling something the Zoroark had said upon their first meeting. “Some things must run their course…” he muttered.

This time, Einar didn’t answer, but Jon thought he sensed something that may as well have been the Baneful Fox’s approval. Jon crouched low and petted Ghost well, rubbing the Puppy Pokémon behind the ear, where he loved it most. “You did well, Ghost.”

“Ruf, ruff,” he barked, his tail wagging slightly at the praise.

“Vee…”

Jon’s head snapped up at the sound. He turned around, dark eyes locking on the massive tree under which the injured Pokémon had burrowed. Eevee had inched closer, something akin to curiosity flickering in the dark gaze. Jon smiled encouragingly, but didn’t speak. Instead he sat where he was — the little brown creature froze at the movement, eyeing him, trying to gauge his intentions. Jon beckoned Ghost closer and the winded Rockruff happily settled in his lap.

“I won’t hurt you,” he muttered, digging into his satchel for some berries. He held them out, glancing at the little Normal Type.

The Eevee hesitated, but then wobbled closer, by now dragging his most injured hind leg. Jon bit the inside of his cheeks, worried. He’d have to help it…

The Eevee’s nose twitched at the scent of food, but then, it tentatively took a berry, glancing at him again. Jon didn’t move, waiting for it to finish eating. “There, there, I’m a friend you see,” he whispered, reaching out to pet it.

When it flattened its ears, Jon’s hand froze half-outstretched. He eyed the Eevee and it gazed back and then carefully bumped its nose to his hand. Smiling, Jon carefully ran his hand along the coarse brown fur, feeling the dirt and dried blood in it, but as his fingers dug a little deeper, he could feel the soft under layer, that kept it warm in the northern cold.

“Vee,” it purred and Jon could feel the flare of triumph.

“Now… let’s get you healed little one, what do you say?”