After a full day of travel, surrounded by a retinue of northern riders, Aedric's party finally arrived back at Winterfell.
For the hero's triumphant return, Lord Eddard Stark himself led his men several miles out of the city to welcome them home. That very night, a grand feast was held in celebration.
At the center of it all, Aedric—now the most talked-about man in the North—sat as the guest of honor.
Every noble and bannerman sang his praises. Even Lady Catelyn Tully, who had once despised him as a stain on her husband's honor, stood before him and gave heartfelt thanks for risking his life to save her husband and daughters.
As for his "bastard" status—no one dared mention it now.
Aedric had become something else entirely.
He was no longer "the Snow of Winterfell."
He was the Storm Sword Saint—the Hero of the North.
The bards had already begun weaving their songs:
"His blade strikes like a tempest, his enemies are scattered like leaves.
He is death's emissary, the incarnation of the storm, the very essence of might and valor.
The Storm Sword Saint, whose name eclipses even the Sword of the Morning."
"Storm Sword Saint Jon Snow."
That was the title spreading across the Seven Kingdoms.
Aedric could only grind his teeth when he heard it. Storm-born? Seriously? That was Daenerys's thing. Fate sure had a twisted sense of humor.
During the feast, several northern lords eagerly asked him to demonstrate his swordsmanship.
Annoyed but unwilling to make a scene, Aedric simply drew a steel longsword—then snapped it into fragments with his bare hands.
Before anyone could react, the broken shards shot out like a rain of arrows, embedding themselves deep into the solid stone wall.
The hall went silent. Every lord, drunk moments ago, suddenly sobered in terror.
Only then did they remember—this was not the bastard of Winterfell before them, but the man who had forced the entire capital to bow.
A man the bards called Death itself.
To insult a Sword Saint was to court death. That he hadn't aimed those shards at them was mercy enough.
Once the hall had dispersed, Eddard Stark gathered his family and Aedric in a private chamber. When all servants were dismissed, the Lord of Winterfell finally spoke:
"Jon," he said gravely, "I owe you my life, and for that, I'll be forever grateful. But as the Warden of the North, I must ask—your power, your swordsmanship… they are not of this world. How did you come by them?"
"Father!" Arya—ever the loyal defender—immediately stepped forward, clinging to Aedric's arm. "If Jon doesn't want to say, don't force him! He'd never harm us, you know that!"
Aedric smiled faintly, gently ruffling her hair. "Before we talk about that," he said, "there's somewhere I want to go first."
Everyone looked puzzled.
He continued calmly, "My mother has been buried in the Stark crypts for over ten years. I'd like to pay my respects… Uncle."
The room fell silent.
"What?" gasped Catelyn.
Even Eddard froze, the color draining from his face.
"You… you know?" he whispered.
"Yes," Aedric said, smiling slightly. "I know. And I thank you, Uncle, for risking everything to protect me all these years. But now that King Robert is dead… I think it's time a few truths came to light."
Catelyn looked from one man to the other, her eyes wide. "Eddard—what is he talking about?"
Aedric turned to her, his tone calm but firm.
"My mother was Lyanna Stark—Lord Eddard's sister."
Catelyn gasped, covering her mouth.
"Then your father…?"
"Yes," Aedric nodded. "My father was Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He and my mother were lawfully wed by the High Septon before the rebellion. I was born of that union. I am no bastard. My true name is Jon Targaryen."
As if to prove his words, he stepped to the side, extended his hand over a nearby brazier, and pressed it into the flames.
Everyone stared as the fire licked at his skin—yet left it untouched.
"The Unburnt," Robb Stark murmured in awe. "The mark of dragon's blood… you really are a Targaryen."
The truth hung heavy in the air.
Eddard let out a long sigh. "I've kept this secret for over a decade," he said softly. "I thought I would take it to my grave. But… how did you find out? I was the only one left who knew."
Aedric shrugged, expression unreadable. "I was born knowing, Uncle. From the moment I drew breath, I was… aware. I heard my mother's last words to you. I knew the truth—I just chose to hide it."
Eddard blinked in disbelief. "You… remember your birth?"
"Perhaps it's the dragon-wolf blood," Aedric said smoothly. "A quirk of the mix. I've always carried fragments of ancient knowledge in my mind—things long lost to this world. Sometimes they come to me in dreams… visions of fire and ruin, of a civilization swallowed by its own pride."
He gave a dry chuckle. "The Targaryens thought purity came from inbreeding. Fools. True strength lies in new blood—like my mother's. The wolf's blood awakened what lay dormant in me."
The Starks looked at him with pride and awe.
Playing to that, Aedric reached out and ruffled Arya's hair again. "I've already passed some of that knowledge to Arya," he said. "She's the only one I've met with the talent to inherit it. If anyone can surpass me one day—perhaps even become the next Sword Saint—it's her."
He smiled faintly. At least after I've left this world, he thought silently.
"Arya, is that true?" Ned asked, astonished.
Beaming, Arya nodded eagerly. "Of course! It's amazing, Father—everything he's taught me! When I train, it feels like… like I can do anything!"
Aedric couldn't help chuckling. He gave her a light knock on the head. "Don't get cocky," he said. "That's just the beginning. These teachings were meant for those with dragon's blood. With your wolf's blood, it'll be much harder. You've already needed countless elixirs just to get this far—remember that next time you complain."
He said it partly to keep her grounded—but also for another reason.
If word got out about his martial arts, every lord and lady in Westeros would come begging for them. And while most could never master them, Aedric knew well that this world harbored strange, hidden powers. The last thing he wanted was his techniques spreading unchecked.
Teaching Arya alone was the limit.
As for Daenerys Targaryen…
Well. Whether she would ever become his student—
That was a question for another day.
~~--------------------------
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