Dread the fire [ASOIAF/GOT x Dark Souls]

AN: The ages of some characters are adjusted. Modified and less powerful system from Dark Souls to adjust for power imbalances.

Jon Snow laid in his bed, the night was young, yet he found himself ensnared in a vivid dream.

"Lord of Snow," a voice whispered, echoing in the caverns of his mind.

"Lord of Fire," another intoned, deep and resonant, yet as if it was said with opposition to the first.

"Song of the singers," and a bell rang in the distance, it sounded hollow.

"Usurper," a hiss followed, filled with venomous intent.

"Abomination," a guttural growl interjected, as if from the depths of the earth itself.

"Devil's spawn," a chilling accusation that lingered in the air. It reminded him of the Septa's sermons.

These accusations crashed against him as they always did, simultaneous yet carrying meanings that twisted and gnawed at his insecurities. Visions of war and death flooded his mind—horrors of forgotten Gods and demons. Dragons, beasts of war flying high in the air and tumbling down violently as they were stuck by pillars of lightning from the heavens. Crowns stacked upon each other, reaching into the heavens and men in tattered robes climbed and fell to their deaths, drowning in lakes of blood. And then, as always, the dream ended in fire, an inferno that devoured everything to ash, leaving nothing behind but fire and ash. 

With a violent jolt, Jon awoke, his breath coming in ragged gasps as if he had died and was born anew, clawing for the very essence of life itself. The linen of his bed clung to his skin, damp with sweat that made him feel as though he had just emerged from a river.

He clutched his head, the familiar pain searing through him, a remnant of the nightmares which always followed after their occurrence, they had haunted him since they appeared a moon prior, after his thirteenth name day. It was a torment he had unfortunately grown all too accustomed to.

With a weary resolve, Jon rose from his bed, shaking off the remaining grogginess of sleep as he washed his face with cold winter water. He dressed himself in his favored garments, the fabric fits well against his thin and lanky frame.

Jon dressed in silence, the cold biting at his skin as he put on his boots. The halls of Winterfell were lit by the morning sun, the remaining light from the dying torches flickered against the ancient walls. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he made his way through the corridors, past ancient tapestries and statues, past servants bustling about their morning duties. The scent of fresh bread and roasted meat drifted from the kitchens.

In the Great Hall, Robb and Arya were already seated, breaking their fast at the long oaken table. The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, fighting against the morning cold. Servants moved swiftly around them, setting down platters of eggs, bacon, and hot oatcakes dripping with honey.

"Good morning to both of you," Jon said as he slid onto the bench.

Robb glanced up. "Good morning, brother."

"Morning, Jon!" Arya chirped, her mouth half-full.

Robb studied him for a moment, his eyes sharp. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Another nightmare?"

Jon tore a piece of bread, nodding. "As usual. I hadn't had one for over a week. Thought maybe they'd stopped." He frowned, rolling the thought in his mind. "I wonder if they mean anything."

The three of them ate in silence for a time, the only sounds were the clatter of knives and the murmur of the servants.

Robb finally spoke. "I would hope not. The things you've dreamt of… they sound like the stories Old Nan tells us." He tried to sound reassuring, but his voice held an edge of doubt.

Arya perked up, her eyes gleaming with intrigue. "What sort of stories? And nightmares?" She smirked. "Aren't you a little old for that? Even I stopped having those."

Jon snorted and reached out to ruffle her hair, but she ducked away, quick as ever. He settled for a light smack on the back of her head instead. "Says the little lady who's only seven." He shot her a look. "And there's nothing for you to know about those stories because they're just that—stories."

"Your brother speaks reason, Arya," came their father's voice as he entered the hall. Catelyn followed a step behind, Bran in her grasp as he tried to worm his way to freedom, tiny fists grasping at air. Jon smiled at that. Sansa trailed in her wake, her auburn hair neatly brushed, her hands folded primly before her. Arya frowned at that but said nothing.

The family was now fully gathered at the long oaken table, Servants moved swiftly, refilling goblets and setting down plates of eggs and crisp bacon for the newcomers.

Lord Eddard Stark sat at the head of the table, his grey eyes settling on Jon. "I, too, had strange dreams when I was young, It's nothing unusual," he said, his voice steady, measured. "You shouldn't think too much on them, Jon." But he couldn't help but notice the slight edge to his father's voice as if he was worried about something.

Jon mulled over his father's words, then gave a slow nod. "As you say, Father."

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Catelyn's mouth press into a thin line at that word—Father. But she said nothing. She never did, not in front of him. And especially not in front of his father. He could briefly remember a time when he was younger when she would say hurtful things when she thought he couldn't listen. 

His lord father continued, tearing a piece of bread. "Old Nan's stories… my father heard them from her, and his father before him. They remain only that—stories. Important stories of the North and our histories, but stories nonetheless."

Jon nodded again, but he was unconvinced. His dreams felt too vivid, too real, unlike the ghostly tales whispered by the fire. Still, he kept his thoughts to himself. He had no desire to appear a fool, not in front of his father. He also didn't want to see his father worry, as the first time he told him about his dreams he could remember the sudden panic on his father's face.

A sudden motion caught his eye—a piece of bread arcing through the air. It struck Sansa square in the face. She gasped, eyes wide with shock, before sputtering in outrage.

"You animal!" she shrieked, her voice thick with fury. "You're not a lady!"

Arya grinned, sticking her tongue out.

Catelyn stiffened as she fed Bran, glancing between her daughters, uncertain how to proceed. But her husband had no such hesitation.

"Enough, the both of you," he commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. The table fell silent. He turned to Arya, his gaze firm. "Why would you do that?"

Arya jutted out her chin. "She was teasing me yesterday, about my sewing." She shot Sansa a glare. "She said I can't pay attention in Septa Mordane's lessons."

His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "You are sisters," he said. "Blood of the same house. You will respect each other."

A reluctant silence followed.

"…Yes, Father," Sansa muttered.

"…Fine," Arya grumbled.

Neither looked particularly happy about it.

Jon turned to Robb, and the two exchanged a glance. Then, at the same time, they both snorted. It wasn't long before they were laughing into their cups.

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Breathe in. Empty your thoughts. Pull back. Aim. Loose.

The arrow flew true, slicing through the crisp morning air before burying itself deep into the hay. Thunk. A solid hit, though not where he had wanted. Jon let out a slow breath, lowering his bow. Off again.

He adjusted his stance, flexing his fingers around the bowstring. Again.

Breathe in. Empty your thoughts. Pull back. Aim. Loose.

Thunk.

This time, the arrow struck dead center.

Jon exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. He was getting better. Soon enough, even that damned squid wouldn't have a word to say about his archery.

A scoff came from the sidelines.

"Took you long enough, Snow." Theon Greyjoy leaned lazily against the post, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips. "Shame your target won't stand still for five minutes in the real world."

Jon rolled his eyes, setting his bow on the rack. "Would it kill you to compliment me once in your life, squid? I'm a lot better than before."

Theon only shook his head. "Ask me for a compliment when you've done something worth complimenting, Snow."

Robb chuckled from beside him, ever the peacemaker. "You look happier than usual, Theon. It was a successful trip to Winter Town then?"

Theon stiffened, eyes darting around the yard before stepping in closer, voice hushed. "I told you to keep that a secret." He glanced over his shoulder one last time, then let out a cocky grin. "But, yes. I bedded the butcher's daughter."

Robb's brows lifted. "The red-haired one? She's a pretty lass."

Theon's grin widened. "She's red down there too, if you're curious."

Robb's face went red and Jon nearly laughed. Nearly. 

"Another night of debauchery, Greyjoy?" came the gruff voice of Ser Rodrik Cassel, the master-at-arms of Winterfell. His grey whiskers bristled as he eyed Theon with disapproval. "If you've strength enough to chase wenches, you've strength enough for training. Fifteen laps around the yard, now."

Theon groaned, but one look at Ser Rodrik's face told him there was no use arguing.

Robb and Jon both turned to him with matching glares, as if he'd sentenced them to the laps himself.

"You're both running with him," Ser Rodrik added as if reading their thoughts. "It'll do you good."

They took off, their boots kicking up mud as they circled the yard. By the time they finished, sweat clung to their tunics and their breath came hard. Robb landed a punch on Theon's shoulder as soon as they stopped, but Theon only grinned, shoving him back, both of them laughing.

Ser Rodrik wasn't finished. "Now, Theon, you're with me. Jon, and Robb, you'll practice together. Stick to what I've taught you. Nothing stupid that will get one of you hurt."

Jon and Robb nodded, taking up their blunted practice swords. They squared off, circling one another.

They met in the middle and their blades clashed. The first few strikes were just testing the waters, but soon it became a contest. Robb fought with greater strength, pressing forward with heavier blows. But Jon moved lighter on his feet, watching, waiting. He was always better on defence.

The fight shifted from a stalemate and Jon started to gain the advantage, turning aside Robb's strikes and slipping past his defences. He landed a hit to Robb's ribs, then another to his thigh.

"Seven hells," Robb gritted out, stepping back. Then, with a sudden feint, he shifted his weight, bringing his sword down in a sweeping arc. Jon barely had time to react before Robb's blade was at his throat.

"I yield," Jon admitted, breathing hard.

Robb smirked, offering a hand. Jon took it, and they laughed, tallying their score.

Five to five.

Unseen by the boys, Eddard Stark stood above on the covered walkway, arms crossed as he observed the yard below. His grey eyes lingered on Robb, pride swelling in his chest. His son was growing into a fine fighter. He had pride in his heir.

But it was Jon who held his attention the longest. He saw the way the boy moved, the patience he wielded and how he measured every move he made. He was a lot more strategic than Robb, who fought more off of instinct than anything else.

He will surpass Robb in time.

Ned turned his gaze upward. The comet which appeared a moon ago still burned in the sky, a red slash across the blue sky. 

These signs do not sit easily with me.

His thoughts drifted to Jon's dreams. At first, he had feared them. Dragon dreams were his first instinct, and the thought had sent a chill through him. He had dreaded this moment ever since the day he claimed the boy as his bastard, feared what might come of the blood that ran in his veins.

But doubt crept in.

Not long ago, he had borrowed a tome on the history of Valyrian magic from Maester Luwin, an old and crumbling thing. He had pored over its pages late into the night, yet he found that Dragon Dreams only ever told of the future, never the past. 

What if Jon's dreams were not of the future at all? But of the past.

The notion troubled him more than he cared to admit, and that thought would not leave him.

If there was truth to these dreams, then Jon was seeing something that had already been. And that scared him.

A voice echoed in his mind.

"Promise me..."

Ned closed his eyes. He could still see her bloodied fingers gripping his wrist, could still hear her laboured breath, the scent of blood thick in the air. That accursed tower.

"I promise."

A vow made long ago, one he had never broken. One he never would.

I will protect him. No matter what.

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The first chapter of hopefully many.