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.