Jon

When he opened his eyes it was exceedingly clear that he has made an exceedingly wrong choice.

His mind was foggy. His eyes were wonky when he was trying to see through the darkness. He couldn't find the energy to move any of his limbs. It was as if they were dead. He does not know where he is.

Jon tried to move his head to make better sense of his surroundings. All he got was pain. Sharp needles ran his spine and up to his neck. Jon moaned weakly and ceased all movement to avoid further pain.

He opened his mouth, hoping he can even breathe. Dust and other substances in the air immediately rushed into his windpipe causing him to choke. The smell was atrocious as well. It smelled rotten. Was he in a chimney nobody washed in centuries?

"I dearly hope that's the case," Jon thought, fear creeping into his mind. Where was he? How did he get here? He racked his brain for answers but all he got was a migraine. His memory was fuzzy. Images and words blended together into a mess.

Eventually, fatigue took over his mind.

Jon stood alone in the dark that had no end. It was neither dark nor cold. There was no feeling at all except for the feeling of vast emptiness. Jon's feet were steady, but there was no ground to be seen. He was floating in the dark with no clothes, all his body parts out to see.

"Jon," a voice called out in the darkness.

Jon whipped around to see…himself, staring right back at him, floating just like he was.

It's supposedly himself. But there was something wrong. There was something off, dark. The fake Jon had dark hair, a long face, and dark grey eyes. But the inside of his eyes was twisted. Jon can see people in its eyes, people that were screaming.

Jon tried to run away but the thing grabbed hold of him by his neck and squeezed. The grip was strong, unbreakable.

The thing crept near his ear, and Jon shivered as a cold wet breeze swept through his body. "Poor Jon," the thing said. It had Jon's appearance but the voice was drastically different. It was deeper, more seductive. "Poor bastard ran from home," it mocked. "Or was it really your home in the first place?"

Jon tried to talk through the death hold. "Who are you to tell me it was not?" he managed to grunt out.

Jon couldn't see his face but he can feel its dark smile. "Because I am You. I am your true self. I am your happiness. I am your sadness. I am your despair. I am your darkness, all the feelings you hope to never see the light."

Jon so badly wanted to escape from whatever hellish nightmare this was. "This is not real."

The thing tsked. "It is really because you've made it be bastard."

"I will not listen to you!" Jon couldn't help but finally scream. "I don't care what you are. Leave me alone!" He was so scared.

"I told you I am you. Why are you denying yourself, Jon? Why are you denying the truths?"

"What truths?" Jon demanded, hoping to humor the thing so it can disappear. He squirmed but the hold around his neck did not budge.

"It is the truths that you don't want anyone to know, the truths that you think about before you go to bed and before the sun rises. You hide it deep inside yourself behind the face your father and siblings see every day to the point they think that's the real you. But it's not."

"What?" It was all Jon can say. He was shook.

The thing put his lips on his head and took a long whiff of it. "So much pain and anger you possess!" He exclaimed breathlessly.

"It's a shame you don't use them."

Groggily, Jon woke up to another pounding headache. He rapidly blinked the dust and sleep from his eyes to keep his wake. He took a clean around, seeing nothing but darkness, wondering if this was even real.

"I have to get out of here. I can't remember anything in this state. But that can be resolved later." He lifted himself, only to hear the startling rattle of metal. Only then does he suddenly feel a daunting weight on his wrists and ankles.

"No," Jon whispered with sickening dread.

His eyes becoming a little bit more adjusted to the dark, he bent his head and his frantic wide eyes can glimpse the outlines of manacles bounded around his pale arms and bare legs.

"No. .No." Jon jerked up to his feet and bull-rushed forward. There was a clang of metal, the chains stretching out but holding firm, and Jon fell on his chest with a painful thump.

He didn't give him a chance to reflect on the throbbing of his upper chest because he was busy beating the chains of blood with all his might.

Jon punched, slammed, kicked, punched, bit, and punched the chains over and over again. He gave himself a period of reprieve to catch his breath and restarted the process. He didn't know how long he let at the chains, but his knuckles were wet, his feet burned and the chains were unbothered. He was stuck here.

Anger, pain, and desperation overwhelmed him.

"Help me!" He screamed. "Please! Someone help! Help me, pleeeeaasssseee!"

The motherless bastard had cried for his mother at night many times for no answer. Now he cried for his life with the same result.

Jon screamed and begged until his throat was raw. He was hungry, and his lips were dry and cracked.

He sniffed and laid his head down against the wooden floor, sucking the blood from his knuckles.

Euron

No one can say that he was an ungodly man. It was ridiculous even.

"P-please don't h-hurt m-me," the man cried before him, his robe shredded and spotted with his own blood. Truly, the clothing was marvelous before. It used Green, loud, rich, and half-naked as befitting the city of Qarth.

"But It looks much better this way," Euron concluded silently. "How can I be a godly man when I myself am a god? "

The room they were in was quite a spectacle to admire. It was colorful, spacious enough to house a family of three, marbled floor, and a detailed canopy to top it off. What drew Greyjoy's attention was the art display on the walls. Each one of them told its own story. Euron walked slowly past each one.

"I-I have a family. P-p-lease sh-ow mercy," the man on the marbled floor continued to beg, despite clearly living in this place by himself.

"He is a liar." Euron halted his walking at one of the pictures. It was a single man with a halo over his head, his devotees kneeling with their heads bowed down deeply in reverence.

"You know I don't like liars," Euron said softly, gently laying his forehead on the art frame. He felt a deep understanding that only he and the man with the halo understood. "They are not fit for this world."

"P-p-lease, oh my god!"

In the corner, Euron's mute, a big muscled man with dark tattoos strewn over his face and body, brought the hot metal out of the brazier with large pinchers. The mute's eyes were dark and unemotional as he stalked toward the scrambling man. Ember and sparks flew on the rushes but the man was undeterred.

Before the helpless victim can get up, he was wrenched by the neck by another mute that came up behind him, and his jaw was forced up. He was smelly and ugly, just the type Euron wanted on his crew. He wanted imperfections.

"Help!" The man with the robes screamed. He was another imperfection. He didn't see the blessing Euron was trying to give to him. Euron was trying to fix him, help him.

"Not all of them have the capability to understand what we have to do," Euron said, kissing the man in the artwork. "And it's ok, right?" He pressed his ear against the painting, hearing something that will never make a sound. With a shout of triumph, he bounced on his heels. "Yes! I knew it! It is our job to make them understand."

Bloodcurdling screams can now be heard.

Euron trained his eyes on the man's halo, glaze covering his pupils. "Every man has imperfections. That's why get drawn to otherworldly beings like mermaids and unicorns. They want to be fixed, to rule. And only we gods can give them what they want. Men live to serve, to be ruled. Else they have no reasons to draw breath."

The screams died out, but the shimmering of some kind can still be heard.

"I have much work to get done," Euron announced joyfully. He turned on his heel. He briefly stopped to look at the dead body on the blood-stained rushes, admiring the art his mutes created. The once rich bloke was sprawled on the carpets that once brought him so much comfort. Now it was his resting place, the gift from his god. His tongue was extended out so forcefully to the point it just barely stayed attached to the mouth. An imprint of a crow's eye burned red on the tongue.

"I said I desired the shape of a Kraken," Euron said with displeasure, suddenly getting stressed. He combed through his hair aggressively and growled. "This is clearly a crow." I hate when people don't listen to their maker. Swiftly, his sword was in his hand and was deep in the bowels of the Mute that was closest.

The abomination did not make a noise as he crumbled to his death. Euron snapped his gaze to his other Mute. "Brand yourself on your manhood before you experience my wrath too." However, he paused in thought. "Know that I think about it, I think I have already severed that off. Oh well, brand your ass then." He left the room as the Mute was lowering his pants.

Back at the ports of Qarth, his crew was loading his supplies into his ships. A barrel being pushed by one of his acolytes shifted and made a noise. Euron smiled and gave it a boot that sent it rolling down the dock.

The people of the city gave them strange looks and gave all of them a wide berth, them and their grubby strips they call fashion. Even the trading ships that voyaged from the corners of the seas in the docks avoided coming close to his fleet. "Sooner than they think, they will have nowhere to run from their judgment," Euron vowed. He liked the name of that word. Judgment is a fitting word for someone like him. That will be the name for his next Valyrian sword.

Down the street, the streets parted to let a slow lumbering carriage past, the bare-chested slaves heaving it upon their shoulders. Even from here, he can hear the groaning of wood from the weight being sustained in the air.

Euron knew it was coming for him. He had seen it.

The carriage stopped. The slaves almost broke their backs placing the carriage back down on the ground safely. The curtains pulled back to reveal a merchant he knew very well.

Euron smiled, and his eye patch twitched

Jon

He was deep in his thoughts when the ground beneath him shifted, moving. He was on a ship. He was a slave.

"They must've started moving again." Jon cursed. It was better if they stopped moving, even if he had no plan brewing on how to escape.

His musings were abruptly cut short when the front door banged upon. The light Jon hasn't seen in probably days flashed in the door and the bastard hissed and used his hand to hold the light at bay. Through the slits through his fingers, he saw the bright light surrounding the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. Jon's memories came rushing back on cue.

"Hello my prince," the man said cheerfully. "I hope I haven't ruined your sleep." He was covered head-to-toe by blood. Around his neck was a stunning piece of heavy necklace, multiple actually. There was an ornate scheme on each of the rings that are on his fingers.

What was most shocking was the bald severed head he was swinging at his side. Fresh blood poured to the ground. For that, the man held the head by putting his fingers deep into the nostrils of the deceased. Jon's life was in great peril.