Credit to for his part in this chapter!

The wild Dragon

No one could ever ride him.

No one could ever tame him.

Many tried, and they were turned to ash.

And so, they left him be.

He was counted among the wild dragons.

Vicious.

Terrifying.

The world feared his wrath.

But he left.

Years ago—so long ago.

And in time, he was forgotten.

Jon Snow

"I heard krakens were there. Big ugly fuckers," Yellow Tooth said. The grey-haired man smiled, his yellow teeth gleaming as he waited for his given name.

The man beside him snorted. "You really believe in that piss?" he asked in disbelief. His name was Joseph. Tall and lanky, with dyed green hair, though he was good with an axe.

Yellow Tooth shrugged. "This is Valyria we're talking about."

The five men aboard the ship stood together on deck, in a circle, trading stories and such. The topic, as it often did, slowly turned toward the dead capital of Valyria. It had been a week since they'd departed from Volantis, and they were getting closer to where the Doom had struck. Jon could feel it in his hardened bones.

As the days passed, the fog grew thicker. Each day, it built with more intensity, and soon, there would be nights of complete darkness without torches to light the way. The crew masked their unease with small talk, but Jon could see the tension in their eyes.

"Krakens are a myth," Joseph protested.

"I saw a Kraken once," someone muttered quietly.

Heads turned to see a man cloaked in heavy furs. His beard was long enough to touch his stomach, and his muscles were clear beneath his clothing.

Gerry met their gazes. "It was a couple of years ago. My cousin and I were sailing around the Sunset Sea. Just cruising, trying to catch some shellfish, nothing special." The others leaned in, captivated.

"Then the ship suddenly rumbled. The sea was rippling, and the nastiest thing I've ever seen passed by. It was huge. Its tentacles were the size of this bloody ship, and its teeth were bigger than all of you combined. The Kraken didn't attack us. It just passed by and went back under the water."

The crew stared at Gerry in shock. Tyrion shook his head and smiled. "The lies a man is willing to tell."

Gerry scowled at the imp. "I don't care what you think. I know what I saw." His gaze dropped to his hands, avoiding their eyes.

"You're quiet, Snow," Yellow Tooth said, breaking the silence.

Jon turned his eyes from Ghost and met Tooth's gaze. "What about it?" he replied.

"What do you think of all this?" Tooth asked, gesturing to everyone and the ship.

Jon understood the question. "I think every single one of you is a crazy son of a bitch who needs to rethink your lives," he said bluntly.

The silence was broken only by the sound of the waters splashing against the ship. The fog was now so thick the air felt heavy.

"But I guess I'm a crazy son of a bitch too," Jon added with a slight grin.

The crew burst into laughter, and even Jon allowed himself a full-blown smile.

Domeric Bolton

The heir of the Dreadfort looked down at his father on the floor, his sharp dagger in hand. Roose met his eyes with shock, for once showing emotion on that gaunt face, his hand clutching at his chest. Domeric returned his gaze with indifference. Roose had known this moment would come, yet he had done nothing to stop it.

Domeric's pale blue eyes were cold. "Our blades are sharp," he said simply.

Unexpectedly, Roose smiled. "Our blades are sharp," he repeated, his voice croaky. "Rule well, my son." Then he closed his eyes, and his body went still, lifeless.

"I will, Father," Domeric murmured to himself as he wiped his dagger clean with a napkin from the table. His expression remained calm, betraying no emotion, no guilt. After all, Roose had taught him the lesson from a young age. If he wanted to be the lord of the Dreadfort, he had to prove his blade was as sharp as the Boltons' motto or face being disposed of. Fortunately, he had made his father proud. Domeric didn't know what Roose would have done if he had refused the task, but it was clear his bastard brother would have been brought into the equation, and Domeric would have been gotten rid of. He knew he had to do it. He should have been the one to kill his father, anyway.

The door creaked open, and Maester Walkan entered the room, halting in his tracks when he saw the scene before him. Domeric turned to examine the man, his expression placid.

Walkan shifted uncomfortably on his feet, sweat already beginning to form on his brow. Domeric smiled cheerfully and approached the maester, his voice light.

"How are you, Walkan?" he asked with a pleasant tone.

Walkan stammered, taken aback. "Um… Ah… yes, milord," he replied, his face now resembling a tomato.

Domeric's smile widened. "That's good. Wouldn't want anything to happen to the castle's maester, would I?" He toyed with Walkan's chain idly, his dagger glinting in the dim light.

Walkan gulped. "No, milord!" he rushed, nearly biting his tongue in the process.

"Lord Roose had an accident," Domeric whispered, stepping closer and breathing the words into Walkan's ear. He then stepped back, eyeing the man carefully. "What did I say?"

Walkan furrowed his brow, trying desperately to recall the right words, knowing his life was on the line. "There was an accident," he stammered.

"Who had an accident?"

"Lord Roose."

"Good," Domeric said, turning back to his father's body. "Have his body buried."

"Yes, milord," Walkan said, his voice trembling. He quickly turned to leave, doing his best to speed walk out of the room.

Domeric's voice stopped him just as he reached the door. "Oh, and Walkan," he called, causing the maester to freeze. "Have the men prepare for a hunt. Make sure to tell Ramsay he is going along as well."

Walkan nodded quickly, not daring to speak further, before hurrying out of the room.

Ned Stark

It was quiet.

Like it should be.

Ned Stark walked through the crypts, his hand gently holding the winter roses. His face was lined with the weight of age and sorrow. The faint glow of torchlight flickered in the dim air, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

He paused in front of a statue. A tall, broad figure with a thick beard, holding a great sword resting carelessly on his left shoulder. This was Brandon Stark, his older brother. Ned swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes lingering on the statue.

Brandon had died so young. Why did you have to be so reckless, brother? The sickening image of Brandon, struggling to reach for their father while the rope tightened around his neck, nearly brought Ned to his knees. The grief was so raw, it almost overwhelmed him.

Ned couldn't bear to look at it anymore. He turned and moved to the next statue: Rickard Stark. His father. He was filled with anger, his heart still bitter with resentment. I have nothing to say to you, Ned thought sharply. His father's persistence to marry Lyanna to Robert Baratheon had led to all of this. His sister had pleaded against it—her pleas ignored. Brandon and Benjen had joined her in protest, but Rickard hadn't listened. Their mother would have been devastated.

Ned's gaze finally landed on the statue of Lyanna. He knelt in front of her, placing the winter roses gently in her open hand. She had loved these.

By the old gods and new, she was wild. Lyanna had never been one to sit still, embroidering or wearing fine dresses. She was always more comfortable in breeches, a sword in hand. She had been so skilled with the blade, it was almost surprising for a woman. Ned remembered how Lyanna would easily disarm Benjen or send the squires running with terror in their eyes. He couldn't help but smile.

His thoughts then turned to his daughter, Arya. A flicker of determination filled him. His father might have tried to force Lyanna into a mold she didn't fit, but not Arya. Not his daughter. Ned's resolve hardened as he turned on his heel and strode out of the crypts.

At the dinner table that evening, Ned asked, "Do you wish to have a sword tutor, Arya?"

He could have had her practice with the boys under Ser Rodrik, but it felt right for Arya to train on her own, in a way Lyanna never could. Lyanna had always had to sneak out of her lessons to even hold a wooden sword.

Arya's face lit up. "Yes! Thank you, father!" she exclaimed, her smile bright enough to make Ned's heart swell. It was the first time he had seen her this happy since Jon left.

A dark thought clouded his mind. The image of Jon, his amethyst eyes gleaming with cold delight as he cut down men without effort, brought a chill to Ned's bones. He had to steady his hand on the table to keep from showing his discomfort. And then, he noticed something—Bran's face was twisted with jealousy, Robb was amused, Rickon was confused. Theon, ever indifferent, continued to eat. Sansa and Catelyn, on the other hand, wore disapproving frowns.

"A lady should not be running around holding swords, Ned," Catelyn said, her voice tinged with concern.

"And a boy shouldn't be climbing," Ned retorted, keeping his eyes on his food.

Bran immediately dropped his head, embarrassed, while the others snickered quietly. Catelyn shot him a look, but he met her gaze firmly.

"I tried my hardest to make Arya a proper lady—"

"If she doesn't want to be a lady, she doesn't have to," Ned interrupted, his tone resolute.

Catelyn opened her mouth, as if to argue further, but she saw the determination in his eyes. She closed her lips, nodding stiffly before returning to her meal. Arya, in the meantime, was boasting to Bran, rubbing it in with joyful enthusiasm.

Ned couldn't help but grin.

It was the right thing to do.

Lyanna would have little to be happy with watching from her grave - she would be content with this at least.

Jon Snow

"Tyrion… where the hell are we?" Jon asked, his voice barely above a whisper. He counted to 100 and back again, a technique he'd learned to calm his nerves, though the tightness in his chest made it harder than ever to focus.

The sea stretched out around them, an endless void of white-grey mist. It clung to the ship like a wolf's pack, closing in from all sides. The fog was so thick, Jon couldn't see a thing. It reminded him of a storm cloud, heavy with menace. This morning, the crew had woken to find themselves lost in the fog, their bearings gone, their destination uncertain. Jon knew what this meant: they were adrift, with no sense of direction. And worse, no idea what lay ahead.

He steadied himself and glanced at Tyrion. The crew, standing at attention with tension radiating from their stiff postures, looked to him for answers, fear flickering in their eyes.

Tyrion rubbed his stubbled chin, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There were no records… nothing suggesting this could happen." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "I'm as clueless as the rest of you."

The crew murmured in disbelief, their faces hardening with suspicion and anger. The air crackled with resentment.

"What do you mean you're clueless?" one man spat.

"Gods damn it, Lannister! You should know better!"

"We're going to die out here!"

Yellow Tooth, the largest among them, drew his dagger from his cloak, its blade gleaming ominously in the misty light. "It's your fault, Lannister. Maybe a little 'reparation' is in order," he sneered, stepping toward Tyrion with the blade raised.

Jon moved quickly, positioning himself between Tyrion and Yellow Tooth. The men's eyes locked, and Jon could feel the heat of their anger rising. Inside, he was seething with frustration. They knew what they signed up for when they agreed to sail toward Valyria. Now they were acting like children because the journey wasn't as easy as they'd hoped. Did they think it would be without risk?

Yellow Tooth scowled, his nostrils flaring. "Get out of the way, Snow," he growled, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger.

Jon stood firm, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not moving."

Yellow Tooth hesitated, the thought of facing Jon in a fight giving him pause. It was a fight he knew he probably wouldn't win, and not without a price.

Behind them, Tyrion cleared his throat, his voice calm but sharp. "Let's not make things worse. I'll say it again: I didn't know this was going to happen. None of us did."

"Saying sorry doesn't change anything, Imp," Joseph barked.

Tyrion nodded, unperturbed. "I know," he said dryly. "It's the most polite thing to say in this shithole."

The crew's glares intensified. Yellow Tooth grunted in frustration, his voice low and venomous. "Shut your mouth, dwarf. I'm tired of hearing that pissy tongue of yours."

Tyrion's lips curled into a small smile, but there was no humor in it. "If you had a father like mine, you'd learn to ignore insults. You get used to them after a while."

Yellow Tooth ignored the jab, his patience wearing thin. "We're lost. Are we even heading toward bloody Valyria anymore?" he yelled, his anger bubbling over.

Jon, his voice low and measured, glanced at the mist with narrowed eyes. "Clearly, you don't know your history," he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

The crew shifted, their eyes snapping to Jon, and Yellow Tooth's glare could've burned through steel. "What did you say, boy?" he snarled, taking a step forward.

Jon turned slowly, his lilac eyes locking with Yellow Tooth's. The anger in the man's eyes didn't faze Jon. "Watch yourself ser," he warned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready for the inevitable challenge.

Before Yellow Tooth could respond, Tyrion interjected, his voice urgent. "What Snow means," he said, pointing toward the sea, "is that the waters… they're boiling." The crew gathered at the edge of the deck, peering over the railing to see what Tyrion was talking about.

Jon's heart sank as he watched the water. Bubbles—large, violent ones—broke the surface, popping like fireballs, steam rising from the sea. The sight was enough to make even the bravest man's blood run cold.

"Holly shit," Gerry murmured, awe in his voice as he leaned closer to the edge.

Jon and the others watched in stunned silence, unable to process the sight in front of them.

Then, without warning, one of the bubbles exploded violently, sending a burst of steam into the air. Gerry, who had leaned too close, screamed in agony as the boiling water scalded his face. He fell to the deck, thrashing in pain as his skin blistered and bubbled. The crew recoiled in horror, unsure of what to do.

Ghost, Jon's direwolf, appeared from below deck, circling the body as if instinctively knowing what had happened. After sniffing the air, he let out a low, mournful howl and bolted toward Jon.

The crew, still in shock, stared at the lifeless body of Gerry. Tyrion's eyes narrowed as he regarded the gruesome scene. The silence on the ship was deafening, broken only by the occasional lapping of the waves against the hull.

Jon crouched beside the body, his face grim as he turned Gerry over. The stench of scorched flesh hit him like a slap. Gerry's face was unrecognizable, the skin charred and peeled away, his eyes scorched from the heat. Jon recoiled, the sight turning his stomach.

He quickly stepped back, trying to swallow the bile rising in his throat. The crew, visibly shaken, said nothing as they stared at the lifeless body. The reality of their situation was setting in.

Tyrion let out a soft sigh, his fingers running through Ghost's fur in an attempt to steady his nerves. "Well," he said dryly, "who's going to toss him overboard?"

...

James Strickland swung his wooden sword with all his strength, aiming at the shifting figure before him. But Jon was too quick, and his strike fell useless. With a snarl, James roared and brought his sword crashing down on Jon's shield. The impact sent splinters flying, chipping off pieces of Jon's defense. Without missing a beat, Jon twisted, lifting his shield straight into Strickland's unguarded face.

James crumpled to the ground, his eyes burning with rage. A deep gash marred his forehead. Jon smirked, savoring the victory over the cocky bastard who'd dared challenge him.

Around Jon, the fallen men groaned, nursing the bruises and cuts he'd delivered. He stood tall, a confident grin on his face as the watching crowd regarded him with a newfound respect.

The commander of their sub-division, a grizzled man with a sharp eye, stepped forward. His gaze appraised Jon like a blacksmith inspecting fine steel. "What did you say your name was, boy?"

"Jon Snow," Jon replied, standing tall.

The commander circled him like a predator, his steps slow and deliberate. "Snow, huh? You think you can use that skill in battle?"

Jon's answer was firm, unwavering. "Yes."

The commander stopped before him, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Are you prepared to spill the blood of our enemies in the name of Bittersteel?"

Jon hesitated for the briefest moment, the question weighing heavily on his conscience. Could he truly take a life in cold blood? But then the answer came to him, unbidden. This was why he'd joined this warband—this was his chance to prove he was more than just a bastard.

Jon's eyes hardened as he met the commander's gaze. "Yes."

The mood aboard the ship was dark, the air thick with tension. Yellow Tooth ran a whetstone along the length of his sword, the sharp rasp a sound that seemed to echo in the silence. Joseph practiced his axe maneuvers nearby, his movements precise. Tyrion, on the other hand, was lost in the pages of his thick book, his eyes scanning the text with intense focus.

"Are we going to die here?" Joseph's voice broke the stillness, and he stowed his axes, sitting down heavily.

Tyrion looked up, his expression unreadable. "There's a good chance of it."

Jon snorted. "What are our chances of actually completing this trip alive?" He glanced at Tyrion, but the Lannister gave no answer, his gaze returning to his book.

Jon took the silence as a response and shifted the topic. "Where are your men?" he asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.

Tyrion's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You're a Lannister," Jon said, tone sharp. "It's only right you've got men from Casterly Rock assigned to you, isn't it?"

Tyrion shook his head, his expression distant. Jon scoffed. "Does your father even know you're doing this?"

Tyrion closed his book and rifled through his bag for another. "Yes, he knows," he said, his voice carrying an odd weight of resignation.

Jon frowned. "Then why don't you—"

"He doesn't care."

Jon's mouth went dry. His mind struggled to process the words. "He doesn't care?" he repeated slowly, as if the sentence alone could unravel something inside him.

Tyrion chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "My father never cared for me like he did for Jaime or Cersei. To him, I'm just a bastard, not worth a single soldier."

Jon rubbed his hand over his face, the words settling into him like a weight. "You're not a bastard. You're Tywin Lannister's son."

Tyrion fixed Jon with a cold, unfeeling gaze. "All dwarfs are bastards in their father's eyes," he said quietly, his voice devoid of emotion.

Unable to bear the weight of Tyrion's stare any longer, Jon turned to the sounds of claws scraping against the wooden deck. Ghost emerged from the shadows, his fur bristling, his red eyes locked on Jon. The direwolf let out a long, mournful howl, cutting through the silence like a knife.

The crew stiffened, eyes wide, as Ghost's howl echoed over the ship.

"What's the matter, boy?" Jon asked, his voice filled with concern. Ghost rarely made a sound, and a howl like this... something was wrong. Jon peered into the wolf's bright eyes and felt the unease settle in his gut. Ghost was alarmed. Something was out there.

Without waiting for a response, Ghost sprinted to the head of the ship, howling again. He glanced back at Jon, then back to the fog ahead.

Joseph snickered. "There's nothing wrong, Snow. Your wolf just wants to get off this damn boat."

Yellow Tooth didn't say a word, continuing to inspect his sword with practiced focus. But Tyrion narrowed his eyes, observing Ghost with growing interest. "He's trying to warn us," he said quietly, his tone thoughtful.

Yellow Tooth snorted. "It's just a wolf. They don't warn."

Jon ignored the comment, his attention solely on Ghost. The wolf stared at him intently, his bright red eyes pleading. Jon squinted into the thick fog, a chill crawling down his spine. He couldn't see anything, but then—there it was.

A long, shadowy tentacle, rising through the mist. Jon's eyes widened as he saw it—massive, its slick length cutting through the fog like a serpent. His heart pounded in his chest as he rushed to the wheel.

Joseph's voice was sharp with confusion. "What the hell, Snow? What are you doing?" His question hung in the air, but Jon didn't answer. He turned the wheel sharply to the left, guiding the ship away from the unseen danger.

Jon's arms trembled, the tension in his muscles as tight as a bowstring. He glanced back at the crew, their eyes fixed on him. "Trust me..." His voice was low, but there was no mistaking the urgency behind it. "It's the right thing to do."

He moved toward the stairs that led below deck, Ghost close at his side.

Once in his room, Jon slammed the door behind him, pressing his back against it as his breath came in short, shallow gasps. The shaking in his arms was uncontrollable now. He turned to Ghost, the wolf's steady gaze grounding him.

Jon forced a tight smile, rubbing Ghost's white fur. "Thanks, buddy," he murmured, his voice strained. His body was still trembling. He had seen it—he couldn't unsee it now. That massive tentacle, the creature lurking beneath the waves, it wasn't something the others would take seriously.

Jon ran a hand over his face, steeling himself for what came next. Tyrion, Yellow Tooth, and Joseph would laugh him off, call him mad... and that was exactly what he feared. They'd throw him overboard, abandon him to the waters where monsters like that dwelled.

But Jon knew what he'd seen.

A bloody kraken.

That was the truth.

The yells and shouts jerked Jon from his slumber, pulling him into a haze of confusion. Ghost leapt from the bed, ears pricked and alert, his gaze fixed on the door from which the noise was coming. Jon blinked, the sleep clouding his vision, and glanced around the room, searching for the source of the commotion. His heart sank as he realized it was coming from the deck. Oh gods… please not that squid.

With urgency, Jon scrambled to his feet and bolted for the door. As he ascended the narrow staircase, the sight that met him was chaos. Yellow Tooth, wild-eyed, was wrestling the ship's wheel, while Joseph shouted at him, urging him on. Tyrion, pale with frustration, paced the deck, hands clutching his head.

Tyrion spotted Jon and waved him over with frantic urgency. Jon strode toward him, his voice demanding. "What the hell is going on!?"

Tyrion said nothing, only pointed ahead. Jon followed the gesture, and his breath caught. Through the fog, a dark silhouette emerged, growing clearer as they drew closer. It was the outline of a mountain, vast and menacing, rising out of the mist. No matter how much Yellow Tooth turned the wheel, the shape only expanded in their line of sight. They were heading straight for it.

Jon's voice rose in panic. "Come on!" he yelled to Yellow Tooth, his fists clenched at his sides. "Keep steering!"

Yellow Tooth, drenched in sweat, grunted, his arms straining at the wheel. "I'm trying!" he grunted, but the looming mountain was still on their path.

Tyrion's voice cut through the tension. "Do you want to die, Yellow Tooth?" he shouted. The man shook his head, his expression a mix of fear and exhaustion. "Then steer!" Tyrion demanded.

Yellow Tooth gave one final push, and the mountain's form shifted to the side, vanishing from their path. The crew let out a collective cheer, but the relief was short-lived. The ship lurched violently, and Jon was thrown to the deck. His back slammed against the wooden planks, the breath knocked from his lungs. He gasped, struggling to regain his bearings, and slowly pushed himself to his feet. The others did the same, but their faces were filled with awe and dread as they stared at the scene unfolding before them.

The fog, which had haunted them for days, had lifted. What lay before them was a sight both terrible and mesmerizing.

Jon held his breath. Around them were crumbled, blackened buildings, their foundations cracked and scorched. Jagged rocks and boulders, remnants of some ancient destruction, jutted from the cliffs. Broken trees lay scattered across the land, their twisted, charred remains blending with the deep green of the grass. Jon's eyes widened as he took in the sheer devastation. They were standing on one of the many floating islands of the region, but this one was different. The air, thick with heat and humidity, clung to his skin in a way that was far from the expected chill. The sky was a swirling mass of dark, stormy clouds, and there—far in the distance—something caught Jon's eye.

A towering, triangular peak stood against the sky, dark and ominous, the very air around it seeming to shimmer with the remnants of ash. From its apex, a stream of lava shot into the sky, leaving a trail of fire and trembling earth in its wake.

Jon's heart raced, his body sinking to his knees in shock. The volcano erupted again, a surge of molten rock flying through the air, only to fall back into the sea below, hissing and boiling. It was as though the earth itself was alive, burning with an unnatural fury.

Tyrion, equally struck by the sight, muttered, "That's a volcano."

Joseph and Yellow Tooth, still shaking, stood at their sides. Joseph, his voice hoarse, asked, "Isn't all the volcano supposed to be around the main city of Valyria? Didn't they all explode?"

Tyrion shrugged, his mind clearly struggling to make sense of it all. "The records must have been muddled with time. Or maybe it's all a lie that people forgot."

Jon swallowed hard. "We're in Valyria," he said hoarsely.

Tyrion hesitated, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. "Not yet," he said, though his gaze lingered on the volcano. "But we're close."

Yellow Tooth, ever eager, didn't wait for confirmation. "Well, we're not going to stand here doing nothing!" he said with a sudden burst of energy. He leapt from the ship and onto the ground, the old ash and dust kicking up around him. Jon followed, waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air of the chemicals that stung his nose.

The crew spread out, cautiously surveying the destruction. They began moving toward the remnants of what had once been a mighty fortress—now nothing more than a pile of rubble. Jon's eyes narrowed as a strange pull tugged at him, a force he couldn't explain. He felt it deep in his bones, as if something was calling to him from within the wreckage.

Without a word, Jon strode ahead of the others, his feet carrying him toward the ruined fortress, the pull growing stronger with every step. Tyrion called after him, but Jon couldn't stop. The force was overwhelming.

He found a narrow, hidden opening in the wall, barely big enough for a child to crawl through, but Jon squeezed inside, his urgency driving him forward.

"Jon, wait!" Tyrion's voice was distant, but Jon didn't hear it. His mind was consumed with the need to discover the source of this strange pull.

The air inside the darkness grew thick and stifling. Jon's breath quickened as he crawled through the oppressive blackness. Finally, he emerged into a great hall—its ceiling looming dangerously above him, ready to collapse. He quickly moved to another room, but the pull intensified, drawing him forward as if his body no longer belonged to him. He was moving of its own accord.

Jon tried to fight it, but his feet kept moving. He turned a corner and found himself facing an oak door, its surface worn and weathered by time. The sigil of House Targaryen, long forgotten, was carved into the wood.

Jon's hand reached for the handle before he could even think. As soon as he stepped through, a blinding light flooded his vision, and he staggered back in pain. His eyes burned as if they could not bear the intensity of the glare.

He crouched, forced to shield his eyes as the light cut through his defenses. When his vision cleared, he gasped in shock.

Before him lay a sword unlike anything he had ever seen. It gleamed with a brilliance that no steel should possess. Its blade was sharper than any edge Jon had ever touched, its surface glowing with a faint, ethereal light.

Jon's heart thundered in his chest as he realized what it was.

Valyrian steel.

...

Jon found himself on his knees, his body heavy and unwilling. A towering figure loomed over him, a man dressed in black armor, his movements slow and deliberate. Jon's heart sank as he saw Yellow Tooth and Joseph lying lifeless on the ground, their throats slashed. Tyrion, standing beside him, glared at the men who had ambushed them, but there was no hope in his eyes.

One of the figures—a man with two swords at his side—picked up Jon's Valyrian sword, admiring it with cold eyes. Jon glared at him, furious. That sword belonged to him, and these men had no right to it.

A single figure stepped forward from the ranks of men, his presence commanding. He was tall, with a long mane of hair and an eye patch over his left eye, the other eye a swirling, maddened blue. He smiled at Jon and Tyrion, a grin that sent a chill down Jon's spine.

"Well, well," the man said, his voice dripping with malice. "What do we have here? I've never met anyone who crossed the Smoking Sea and lived to tell the tale."

Jon's anger flared. "Who the hell are you?" he spat.

The man's smile widened. "Jon Snow, I presume?" He paused, then yanked his eye patch aside to reveal his unsettling, chaotic eye. "I am Euron Greyjoy."

Jon and Tyrion froze, the name sending a wave of recognition through them both. Euron raised Jon's sword, admiring it. "Before you die, Snow," Euron said with a twisted grin, "I want you to see something. A dragon—under my control. Would you like that?"