What's up guys! Let me know what you think of this chapter, enjoy! And note that Jon snow is 16, not 18. That was my mistake.

Jon Snow

The silence around Jon was suffocating. He screamed again, a raw, guttural cry that felt as though it might tear his throat open. But it was swallowed by the ship, swallowed by the vast, empty space where no one cared. No one heard. His voice had no power here.

Ghost lay still beside him, eyes flicking occasionally toward the deck above. His direwolf, his constant companion, who once served as his only protection and the truest of friends, was as much a prisoner as he was. The thought of his direwolf enduring this hellish existence alongside him stirred something fierce within Jon.

He clenched his fists, the chains rattling against his wrist. Each tug, each strain against his restraints only served to remind him of how utterly powerless he was. Euron Greyjoy had shattered him, reduced him to this, a mere husk of the warrior he had once been.

But no.

Jon's breath slowed. He felt the fire rising inside him. I will not break. Not for Euron. Not for any of them. This... this was not the end.

It was a moment of clarity. His mind, despite the haze of pain, the numbness from the beatings, and the madness closing in, focused on one singular thought. Patience. His father's words from long ago came rushing back to him. The whispers in the courtyard, Robb's taunts, the many nights he had spent sparring, each defeat building towards something greater.

Jon forced himself to breathe deeply, ignoring the throb in his back. The whips, the chains—they would not define him. Not here. Not now.

He glanced at the silent prisoners around him. He couldn't trust them, not with their lips sewn shut, their eyes distant and lifeless. They had already been lost to whatever horrors this ship contained. But Ghost... Ghost was still here. That was enough.

The muffled sounds from the deck reached his ears again, faint and indistinguishable, but they no longer filled him with dread. Instead, they fed into his growing resolve. Whatever awaited him on this ship, whatever Euron planned—Jon would survive. He had to. For himself. For Ghost.

Euron was a madman, obsessed with power and control, but Jon had learned over the years that it was not power that made a man strong. It was his will to endure, to fight back when the world sought to crush him.

The muttered insults, the blows, the unbearable silence—they were all just tools Euron used to try to break him. But Jon knew something the Crow's Eye did not. He had not broken yet.

Jon's heart thudded in his chest, and for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to imagine the possibility of escape. The patience he had once learned was no longer just a virtue. It was a weapon. He would use it. Wait. Watch. And when the time was right, he would strike.

The ship might have been his prison, but it was not his tomb.

With a final glance at Ghost, Jon closed his eyes. He would not lose himself to madness. Not yet. Not ever.

The storm inside him grew, but he kept it quiet, like a spark waiting for the right moment to ignite.

Aegon

"You will marry Margaery Tyrell next moon, Aegon," Rhaegar announced, his tone unyielding.

The king's solar was draped in the Targaryen colors of red and black, a display of regal intent. In one corner, a solitary silvery harp stood, its strings untouched, a symbol of both the king's strength and the silence of the room.

Elia Martell, once frail and broken, now exuded a quiet strength. The shadows of the Mad King's cruelty had lifted from her, and though the scars remained, her health had vastly improved with his death. Her sun-kissed skin, adorned with a soft, delicate dress, and her dark brown hair framed her thoughtful face. Her brown eyes, now narrowed with concern, rested on Aegon, seated beside her husband.

Aegon's hand gripped the armrest, his jaw clenched. "No," he said firmly, his voice betraying none of the tumultuous emotions beneath his calm exterior. "I won't."

Rhaegar raised a single silver eyebrow. "This is an order, Aegon," he replied softly, but with a dangerous undertone.

"I don't want to marry her," Aegon growled. Margaery was not the woman he loved. It was someone else, someone who filled his every thought, but Rhaegar's unwavering gaze was all the rebuke he needed to know his feelings were irrelevant.

Rhaegar steepled his fingers and placed them on the desk, his voice almost a whisper, but no less powerful. "This is not a matter of your desires, son. It is a matter of duty. A match must be made, and it is long overdue. I allowed you to avoid it for as long as possible, but that time is over."

Aegon's head shook in denial. "Why her?" he asked, his voice low, almost pleading. He had met Margaery before, at a tourney in King's Landing. She was not a bad woman—far from it. But there was something in her behavior that rubbed him the wrong way. The Tyrells, he knew, saw the marriage as a power play, a way to cement their influence. And Margaery, with her graceful smiles and delicate gestures, flaunted that knowledge, her eyes always on him as if she knew she was about to win a crown. When Aegon was near her, he felt suffocated by her perfumed presence, as if a thousand flowers were closing in on him.

Rhaegar leaned forward, his tone steady but firm. "The Tyrells are still seeking reward for their loyalty in the conquest of Storm's End," he said, the words familiar, like a mantra. "They fought for you, Aegon. And you will marry Margaery. It is not up for debate."

Aegon's frustration exploded. He stood, his voice rising with fury. "They did nothing! They ate and feasted while Stannis's men fought for the castle! They only yielded after Robert died, and the fat flower did nothing but sit on his ass!" His words echoed off the stone walls, his anger shaking the very foundation of the room.

"And yet, you expect me to marry someone I don't love?" he spat, his fury now spilling over. "But you don't force that on Rhaenys, do you?"

Elia's sharp voice cut through the tension. "Do not speak to your father that way," she warned, her gaze piercing.

Aegon whirled on her. "I will not be silent when this is wrong! You know it is!" His voice cracked with the weight of his emotions.

Rhaegar rose slowly from his chair. Father and son now stood eye to eye, their faces inches apart, the tension thick enough to cut with a sword.

Rhaegar's voice was soft but commanding, laced with the authority of a king. "You are my son, the crown prince. Your duty is to the realm. You will marry Margaery. You will do what is required of you."

Aegon's fist clenched. "It's not fair," he muttered, voice tight. "I love Daenerys." His gaze burned with frustration, his breath coming in sharp gasps.

"I know you do," Rhaegar replied with surprising gentleness. "But you will come to understand that the throne requires sacrifices, Aegon. We don't always get what we want."

Aegon's pulse thudded in his ears, his body rigid with rage. "Did you think of duty when you ran off with Lyanna?" he hissed, the words bitter and raw.

The sharp slap across his face sent a shock through Aegon. His cheek flared with pain, and he stumbled back, wide-eyed. For the first time in his life, his father had struck him. The shock of it left him motionless, staring up at the cold fury in Rhaegar's eyes.

Rhaegar's voice was low, trembling with wrath. "You dare speak of her to my face?" He took a step forward, as though he might strike again.

But Elia, ever calm and composed, intervened, placing a gentle hand on Rhaegar's arm. "Calm yourself, my love," she said softly, her voice a balm to his fury. She turned to Aegon, her gaze filled with sorrow. "He didn't mean it. You must understand."

Rhaegar exhaled sharply, his anger beginning to dissipate. Aegon remained on the floor, stunned, unsure whether to rise or stay on his knees. His father's rage was a new thing, a terrifying thing. And it had been aimed at him.

Elia helped him to his feet, her touch light but reassuring. Rhaegar's voice, now devoid of heat, returned. "Daenerys and your grandmother will sail back to Dragonstone. She is not to return to King's Landing until after your wedding. This… affair with her ends now. Do you understand?" He paused, watching his son's reddened face. "You will do your duty, Aegon."

Aegon nodded stiffly, turning to leave without another word. As he reached the door, he couldn't help but feel the weight of defeat settle over him.

Once in the hall, Aegon pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to steady himself. The anger and frustration churned inside him, a storm he couldn't quell. He had to see Daenerys. He couldn't bear this life of duty without her.

"My prince?" Arthur's voice was quiet but concerned. "Are you ill?"

Aegon blinked, his vision momentarily blurred. He realized he had been standing in place, lost in thought. Servants passed by, casting curious glances, but he ignored them, forcing a faint smile onto his face. "I'm fine, Arthur."

Arthur didn't believe him, but he remained silent, nodding in deference.

Aegon strode down the hallway, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to find her.

But as he turned a corner, his path was blocked by an unexpected figure. A silvery cascade of hair caught his eye. Rhaella Targaryen, his grandmother, stood before him, her regal presence halting him in his tracks. Oswell Whent, her protector, stood silently behind her.

"Hello, Aegon," Rhaella greeted, her smile warm, but her eyes knowing.

"Hello," Aegon replied, frustration evident in his voice. He needed to see Daenerys, and his grandmother was in his way.

Rhaella's smile faded, her expression turning serious. "You are going to see Daenerys," she said, her tone oddly firm.

"Yes," Aegon replied, already stepping to the side, eager to continue his path.

But Rhaella mirrored his movement, blocking him once more. "No, Aegon," she said softly, a sad look in her lilac eyes. "Let her go."

The words hit him like a slap. "What do you mean?" His voice trembled with the hope that he was mistaken.

"She is gone," Rhaella said simply.

Aegon's stomach dropped. "What? Where is she?"

"She's on the docks," Rhaella replied, her voice heavy with finality.

Without another word, Aegon rushed down the halls, his heart pounding. His footsteps were quick and frantic, echoing in the empty corridors. Arthur struggled to keep up, his armor clanging loudly, but Aegon paid him no mind.

By the time they reached the docks, the crowd was already thick with people. Ships were sailing, their sails billowing in the wind. But it was one ship that caught Aegon's eye—a small vessel bearing the banner of House Targaryen.

There, on the deck, stood Daenerys. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. Her face was full of shock, then sorrow, and she hesitantly waved at him. Aegon felt his chest constrict. Tears filled her violet eyes, but she didn't speak. She simply smiled, a mournful expression that seemed to tear at his heart.

He didn't wave back. Instead, he lowered his gaze, unable to meet her sorrow. When he looked up again, she was gone, hidden from view as the ship sailed further away from him.

Aegon stood frozen, his heart breaking. His wedding was still a moon away. Why had she been taken so soon?

Rhaegar

The Targaryen family and the Kingsguard gathered in the king's solar, a heavy silence settling over the room. Rhaenys sat close to Aegon, her hand resting gently on his thigh in a silent gesture of support. The crown prince stared vacantly at the floor, his expression dark and withdrawn. Eila, as always, sat beside Rhaegar and Rhaella, the quiet strength of the family. The Kingsguard, having seen their king, bowed and exited the room with practiced grace.

"She left?" Rhaegar's voice was soft but tinged with surprise, his gaze flickering briefly to Rhaenys, who gave a small, solemn nod in confirmation. Rhaegar then looked to his son, expecting some sign, but Aegon remained as still and distant as ever.

"Aegon," Elia called, her voice gentle but firm. The prince didn't respond. "Egg." No movement.

"Aegon," Rhaegar commanded, his tone sharpening. At last, Aegon raised his head, his face hard. "Dany did what was best, son."

"Okay."

"When you are older and a king yourself, you will understand," Rhaegar continued, his voice softening, yet insistent.

"Okay."

"You will do your duty to the realm."

"You've already said that," Aegon muttered, his voice flat, tinged with annoyance.

Rhaegar's brow furrowed, a tightness forming around his jaw. The boy's indifference was unworthy of his station. A prince should not brood in silence—he must learn to carry his burdens with grace.

Before Rhaegar could voice his thoughts, the door to the solar creaked open, and Jaime Lannister's head poked through. His presence, always a reminder of the Lannister family's uneasy alliance with the Targaryens, cut through the tension like a blade.

Jaime's gaze flicked from Rhaegar to Aegon, his eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and concern. "My king, Varys comes with urgent news."

Rhaegar straightened, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Let him in," he said, his voice steady, but with a hint of dread. It was rare for Varys to intrude upon a family gathering.

Jaime stepped aside, allowing the tall, gaunt figure of Varys to enter the room. The Master of Whispers moved silently, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click and bowed low to the king.

"What have you learned?" Rhaegar asked, his voice tinged with melancholy.

Varys hesitated, his expression serious. "The most unfortunate news, your grace," he replied, his words carrying a weight that made the air in the room grow heavier. The Targaryens stiffened at the gravity in his tone.

Rhaegar's gaze sharpened. "Continue," he ordered, waving a hand for Varys to proceed.

The eunuch paused for a moment, then spoke with measured words. "Lys, Tyrosh, and Myr have declared war, your grace."

The words hung in the air, heavy and final. For a moment, the room fell silent.

Euron greyjoy

Euron raised his hands to the sky and laughed wildly, his eye darting from place to place as he swayed on his feet, intoxicated by joy. His lips, stained blue from the vile drink in his hand, quivered with anticipation. The stench of the inky beverage filled the air as his thoughts swirled in visions, both past and future. He saw millions of silver-haired people staring up in horror as massive shapes soared across the sky, their shadows sweeping across the land. An immense wall of ice formed with a gust of breath from above. A lush, verdant land was slowly overtaken by winter, as wyrms, massive and ancient, turned to ice and snow, their flesh freezing over with death.

In the midst of this, a sword—bright and blinding—shone through the darkness, forcing the undead to flee. Giants, ice spiders the size of hounds, the Others, and the Night King himself—all fled before the light of the blade.

Euron saw many possible futures: a man in yellow and black armor, with antlers upon his helm, struck another man in ruby armor with a war hammer, sending shards of ruby scattering into the Trident's waters. A pretender with silver hair, elephants pounding the ground behind him. King's Landing exploding in a vibrant green fire. A dying dragon crashing into the ice, its side pierced by a frost-coated spear. And there was Jon Snow.

His eyes glowed amethyst, his dark brown hair and grey eyes a mix of Stark and Targaryen lineage. It didn't matter which he was—he was still the one who would shape the future. Euron saw it all: Jon riding a dragon, wielding a flaming sword, warging, defeating the Night King. He saw Jon becoming the Night King himself.

Snow wasn't a bastard, after all. Euron had him now, and he would be his slave—a Targaryen slave, no less. It was fitting. Euron would bind the dragon, thought dead, to his will. The visions faded, and the harsh reality of the present returned. The air was thick and burning, swirling with ash and red smoke. The ship groaned beneath him, battered by the furious wind. Behind, two other ships lurched on the churning waters, their crews hiding below deck.

The heat pressed down on Euron, but he reveled in it. The world trembled, and the creatures watching them knew their place. Euron was their master. He was a god. The entire world would bow before him. Madness? No. The others were blind. His crew, though silent, were cowed. He had ensured their silence, had taken their tongues, hence the name of his ship: Silence.

They were getting closer to the dragon. Once he controlled it, nothing would stop him. The Drowned God was nothing compared to him.

Euron's eyes caught a gleam off something resting against a large brown sack. He tugged it free and revealed the dragon horn—an artifact of immense power, carved with Valyrian glyphs, its surface adorned in red and gold. The storm raged around him, but the horn gleamed with a promise of destruction. This was the end of the Targaryens, and Euron would be the one to bring it about.

He smiled wickedly, and as he stepped back from the horn, he moved below deck.

Below deck, Jon screamed in agony as he was held down by a brutish man, his wolf growling helplessly at the chain around its neck. Euron's whip lashed across Jon's bare back, each strike drawing blood. Euron's laughter filled the room, wild and manic as he reveled in Jon's pain. Jon's body jerked, each cry of agony stoking Euron's glee. Blood sprayed across his face, and he grinned, loving every moment.

Jon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stifle the pain, but it was no use. Euron's sadistic joy fueled his torment. The whip cracked again. The slaves in the room watched vacantly, unmoved by the cruelty unfolding before them.

Euron's grin only widened as he pulled out a sharp Valyrian dagger from his belt. Jon's eyes flickered with wariness as he saw the blade. Euron could taste the fear in the air. He relished it. He grabbed Jon's hair, yanking his head back, pulling his ear close.

"Call me master," Euron hissed.

Jon jerked his head back, slamming it into Euron's face. Euron grunted, furious, and slashed the dagger across Jon's back in a furious vertical cut. Jon screamed, the pain overwhelming.

"The more you fight, the more it will hurt, Snow," Euron taunted, his voice filled with mock cheerfulness.

Jon's breath came in ragged gasps, his body wracked with pain. Euron smiled cruelly, tracing a finger along Jon's fresh wounds.

"Oh, the mighty Jon Snow," he mocked. "Lying at the feet of a mad Greyjoy. How will Essos react when they learn of this, I wonder?"

Jon's voice came out weak but defiant. "Dragons are dead, you fool."

Euron's laugh was wild. "Dead? Blind. Everyone is blind to what's coming, to what I see. Magic... it's everywhere. From the Wall to Valyria, I see it all."

Jon scoffed, his voice filled with disgust. "You're insane. If I were Balon, I would've taken your head instead of banishing you."

With a growl, Euron slashed again, deeper this time. Jon gasped, the blood flowing faster. Euron pressed his finger into the wound, savoring Jon's agony.

"You will call me master," Euron whispered, his voice dark and triumphant.

Suddenly, Euron stopped. He looked at Jon with an almost knowing expression, as if a thought had just occurred to him.

"You know, I can't call you Snow anymore, can I?"

Jon froze. "If you want to mock me, go ahead. It doesn't change who I am."

Euron slowly walked around Jon, getting in his face. "But what I'm about to say will change everything, Snow." He leaned in close, savoring Jon's confusion before delivering the blow. "Targaryen."

Jon stiffened, his heart racing. "I'm not one of them!" he spat, his voice raw with fury.

Euron smiled, his voice dripping with malice. "Did you ever wonder why you never truly felt like you belonged with the Starks?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his mind. "How do you know that?"

Euron's voice was filled with certainty. "Because I can see what others can't. I see the truth."

Jon shook his head, refusing to believe it. "You're lying. My mother was from Lys. You can't change that."

Euron's smile grew wider, more cruel. "You really think that? That's the lie they fed you. Eddard Stark... the man everyone praises for his honor. But did he ever tell you the truth? Did he ever tell you why he was in Dorne?"

Jon's eyes went wide. "To bring Lyanna back to Winterfell."

Euron's grin never faltered. "And what happened to Lyanna?"

Jon's throat tightened. "She died... during childbirth."

"And the child?"

"It was stillborn."

Euron stepped closer, his voice low and insistent. "Did he ever bring her bones back to Winterfell?"

Jon hesitated, and Euron pressed on. "When were you brought to Winterfell?"

"Around the same time..."

The silence in the room was deafening.

Euron reveled in the stillness, his smile wide as he saw the realization begin to dawn on Jon. "You're not just a Stark, Jon. You're a Targaryen."

Jon's face went pale as the truth crept into his heart. Euron took a step back, pleased with the pain he had caused. "Now that we've cleared that up..." He turned, grabbing his dagger once more, and began to carve into Jon's back with deliberate cruelty.

A small, menacing eye appeared, etched into Jon's flesh.

Jon

Ghost licked Jon's face with a gentle, protective affection, but Jon barely felt it, consumed by a torrent of conflicting emotions. His back ached, a deep, searing burn that he couldn't shake, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the turmoil inside him.

He was not a bastard. He was a Targaryen.

The truth was clearer now. His fat-uncle had lied to him. The betrayal of Ned Stark's silence about his mother—about everything—finally made sense. Jon was not his son. Ned had taken him from Rhaegar's arms, stolen him from the wreckage of his family, and spread the lie that Lyanna's child had died. If the truth had ever come to light, if the king had learned that Ned had taken his son and kept him hidden away, it would have meant certain death. So, Ned had kept the secret, kept Jon a secret.

A surge of anger washed over him, hot and furious, but it was quickly smothered by something else—something darker. What could he do now? Jon couldn't expose the lie. He couldn't reveal the truth and bring Ned's death upon him. Despite everything, despite the years of lies, Jon still loved the man who had raised him, who had treated him like his own. He wouldn't betray him—not like that.

But that didn't mean Jon was willing to let it go. The thought of leaving Winterfell, leaving the Starks, was unbearable. Robb and Arya—what would become of them if their father was gone? They'd blame him. His heart twisted. He had gained siblings—Robb, Arya, and Bran—only to lose five others in return.

But above all, what gnawed at him, what drove his anger now, was the thought of how Catelyn Stark would react to this. To this truth. The truth of his blood. He almost wanted to see it, needed to see it. The woman who had raised him with cold disdain, who had never truly seen him as her own, would have to face the reality of who he really was. And Jon would be there, watching.

Euron Greyjoy

It was here. He had finally found it.

A roar—louder than anything Euron had ever heard—split the air like the crack of thunder. The sea trembled as the ships swayed, their timbers groaning beneath the shockwave. On deck, the mutes stood frozen, their eyes wide, scanning the smoke of red ash for the source of the deafening sound. Then, emerging from the haze, a massive, dark shape appeared. Its wings—vast as ships—flapped, sending gusts of wind that staggered the crew. The roar came again, shaking the very earth beneath them, and the men were paralyzed with fear.

But not Euron.

He grinned, mad and wild, his face alight with a frenzy of triumph. He turned to the nearest man, his voice low and filled with a dark promise. "Grab the fucking horn. It's time I become a god."

The man nodded, trembling, and hurried to fetch the horn. He returned, eyes wide with fear, his hands shaking as he offered it to Euron. The Greyjoy nodded calmly, his voice eerily composed. "Blow it."

The mute hesitated, glancing nervously between the horn and his master, fear etched in his every movement. He shifted on his feet, unsure.

"Throw him overboard!" Euron bellowed, the words cutting through the tension like a blade. There could be no hesitation, no delay. The dragon would be upon them soon, and their only hope was to bind it to his will.

One of the men, without a word, seized the trembling mute and hurled him over the side. The splash echoed across the water, but no screams followed.

Euron turned sharply to another man. "You, come here!" His voice cracked with urgency. The man rushed forward, snatching the horn without question. He blew it.

The moment the first note rang out, the horn blazed with white light. The man's lips dissolved into nothing, his mouth evaporating into the air, then his stomach, his body falling apart as if devoured by the very sound. Euron barely spared him a glance, his eyes locked on the smoke.

Silence.

The crew's eyes flicked to Euron, filled with panic and confusion. The Greyjoy stood frozen, his expression twisted in disbelief, his single eye bulging with frantic energy. The other eye ached like a warning, a sudden, terrifying premonition. He swung his gaze to the next man in line. "Blow it!" he demanded, his voice trembling.

The man blew the horn. His lips dissolved, just as the first man's had, his face crumbling into nothingness.

Still, silence.

Euron's hands shook violently as he searched the skies, his heart pounding in his chest. Where was the dragon? What was happening?

"Blow! Blow! Blow!" Euron shouted, his voice frantic now, like a man losing his grip on reality. Man after man, mute after mute, blew the horn. And still, there was no dragon.

Panic began to rise in his throat. His eyes darted around. Only two men remained.

"Turn the ship around!" Euron yelled, desperation creeping into his voice. If he couldn't control the dragon, then there was no point in staying here. He had to flee.

But just as he barked the command, a violent gust of wind slammed into them, knocking Euron and his men off their feet. The water churned violently beneath them, and another roar shook the heavens, ringing in Euron's skull like a death knell. The air crackled with a dark energy, and through the red haze of ash, it appeared.

The dragon.

A creature of ebony scales, black as the deepest night, its wings like the shadow of a storm. It soared through the sky, a serpent of nightmares with eyes gleaming like green coals. The dragon locked onto one of the ships, its green gaze cold and filled with wrath. In an instant, the beast flapped its wings, sending a shockwave of air that knocked several men overboard.

Then, it opened its maw.

A torrent of emerald fire shot out, an explosion of light and heat that lit the waters aflame. Green flames swallowed the ship whole.

Euron stood frozen, watching in stunned disbelief as the dragon tore through his fleet. With claws and fire, the beast dismantled the ships, reducing them to kindling. The crack of splintering wood and the groans of sinking vessels filled the air as the dragon continued its rampage.

Two ships remained.

And the dragon was not done.

It turned its fury toward Euron. The creature bared its fangs, emerald eyes glinting with bloodlust. Euron, heart pounding, no longer felt the twitch of his eye patch. His vision locked on the dragon as its mouth widened, revealing rows of jagged teeth, and the sound of its roar filled him with a terror unlike anything he had ever known.

Jon

The clank of metal snapped Jon out of his dark musings. His eyes flicked to Ghost, who was standing free, no longer bound by chains. Jon stared in surprise, taking in the direwolf's slimmed-down form. He'd known Ghost had lost weight, but he hadn't expected it to be enough for him to slip free. But Jon remained shackled, his wrists bound by the cold, unforgiving metal.

Jon smiled faintly at the wolf, his heart heavy. "Good job, buddy."

Suddenly, a cacophony of crashes and the shrill scream of the water ripped through the air, sending a chill down Jon's spine. His hair stood on end. There was something dangerous out there.

He pointed urgently to Ghost. "Go!"

Ghost whined, reluctant to leave his side. The wolf stayed rooted to the spot, unwilling to abandon Jon. Another crash echoed, louder this time, followed by a low growl that seemed to rumble from the very depths of the sea.

"Come here, Ghost," Jon called softly, his voice strained. The direwolf prowled forward, and Jon crouched to meet him, placing a hand gently on his head. He looked into those ruby eyes, filled with loyalty and understanding, and his heart broke. "Please, Ghost. I don't want you to die just to stay with me."

For a long moment, Ghost simply stared back, his gaze unwavering. Then, with a mournful whine, the direwolf turned and galloped toward the open door. He looked back at Jon one last time. Jon smiled sadly, waving for him to go, the weight of his decision pressing heavily on his chest.

Ghost howled, a sound filled with grief and love, before disappearing into the darkness beyond.

Goodbye, Ghost, Jon thought with a pang of sorrow.

The ship lurched, tilting violently to the left, and Jon's wide lilac eyes caught the eerie glow of green fire, dancing in the air like an unnatural flame. His heart dropped.

"Snow! Snow!"

Distant shouts broke through the haze, pulling Jon from unconsciousness. He blinked in confusion, his vision blurry. He found himself lying on the ground, the dark, spongy grass beneath him. He could feel the cool, damp earth against his back. As he sat up, the first thing he saw were the broken fragments of the ship, floating aimlessly in the water. The green flames danced on the surface, burning hot enough to seem like they would never be extinguished. The air was thick with the scent of red and green ash, and the clouds above had a deep, crimson tint.

How am I alive? Jon wondered, his mind spinning. Whatever that green flame had been, he was sure it had touched him. He'd felt its heat.

Then it hit him with the force of a cold wave: I am a Targaryen.

Jon's hand reached up instinctively, but then he froze. Normally, when he was stressed or frustrated, he would ruffle his hair, a habit he'd had since he was a boy. But there was nothing to ruffle. His fingers grazed the smoothness of a bald scalp instead of the familiar mass of curls he'd carried all his life. It will grow back, he told himself, trying to shake off the unease that suddenly gripped him.

Jon turned his gaze to the horizon, and to his surprise, he saw two figures approaching—figures he never thought he'd see again.

Tyrion was walking toward him briskly, with Ghost happily trotting beside him, tail wagging. Jon's heart lightened, and he forced himself to his feet, smiling tiredly. But as he stood, Ghost stopped in his tracks. The wolf's ears perked up, and he looked skyward, eyes fixed on something unseen.

Tyrion, too, paused, following Ghost's gaze upward, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Jon frowned, about to call out when a massive crash came from behind him, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbled but righted himself quickly, only to hear a breath—hot and heavy—against his back. A shiver crawled up his spine, and his body tensed instinctively.

Slowly, he turned around.

There, looming behind him, was a black snout, so large it seemed bigger than his whole body. Jon's breath caught in his throat as he stared up, eyes wide with disbelief, at the dragon that had found them.

Ages:

Rhaegar-40

Elia-43

Rhaella-54

Rhaeyns-19

Aegon-18

Jon-16

Thank you all for reading, let me know your thoughts! Good day!