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Jon
What is power?
That was the million-dragon question. For centuries, people had searched for the answer—some squandering their lives in the process. But Jon knew. Power wasn't wealth, nor titles, nor armies. It was total control—absolute domination over your prey, and that power was standing right before him. Euron had tried to control it, but where was he now?
The creature before him was monstrous, vast—its size must have stretched over two hundred feet. It loomed, casting a dark shadow over the frozen wreckage of the ship below. The sheer scale of the beast made Jon's head throb, as if his mind couldn't quite grasp its existence.
"Snow!" Tyrion shouted, fear lacing his voice. "Get away from it!"
Jon stood paralyzed, unable to move. The dragon's eyes locked onto him, pinning him in place. Its gaze was like wildfire—deep green with the flicker of gold within its pupils. It struck something deep in Jon's mind, a painful echo of the flames that still clung to the broken ships.
The beast's body was a long, serpentine stretch of black scales. Its neck was sinuous, tail spiked and thrashing. Two short yet muscular legs stood beneath it, but its wings—dark and mighty—folded at its sides like the forelimbs of some twisted god. The horns along its head and face were white, tinged with black—jagged, sharp, and made to pierce.
Jon's breath hitched. His senses screamed that this was a creature capable of devastation, a force of nature too great to contend with.
With a deliberate motion, Jon lowered his gaze. Staring into the eyes of such a beast was a challenge, a threat—one he could not afford to take. No dragon would tolerate a staring contest.
He took a step back. Then another. And another. But with every movement, the dragon followed, its piercing eyes never leaving him. A low growl rumbled from its chest.
"…Holy…" Jon muttered, his voice barely a whisper, as he retreated yet again. The dragon growled louder, the sound vibrating through Jon's bones. It huffed a cloud of smoke, closing the gap once more.
"Tyrion… help me," Jon whispered, his voice cracking.
Tyrion, frozen in place, could only gape at the ancient terror before them. "What do you want me to do?" His voice was low, incredulous.
"Do anything! You're smart," Jon hissed, desperation tinged with panic. Anything at all. Anything to stop this nightmare from becoming reality."Tyrion...please."
"This is a fucking dragon," Tyrion snapped, his tone dripping with disbelief. "You think we can do something? Let me think. Just… stay calm."
Jon's frustration flared. He was face-to-face with a dragon—an impossible, living nightmare—and Tyrion wanted him to stay calm? The dragon could incinerate them all with a single breath, and Jon was certain it would. It might not kill him, but his companions... they wouldn't survive the fire.
Jon clenched his fists, forcing himself to calm. This was the first dragon anyone had seen in over a hundred years. Whatever the cause, they couldn't afford to act rashly. Not yet.
Time seemed to stretch. The air was thick with tension, both men immobilized by the fear and awe of the creature before them. Ghost, a few paces away, growled low and soft, his fur bristling. Jon prayed his direwolf wouldn't do something reckless.
"Why is it staring at me?" Jon finally spoke, the words more for himself than anyone else. His voice was steady, despite the dread gnawing at his insides. If it weren't for his brutal training in the Golden Company, he might have been trembling, stammering with fear. "Why is it staring at me Tyrion!"
He heard Tyrion shrug behind him, the sound barely breaking the silence between them. Jon felt exposed—vulnerable. Not because of his nakedness, but because the dragon's gaze felt like it was piercing his soul.
Was it interested in him? Jon's mind reeled with the possibility. Or was the dragon simply toying with him, toying with the idea of devouring him whole?
The dragon's body shifted, inched closer. Jon's heart raced, his limbs trembling as the ebony beast moved toward him, its black snout drawing nearer. The heat radiating from its breath was intense, palpable. Jon's stomach clenched as he turned his face away, unwilling to meet the dragon's fiery gaze.
But then, it began to sniff him. The great beast's nostrils flared, hot breath brushing over Jon's skin, sending a shiver down his spine. The dragon's attention was unmistakable.
Before Jon could fully process it, the dragon's large, warm snout nudged him. Jon could feel the pressure, the roughness of its skin. He had the overwhelming urge to scratch the tingling spots where it touched, but he fought the impulse.
A low growl broke the tension. Ghost, the ever-loyal direwolf, rushed to Jon's side, barking fiercely at the dragon, his bravado unwavering.
The dragon snarled, drawing back before Ghost could bite him. Jon's heart skipped a beat. "Shit, Ghost!" he muttered under his breath. He needed to protect his direwolf, keep him safe from the fiery beast.
The dragon stepped back, its powerful legs causing the ground to tremble. It narrowed its eyes at Ghost, and Jon saw its mouth begin to open, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. A green light flickered deep in the dragon's throat.
Without thinking, Jon lunged forward, pressing his hand against the dragon's hot, ebony snout. A surge of energy shot through his arm, a crackling pulse that spread through his body, like a thousand sparks dancing under his skin.
"Jo—" Tyrion's words were lost, his voice caught in his throat.
Jon gasped, his body overwhelmed by an assault of sensations—intense, foreign, and dizzying. The dragon closed its mouth, its green-gold eyes watching him with curiosity. The air was thick with ash, swirling around them, stinging Jon's eyes.
And in that moment, Jon realized: his life was about to change. He didn't know whether it was for better or worse, but he knew nothing would ever be the same.
"Jon," Tyrion finally spoke, his voice tight with apprehension. "I think it's a good time for you to explain."
Aegon
The council room erupted in heated debate. Lords exchanged sharp words, their anger echoing off the stone walls, as the news rippled through the room. To most, Rhaegar remained impassive, his expression unreadable, but Aegon knew better. Rhaegar was not like the others—he was his father. Aegon could read the subtle tightening of his father's jaw, the faint curve of his lips, and the way his eyes darkened. Rhaegar was far from pleased.
Jon shook his head, glaring at Varys. "No. They dare declare war on us? We cannot let this insult stand. We must show them we will not be trifled with."
Redwyn interjected sharply, "Patience is key. The Reach is still mustering more ships as we speak."
Jon's voice rose with frustration. "And that shows weakness! Waiting like cowards will only embolden them. The rest of Essos will take notice and join their side. Then we'll have a much bigger problem on our hands."
Redwyn's gaze was unwavering. "You would rather act in haste and risk being unprepared?"
"The point is not that!" Jon snapped. "We have to strike first. Destroy their fleet before they can take to the seas. They expect us to wait, to be passive. They hold the advantage, and they know it."
"We are not ready," Redwyn countered, his tone calm but firm. "We do not yet have the ships to match them."
Jon's frustration bubbled over, and he rose from his seat, slamming his finger down onto the table. "Their fleet is nothing compared to ours! We are the royal fleet, and that means something!"
Redwyn's eyes narrowed, his voice growing colder. "I am the master of ships here, not you, Connington."
Jon's face flushed with anger, but before he could retort, Rhaegar spoke, his voice soft but authoritative. "This is not something we should allow to escalate."
Aegon had no doubt which way his father would lean. He was all too familiar with Rhaegar's strategic mind, but a nagging feeling tugged at him—a fear that this course of action would lead them into ruin.
Redwyn's eyes flicked to the king, frustration creeping into his voice. "Your Grace, this is not a wise decision."
Rhaegar fixed Redwyn with a cold, steady gaze. Redwyn faltered, his face betraying a moment of tension, before lowering his eyes to the polished table. His hands gripped the armrests, knuckles white.
Rhaegar's gaze shifted away, his tone resolute. "Tyrosh, Lys, and Myr lack the manpower we possess. The best course of action is to crush this conflict before it can truly begin. Hundreds of lives will be spared if we act now. I will not let this repeat the mistakes of the past."
A chorus of agreement rippled through the room, but Redwyn's jaw clenched, and Jon's eyes flickered with brief triumph. The master of ships refused to meet Jon's gaze, sinking deeper into his seat, visibly defeated. Varys, his expression unreadable, clasped his hands in his lap, while Baelish wore that damnable smirk of his, always watching, always scheming.
Aegon's insides twisted. His father was wise—far wiser than he—but Aegon couldn't shake the uneasy feeling settling in his chest. His father's decision, though well-reasoned, could very well lead them down a path of destruction. All he could do was nod along with the others, the weight of his own doubts too heavy to voice.
Domeric
Domeric was far from pleased, though his face showed nothing but a practiced smile. The gates opened with a groan, and the clatter of hooves and the calls of heralds echoed in the air. As the banners of House Stark unfurled, Domeric's unease only deepened; seeing their sigil flutter in the wind didn't settle his nerves—it made them worse.
The people of the Dreadfort stood in neat rows, their dark tunics and striking dresses a stark contrast to the grim surroundings. They were waiting, all eyes on the approaching party, ready to greet the Warden of the North.
A fortnight ago, Domeric had received a raven from Eddard Stark. He had expected it, but still, it rattled him. The Warden of the North had been informed of Roose Bolton's death and was coming to inspect matters personally.
Domeric shouldn't have been nervous. He had acted swiftly, crafting a clever lie to protect himself and get rid of his bastard brother in one fell swoop. It had been a masterstroke of manipulation. But still, the shadow of Eddard Stark's crude Valyrian sword—Ice—loomed large in his mind. He had no illusions about the power the man held.
He saw the sword now, resting on the saddle, its hilt visible though its full length remained hidden. His eyes shifted to the Stark children, standing stiffly nearby. The eldest, with broad shoulders and a steady gaze, was watching him closely.
Domeric couldn't help but smirk inwardly at the wary expression on the man's face. Let them think they know him.
When Eddard finally approached, his face was as cold and impassive as the stone walls of Winterfell. Domeric's smile widened just enough to show teeth. "The Dreadfort is yours, my lord," he said with a flourish, bowing deeply, his voice dripping with mock respect. Let the games begin.
"I am sorry for your loss, my lord," Eddard said quietly, his tone sincere, but Domeric could see through the veneer of civility. He knew well enough that House Stark and House Bolton had never been the closest of allies. He wouldn't be surprised if Eddard secretly reveled in the death of his most troublesome bannerman.
Domeric played the part to perfection, letting his expression fall slightly, as though the weight of his grief were too much to bear. "Thank you, milord. These are… trying times for us all." His voice was soft, but the façade was flawless—he was a man of grief, or so it seemed.
He led Eddard into his solar, the very place where he had murdered his father. The irony was not lost on him, though he kept it well hidden behind a carefully constructed mask.
"I see," Eddard said, his gaze hard as steel. The scrutiny was evident, but Domeric met it with a calmness that barely concealed his satisfaction.
"I am glad you came," Domeric murmured, adopting a more somber tone. "The people have been demanding justice. They are anxious to see the murderer put to death. They don't feel safe with him still alive."
Eddard's eyes hardened, his jaw tightening. "I understand your concerns." Then, with a glint of ice in his voice, he asked, "Who did the deed?"
The courtyard was quiet, save for the chilling screams that echoed into the crisp afternoon air. The snow was light, drifting lazily as the sun set, casting a pale blue light over everything. In the distance, Ramsay's screams rang out, fueling the rising tension that had gathered like storm clouds overhead.
Domeric pulled his furs tighter around him and glanced to his right. "It's all right, my lady," he said softly to Sansa.
Sansa barely seemed to hear him, her gaze fixed on the scene unfolding before them. Her tall form trembled slightly, her unease clear.
Domeric couldn't suppress the small grin that curled on his lips. It amused him how much she seemed to shrink in the face of violence—how delicate, how proper she was.
The quarrel between her and Arya caught his attention next, a bickering clash of personalities that brought a welcome distraction to the otherwise grim scene.
"Stop being such a baby!" Arya hissed at her sister.
"I'm not!" Sansa shot back, angry.
"Yes, you are!" Arya retorted, her voice rising in indignation. "Father forced you to come!"
Domeric almost laughed, the moment unexpected but oddly pleasant. A brief respite from the tense silence that had settled over the Dreadfort.
"Enough," Robb snapped from behind, glaring at his sisters. "We'll argue later."
The two sisters fell into a reluctant silence, their glares still lingering but their mouths shut.
Domeric gave Robb a small nod, acknowledging the peacekeeper's role, before his gaze returned to the scene unfolding before them. Two Stark bannermen, wearing the house sigil on their chestplates, hauled the screaming Ramsay forward. Eddard stood stoically beside the execution block, his Valyrian sword at the ready.
"I didn't do it!" Ramsay screamed, his voice high and desperate. His chapped lips twisted in rage as he writhed. "Fuck all of you!"
Domeric knew Ramsay hadn't killed Roose; it was all part of the plan. He had placed Ramsay in a cell, let him stew in his own fear, then blamed him for the murder. It was an elegant solution—one that removed both his father and his bastard brother in one fell swoop.
Ramsay was forced to his knees, his face contorting in anger and fear. "I didn't do this! You piece of shit!" he yelled, his eyes wild, locking onto Domeric.
Domeric's expression remained cool, even as the eyes of the onlookers turned to him. "Don't listen to the filth that comes from his mouth," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Ramsay killed my father because he was going to be sent to the Wall. The bastard stabbed him right in the heart."
The lords and ladies gasped, and Ramsay's eyes went wide with horror. "Wh—what?!" He sputtered, his confusion evident.
Domeric's voice was full of disdain as he addressed the crowd. "I knew of his deeds. Him and his band of miscreants hunted down people with dogs." It was part of the truth, though certainly not all of it.
The crowd's mood shifted as they glared at Ramsay, their judgment swift. For moons, rumors had spread about people vanishing, and now it was clear why.
Ramsay continued to sputter, his rage giving way to panic. The crowd's eyes bore down on him. Eddard's gloved hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.
"Any last words?" Eddard asked, his voice low.
Ramsay's answer came in a frantic, tear-streaked confession. "Don't trust him! I didn't do it, I swear! Don't listen to that bastard!" His sobs choked his words as his head drooped in defeat.
Eddard nodded grimly, and with a swift motion, he brought Ice down, severing Ramsay's head in one clean stroke.
Sansa whimpered, her body shuddering, and instinctively pressed her head into Domeric's shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her, offering what little comfort he could, though his eyes remained fixed on the headless body of his brother. The game, for now, was over.
Jon
Jon had always been more suited to march into battle, cleaving through enemies with deadly precision or running from the Golden Company as a traitor. The adrenaline of combat, the rush of power as his skill brought men to their knees, and the flicker of fear in their eyes—it all filled him with a grim satisfaction. They called him the White Wolf, a title he wore with pride.
But staring down a dragon? That was something else entirely.
Still, Jon did it anyway—and somehow, he succeeded.
What he was doing now, though? It was beyond madness. These past two years had been one long spiral into insanity. He'd fled from Winterfell, joined the Golden Company, lived on the run with a bounty on his head, sailed to Valyria, and somehow found a damn dragon.
Not to mention, finding out he was Targaryen. A secret so dangerous, it gnawed at him every waking moment.
Jon's thoughts were a mess, swirling as he tried to focus on the present. He had nothing to say to sway Tyrion now. He could lie, but lying was never his strength—he'd inherited that trait from his father... or his uncle, rather. He wasn't sure how Tyrion would react, but Jon knew that some dangerous hints, if given, would keep Tyrion silent. And that was all Jon needed.
They were in a cave, deep in the heart of some forgotten place. The storm had taken them by surprise, forcing them to flee to shelter. The cave was enormous, littered with sharp rocks and boulders, its walls marked with clawed scratches. Strange, rusty chains hung from the ceilings. Jon couldn't help but wonder—had the dragons been chained here?
A dragon rested by the cave's entrance, watching him intently. It hadn't once broken its gaze for hours, and Jon had the distinct feeling it was there for a reason—keeping him from escaping.
Tyrion's voice broke through his thoughts. "I'm still waiting."
Jon rolled his shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in his muscles. "Take a seat. You can wait as long as you want."
Tyrion gave him a sideways glance, trying not to stare at Jon's bare form. "You need to find something to wear. You were blessed with greater height, while I was blessed with greater length where it matters."
Jon snorted, glancing around the cave. "And where exactly would I find clothes? If you hadn't noticed," he exaggerated a stretch, "there aren't any."
"There are clothes on Euron's ship," Tyrion reminded him.
Jon pointed to the dragon. "Destroyed every last one of them."
Tyrion shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips. "Every one except for the one I was on."
Jon absentmindedly rubbed his bald head. Tyrion watched him for a moment before moving toward him with surprising speed.
"Tyrion!" Jon exclaimed, pushing the dwarf's hands away as Tyrion grabbed something from his head. Jon scrambled back, his wolf by his side, still unmoving but with eyes locked on Tyrion's movements.
Tyrion stared at the dark strand of hair in his hand. "When I first saw you, I thought the Greyjoys had chopped your hair off," he muttered, running his fingers over it before revealing a burned spot. "But I was wrong."
His eyes met Jon's, piercing and insightful. "You were burned."
Jon froze, his breath caught in his chest. Tyrion's next words sent a shock through him.
"You're a Targaryen."
Jon's face remained impassive, though his insides churned. Tyrion's eyes never wavered as he spoke, his voice low but filled with undeniable certainty. "You're the child of Lyanna Stark."
Jon didn't react—he simply stared, his mind racing, trying to steady his emotions.
"Ned Stark lied," Tyrion continued, rubbing his chin. "He took you to Winterfell and told everyone you were dead. He hid you from the King. Hmmmm, I think that is treason."
Jon said nothing, his face set in stone. The weight of Tyrion's words hung in the air.
"I can't imagine how the King will react to this," Tyrion said, a smile slowly emerging.
Jon's tone was dangerously soft. "The King will never know."
Tyrion tilted his head in mock confusion. "Jon, the King has the right to know."
Jon's eyes flashed with a warning, his voice becoming a low growl. "I don't care. Keep your mouth shut."
Tyrion shook his head. "Sorry, Jon, but I can't do that. I was hoping...to get closer to the king. This will be best for both of us."
Jon's lips curled into a grim smile. "I'm sorry, too."
Before Tyrion could respond, Jon sprang to his feet, grabbing him by the throat and slamming his back against the wall. Tyrion gasped for air, his face turning purple as Jon's grip tightened.
"Jon…" Tyrion managed to wheeze.
"The King must not know about me," Jon snarled, his voice dangerously cold. He didn't want to kill Tyrion—he'd come to consider the dwarf a friend. But if it came down to it…
Tyrion, struggling to breathe, nodded fervently. "Yes, yes! I understand."
Jon shook him harder, and Tyrion yelled out in desperation, "Yes! I won't tell anyone!"
Jon released his grip, allowing Tyrion to slide down the wall to the floor, gasping for air.
"I don't want to kill you," Jon said, his voice steady. "But I'll do whatever it takes to protect my family."
Tyrion nodded, rubbing his throat. "Duly noted," he rasped.
Hours passed, but the dragon still didn't move. The storm had subsided, but the beast kept its relentless gaze fixed on Jon. His stomach growled with hunger, reminding him of how long it had been since he'd last eaten. Tyrion had mentioned food on Euron's ship, but the dragon blocked their path—and neither Jon nor Tyrion had the courage to pass it. But Jon had reached his breaking point.
He stood abruptly, his eyes determined.
"Jon Snow, what are you doing?" Tyrion called out, his voice tinged with bewilderment.
Jon ignored him, striding toward the dragon with a sense of purpose. He was tired of hiding, tired of cowering. He was hungry, and he wasn't going to let fear control him anymore.
He stood tall in front of the beast, glaring into its eyes. "Move," he commanded, his voice firm, though he wasn't sure where the courage was coming from.
The dragon growled, its tail whipping around to coil around him, lifting him off the ground. Ghost barked, running toward them, but Jon was already being lifted into the air, his heart pounding as the dragon's wings beat against the cave's stone walls.
Jon pressed his face against the scales, ignoring the sharp pain. He didn't know what was happening, but he felt lighter, freer—like the weight of the world was lifting off his shoulders.
He opened his eyes, and his breath caught in his throat.
He was flying.
For the first time in a long while, Jon Snow felt like he was truly soaring. The dragon carried him into the sky, and Jon realized, in that moment, that a dragon rider had risen once more.