The sea moaned like an old wound beneath the ice. Jon Snow stood on the cliffs beyond the northern ruin, silver threading further into his dark hair. His eyes, once gray and guarded, shimmered faintly gold in the starlight. Behind him, the camp of the Free Folk murmured like a heartbeat, firelight dancing in the frost.
Beside him, Tormund Giantsbane watched the ocean with narrowed eyes.
"Skagos," he muttered, biting into a hunk of smoked elk. "Ugly place. Too many cliffs. Too many teeth."
Jon's cloak fluttered in the wind. "That's why no one bothers with it. That's why it's perfect."
Tormund squinted at him. "You mean to take it?"
Jon nodded.
Tormund fell into the snow. "You're mad."
Jon said nothing. Instead, he raised his hand and pointed at the eastern horizon. The island's wild. Untamed. Feared. But the Skagosi know the sea. They carve ships from cliffside trees, they breed mountain goats with hides like armor, and their blood remembers the old ways."
Tormund gave him a long look. "They're cannibals." They're survivors," Jon replied. "And I don't need all of them. Just their shipwrights, Tormund raised a brow. "You're planning something." Jon glanced southward. "Dragonstone." A slow smirk began forming
Tormund exhaled like a tired bear. "And here I thought marching south with a thousand wild folk and a fire-breathing lizard was the crazy part."
Jon's gaze stayed fixed on the stars. "This isn't conquest."
"Well?"
"It's preparation."
They left the next night. Three longships carved by Free Folk years ago, hidden beneath layers of tar and bone. Crude vessels, but sturdy enough. The Skagosi waters were rough, full of jagged reefs and hungry silence. But Drogon circled above, wings shadowing the moonlight, his breath steaming across the surface like a silent warning.
Jon stood at the prow of the lead ship, Ghost beside him, fur soaked with salt. Tormund shouted from the rear deck, barking orders and swearing at the waves. Next time you want to conquer something, Snow, warn me when it's over water !" Jon allowed himself a slight smile. He wasn't enjoying this. But for the first time in weeks, something inside him felt... aligned .
As if the world had started spinning around him instead of against him. And far above, Drogon flew in slow circles — and Jon felt him. The bond had grown deeper. Not like before, when dragonriders ruled by force. Now there was communion . Jon could sense Drogon's pulse. His hunger. His quiet, massive intelligence. The beast was growing — not just in size, but in something else. Something Warp-touched. Not visibly. Not grotesquely. But day by day, his wings beat stronger. His roars echoed longer. His flame… hung in the air like a thought refusing to die. They were changing together...
Few Hours Later
Skagos loomed like a scar on the sea.. Black cliffs. No ports. No welcome. Jon disembarked first, his boots hitting the gravel shore with a thud. The Free Folk followed, weapons drawn, eyes wary. Ghost bounded ahead, nose twitching. Drogon landed behind them like a continent with wings, folding himself across the rocks, eyes glowing like furnaces.
Tormund walked beside Jon. "Still think they'll listen?" "No." Jon's gold-touched eyes narrowed. "But they'll understand ."
The Skagosi came down from the hills at nightfall. Dozens at first. Then the sea. Wrapped in fur stitched from bones and sealskin. They wore masks — horns, teeth, symbols painted in blood. Some carried axes. Some carried hammers. All carried silence. Jon stepped forward alone. He held no banner. Only a torch. He lit it — not with flint, but with will. The fire sparked from his palm like a sunbeam, dancing skyward. The Skagosi halted.
A tall man stepped forward, red-eyed, beard down to his chest, a curved ax in one hand. He spoke in the Old Tongue. Brutal. Rhythmic. Tormund translated behind Jon, low and slow. He says, 'You walk with dragon and fire, yet speak as a man. Who commands you? "Jon didn't look away. He spoke calmly. Without arrogance. " No one commands me." Tormund relayed it. The chieftain grunted. Spoke again. He says, 'Then why do you come? Jon raised his hand. The torchlight behind him flickered, casting long shadows across the snow. Then, without warning, the Skagosi chieftain charged. A blur of furs, muscle, and sharpened steel. An axe, curved and ancient, arcing towards Jon's throat. But before it could cut, Jon stopped it. Not with his blade. With his mind. The air is bent. Golden light flared around Jon like a ripple in still water. The axe halted mid-swing, frozen in time. The chieftain's muscles strained, but the weapon would not move. It hovered there, trembling, humming.
Not crushed.
Not shattered.
Held.
Jon stepped forward, eyes glowing faintly. He looked the chieftain in the eye. And he spoke not with lips, but directly into the man's mind.
𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝? 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐝. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫? 𝐈'𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐝. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧. 𝐊𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐥... 𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤." The man gasped. His hands released the axe. It dropped into the snow with a dull thud. Then, slowly, he sank to one knee. And the others followed..
That night, beneath the cliffs and the gaze of the slivered moon, Jon sat at the center of a firelit ring of Skagosi elders. Tormund translated when needed, though more often, silence was enough. Jon's presence said more than words. He didn't ask for loyalty. He shared a vision. He told them of the South broken, leaderless, pretending peace. Of the need to build, not conquer.
Jon was speaking to the shipwrights, "We need ships," he said. "Fast. Silent. Strong enough to cross the Narrow Sea." The shipwrights exchanged looks. Suspicious at first. Until they looked at Drogon, curled against the shoreline, glowing faintly in the dark, breathing smoke and light. They understood ...
The next morning, the forges lit. The cliffs rang with hammer and flame. Jon labored beside them, cutting timber, dragging beams, shaping keelbones with raw strength that startled even the Skagosi. He didn't do it to prove anything. He didn't need to. He did it to remind them he was still flesh .. Even as something more stirred in his bones.
He didn't need rest. The Warp kept him sharp, eyes clear, muscles tireless. But he rested anyway — by the fire, beside Ghost and the forge-, masters speaking little, listening always. They began to call him not lord, not king... 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑭𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒆-𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓.
One evening, as the moon rose like a pale scar across the sea, Jon and Tormund stood on a cliff edge. Below, the skeletons of three new ships grew from blackened wood and Skagosi iron. Above, Drogon slept, wings curled around the cliff face, massive lungs rumbling softly in his rest. Tormund grunted, folding his arms. "You ever notice…" He nodded at Drogon. "…he's getting bigger?" Jon nodded once. "Wingspan's longer. Fire holds in his throat longer. The scales…" He narrowed his eyes. "…they're changing."
"Changing?" Jon crouched near a jagged stone, tracing a rune into the frost. "More like evolving." Tormund made a face. "And you ?" Jon was quiet. Then: "I'm not sure if I'm becoming something new... Or just remembering what I already was." Tormund grinned. "Still brooding, then." Jon smiled faintly. "Wouldn't follow me otherwise."
By the fourth week, the ships were ready. Three long, sleek vessels. Reinforced hulls. Sloped prows. No sigils. For now, the Only purpose. Jon sat on Drogon's back as the Free Folk gathered to watch. The wind caught his cloak. His hair, half-shadow, half-silver now, caught the starlight and gleamed. Tormund looked up from the docks. "Dragonstone?" Jon nodded. Tormund grinned. Jon said nothing. He only looked ahead. And as Drogon spread his wings — larger now, more commanding — the wind rippled across the sea like a warning. Then he lifted into the sky, cutting through the clouds like a blade. Golden fire rippled from Drogon's throat. And far below, the world felt the sky shift..