Jon/Rhaenys/Visenya Short Story - Daemon The Conqueror (Patreon)

Jon led the way through the dark, winding passages of the labyrinth, his torch casting long shadows on the damp stone walls. The air was thick and cold, and the silence was broken only by the sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. His eyes strained to see, constantly scanning the ancient writings etched into the stone. His body was tense, muscles coiled and ready for any threat.

Obara followed closely, her eyes darting nervously around the dark corners. Her body was rigid, every muscle taut with agitation. She gripped her spear tightly, the knuckles of her hands white. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, the paranoia creeping into her voice. "This place is cursed," she muttered, her eyes flicking to every shadow. "We shouldn't be here. We need to get out."

Samaya walked beside her, her movements more controlled but no less wary. Her senses were on high alert, every fiber of her being screaming that they were in danger. Her eyes were sharp, scanning the darkness ahead and behind them. "Stay close, Jon," she said quietly, her voice steady but with an edge of tension. "I don't like this. I feel like we're being watched."

Jon kept moving, his focus on the writings on the walls. He paused occasionally to examine the carvings, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of the ancient script. His face was set in a mask of concentration, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over his features. "There must be clues here," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "We need to understand what these writings mean. They might lead us to the center."

The walls were covered in moss and grime, the air damp and musty. The floor was uneven, and they had to watch their step to avoid stumbling on the rough ground. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shapes that seemed to move in the periphery of their vision. The darkness pressed in around them, making the narrow passageways feel even more claustrophobic.

Obara's agitation grew with each step. Her breaths were louder, more ragged. She swung her spear at shadows, the sharp point slicing through the air. "I don't care about the damn writings, Jon!" she snapped, her voice echoing through the corridors. "This place is driving me mad. We need to find a way out, not get lost in some ancient scribblings."

Samaya placed a calming hand on Obara's shoulder, though her own tension was palpable. "Easy, Obara," she said softly. "Jon knows what he's doing. We have to trust him."

Jon ignored the bickering, his eyes fixed on another section of the wall. He traced his fingers over the rough carvings, the stone cold and damp under his touch. He read aloud, translating the words haltingly. "They... dug too far... found something... evil." He paused, his face grim. "This is not good."

The passage narrowed, forcing them to walk single file. The air grew colder, their breaths visible in the torchlight. Obara's paranoia reached a peak, and she started muttering to herself, her eyes wide and wild. Samaya's grip tightened on her weapon, her jaw clenched. Jon pressed on, his mind working furiously to piece together the fragments of ancient knowledge.

They came to a junction, the path splitting into three dark corridors. Jon stopped, raising the torch to cast light into each passage. He studied the walls, looking for any indication of the right way to go. "This way," he said finally, choosing the middle path. "It feels right."

As they continued, the carvings grew more elaborate, the figures depicted more monstrous and terrifying. Jon, Obara, and Samaya finally stepped into a large chamber, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. The ceiling above them was dotted with small glowing crystals, giving the eerie impression of a starlit sky. The walls were covered in intricate carvings and ancient runes, their meanings long forgotten but their presence adding to the otherworldly feel of the place.

In the center of the chamber was a massive hole, its edges rough and jagged as if it had been torn open by some great force. The darkness within seemed to stretch on forever, a yawning abyss that swallowed the light of their torches. Jon approached the edge, peering into the void. He felt a chill run down his spine as he stared into the blackness.

"We're here," Jon said, his voice low. He turned to Samaya and Obara, who stood close behind him. "This must be the heart of the labyrinth."

Obara, still agitated, looked around with wide eyes. "What in the seven hells is this place?" she muttered. "It doesn't feel right."

Samaya nodded, her grip tightening on her weapon. "We need to be careful. I have a bad feeling about this."

Before they could say more, a shout echoed through the chamber. "Jon!"

They turned to see Mya storming into the room, flanked by Gendry and Edric. Mya's eyes blazed with anger, her body radiating a bloodthirsty intensity. Her fiery hair seemed to glow in the dim light, and her face was twisted with hatred.

Jon stepped back, his hand going to his side where his axe should have been. "Mya," he said, his voice steady. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."

Mya snarled, her hands curling into fists. "You killed my father, you bastard. I've been waiting for this moment." Her voice dripped with venom. "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Gendry stood beside her, his massive warhammer resting on his shoulder. His face was a mask of fury, muscles taut and ready to strike. Edric, though injured, had a fire in his eyes that mirrored Mya's rage.

"You can't hide from us, Jon," Gendry growled. "We'll finish this here and now."

Jon glanced at Obara and Samaya, both of whom had taken up defensive stances. "We won't go down without a fight," he said, his eyes locked on Mya.

Mya laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Good. I wouldn't have it any other way."

The room exploded into chaos as everyone charged at once. Jon gripped Winter Weaver tightly, feeling the familiar cold surge through him. He met Mya's fiery advance head-on, their weapons clashing with a thunderous noise. The heat from her necklace was intense, the flames licking at Jon's skin, but he gritted his teeth and pushed back with all his strength.

Obara lunged at Gendry, her spear darting like a viper. Gendry swung his warhammer in a wide arc, forcing her to dance back to avoid the crushing blow. She jabbed at him, her spear glancing off his gauntlets with sparks flying. Gendry roared and swung again, the force of his strike cracking the stone floor.

Samaya engaged Edric, her sword meeting his flaming blade with a clash of steel. Sparks flew as they exchanged blows, the heat from Edric's sword searing the air around them. Samaya's strength was formidable, but Edric's fiery assaults kept her on the defensive.

Jon and Mya circled each other, her flames growing hotter with each strike. She threw a fireball at him, and he barely managed to deflect it with Winter Weaver, the icy aura of the axe absorbing some of the heat. He closed the distance between them, swinging his axe in a powerful arc. Mya blocked with a wall of fire, but Jon's momentum carried him through, the cold of Winter Weaver clashing with her flames.

"You're not getting away this time, Jon!" Mya screamed, her eyes blazing with fury.

"We'll see about that," Jon growled, pushing forward.

Obara fought fiercely, her spear spinning in deadly arcs as she faced Gendry. She managed to land a few strikes, her spearhead piercing his flesh despite his armor. Gendry, enraged, swung his hammer with reckless abandon. One of his strikes caught Obara's leg, shattering bone and sending her crashing to the ground.

She tried to rise, her face contorted in pain, but Gendry was on her. He brought his hammer down with a sickening crunch, crushing her skull. Blood and brain matter splattered across the floor as Obara's lifeless body went limp.

Samaya, seeing Obara's fate, fought with renewed ferocity. She dodged Edric's flaming strikes, her sword moving faster and hitting harder. She landed a powerful kick to his chest, sending him stumbling back. But Edric recovered quickly, his sword blazing with renewed fire as he swung at her.

Jon saw Obara fall and felt a surge of rage. He pushed Mya back with a flurry of strikes, the air around them crackling with the clash of ice and fire. He dodged a fireball, the heat singeing his hair, and closed in on her, aiming for a decisive blow.

Mya countered with a blast of intense flames, and Jon felt his skin blister under the heat. He grunted in pain but kept moving forward, his axe cutting through the fire. He swung at her, and she barely dodged, the blade grazing her arm and leaving a trail of frostbite.

Gendry, having dispatched Obara, turned his attention to Jon. He charged, his warhammer raised high. Jon spun around just in time to deflect the blow with Winter Weaver, the impact sending vibrations up his arms. Gendry pressed the attack, each strike of his hammer a brutal, bone-crushing force.

Samaya and Edric's fight took them across the room, their blades a blur of motion. Samaya parried a slash of flame and retaliated with a powerful swing that knocked Edric's sword from his hand. She followed up with a series of strikes, her blade cutting deep into his flesh. Edric screamed in pain but managed to retrieve his sword, the flames flickering as he reignited it.

Jon, locked in combat with Gendry, felt the strain of the battle. Gendry's strength was immense, each blow a test of Jon's endurance. He ducked under a swing and drove his axe into Gendry's side, the icy blade biting deep. Gendry roared in pain and fury, swinging wildly with his hammer.

"You're going to pay for killing my father!" Gendry bellowed, his voice echoing in the chamber.

"Your father was a prick!" Jon shouted back, dodging another hammer blow.

Mya, seeing an opening, unleashed a torrent of flames at Jon. He turned just in time to absorb some of the heat with Winter Weaver, but the force of the blast knocked him off balance. Gendry seized the opportunity, landing a crushing blow to Jon's shoulder, the pain searing through him.

Samaya, having overpowered Edric, rushed to Jon's aid. She tackled Gendry, her strength surprising the giant man. They tumbled to the ground, grappling fiercely. Jon used the moment to regain his footing, his eyes never leaving Mya.

Mya advanced, her hands glowing with fiery power. "You're done, Jon," she hissed, her voice filled with malice.

"Not yet," Jon replied, raising Winter Weaver.

They clashed again, the chamber filled with the sounds of their battle. Jon swung his axe with all his might, the icy blade meeting Mya's flames in a burst of steam. He pressed forward, his strength bolstered by his rage and determination.

Samaya and Gendry continued their brutal struggle, fists and weapons striking with deadly force. Samaya managed to land a punch that sent Gendry reeling, but he recovered quickly, his warhammer swinging in a wide arc. The hammer caught Samaya's side, breaking ribs and sending her crashing into the wall.

Jon, seeing Samaya fall, felt a surge of desperation. He pushed Mya back with a series of powerful strikes, his axe cutting through her defenses. He managed to land a blow to her chest, the cold seeping into her body and weakening her flames.

Jon stood over Mya, his chest heaving, Winter Weaver raised high. Mya's eyes widened in fear, her flames flickering out as she stared at the blade poised to end her life. Just as Jon was about to bring the axe down, a massive force slammed into him from the side.

Gendry's warhammer connected with Jon's ribs, sending him flying across the chamber. Pain exploded through Jon's side as he crashed into the ground, rolling to a stop near the edge of the massive hole in the center of the room. He struggled to rise, gasping for breath, but Gendry was already on him, his immense strength shoving Jon over the brink.

Jon's stomach lurched as he plummeted into the darkness. The walls of the hole whipped past him, his speed increasing with every second. The air rushed by, making it hard to breathe, and lights began to blur past him like stars in the night sky. His heart pounded in his ears, the sensation of falling overwhelming every sense.

Faster and faster he fell, the lights becoming a dizzying blur. The wind roared around him, drowning out his own screams. His mind struggled to keep up with the speed, everything becoming a chaotic whirlwind. Then, without warning, everything went black.

....

Jon woke slowly, his head pounding like a hammer on an anvil. His body rocked gently, the motion nauseating him before his eyes even opened. His mouth was dry, his tongue thick like it was stuffed with cotton. His body was cold and damp, the air around him foul and smelling of piss and saltwater. A sharp pain pulsed at the back of his skull, and he fought to lift his head. The moment he did, his stomach lurched violently, and he rolled onto his side, retching bile onto the rough wooden planks beneath him.

His vision swam. The dim light that greeted him stung his eyes, making his head spin worse. Everything was a blur, the shapes of wooden beams, ropes, and bodies flickering in and out of focus. He tried to sit up, but his body didn't want to obey. His limbs felt leaden, and his muscles screamed in protest. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright, wiping the spit and vomit from his mouth.

As his vision cleared, he saw bars in front of him—thick wooden ones, not iron. He blinked, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing he remembered was fighting... fighting Mya and Gendry. But now? Now he was locked up in a swaying cell with others, men and women, some half-naked, most bruised and battered. The rocking told him he was on a ship, and judging by the looks of the people around him and the absence of cargo, this wasn't any ordinary vessel.

Slavers. His stomach turned again, but not from the motion. He glanced around, eyes narrowing. His gaze caught on an older man sitting across from him, his back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. The man's skin was leathery, worn from sun and time, his hair thinning and gray, but his eyes were still sharp, watching Jon.

Jon pushed himself to his feet, the floorboards creaking under him. His head still throbbed, but he shoved the pain aside, focusing on the man. "Skorverē jorrāelagon, ñuha āeksio?" Jon asked in Valyrian, his voice gravelly from disuse. ("What's your name, and where are we?")

The man didn't answer right away. He rubbed his arms, shivering, and cast a quick glance at the others crammed into the cell with them. After a moment, he muttered, "Lomys," his voice low and rough. "Iksi kesīr naejot Lys," he added without emotion. ("We're being taken to Lys.")

Jon's lips pressed into a hard line. That made sense. Lys was known for its pleasure houses, and many of the women on this ship were far too attractive to be bound for anything else. Slavers. His gut twisted with disgust, but he forced his mind to stay clear. Something didn't add up. How had he ended up here? The last thing he remembered was the battle. Mya had him dead to rights. If she'd won, why not kill him? Selling him to slavers seemed beneath her. She'd want him dead, not locked up.

He shook his head, the thoughts swirling too fast. For now, he had to get out of this mess. Jon turned back to Lomys. "Skorverē istan kesīr?" Jon asked. ("Do you know how I got here?")

Before the older man could answer, a younger voice cut in from beside him. A lanky man with a fresh cut across his cheek leaned forward. "Vāedas iksan ivestragon iā guards bisa sylutan ao sȳndor hae āxios," he said in a hoarse whisper. ("I heard the guards say they fished you out of the sea with a strange axe.")

Jon's heart kicked up a beat. His axe. Winter Weaver. Relief washed over him. If his weapon was here, things were about to get a lot easier. He nodded to the young man, thanking him. He stood up slowly, stretching his arms and legs, hearing his joints pop and his neck crack. His body ached, but nothing was broken. That was good enough.

Jon stepped toward the wooden bars, eyeing them carefully. He knew what he had to do. The others stared at him, wide-eyed and silent. Without another word, Jon drew his fist back and slammed it into the side of the ship. The wood splintered with a loud crack, sending shards flying. The impact rattled the bars, and the others in the cell shrank back, fear flashing across their faces.

Jon grinned as he poked his head through the hole, taking in the sight. They were close to land, though it seemed a fleet was nearby. He squinted at the banners. Volantis. That complicated things.

Shouts and screams echoed from above deck. Footsteps pounded overhead, fast and frantic. Jon's eyes darted to the water below, just in time to see a man splash into the sea. What in the seven hells? Before he could make sense of it, a massive shadow passed over the ship, blocking out the sun. It felt like the entire world had gone dark for a moment.

And then the sun returned. Jon's breath caught in his throat. High above, its wings stretched wide, was a dragon. But not just any dragon. The beast was massive, bigger than anything Jon had ever seen. Its black scales shimmered in the light as it descended, and when it let out a roar, the sound was deafening, shaking the very ship beneath him.

Jon's mouth went dry. "Seven hells..." he muttered, barely able to believe what he was seeing. He watched in stunned silence as the dragon swooped down and lifted one of the ships out of the ocean as if it were a child's toy. The ship hovered for a moment before the dragon dropped it, the wood splintering as it crashed into another ship. Jon's heart pounded in his chest. The dragon unleashed a torrent of black flames onto the remaining ships, turning them into blazing infernos.

"Balerion," Jon whispered, the name escaping him before he realized it. The Black Dread. It couldn't be. Balerion was dead. All the dragons were dead. But here it was, as real as anything else. His mind raced with questions, but there was no time to dwell on them. Another roar echoed through the air, pulling Jon from his thoughts.

He ducked his head back inside the ship, his mind working fast. He looked around at the others in the cell. "Iksā lēkia nūmāzma pryjatys bē — nyke vaoresan ao daor," Jon said quickly in Valyrian. ("There's a dragon about to burn us all. I suggest you run.")

Without waiting for a response, Jon drew back his leg and kicked the cell door off its hinges. The wood groaned and cracked under the force of his blow, crashing to the floor with a thud. He moved quickly, tearing open the other cells, releasing the rest of the prisoners. They hesitated only for a moment before scrambling to their feet, rushing out of the room in a blind panic.

Jon didn't waste any time. He ran toward the stairs leading up to the deck, his bare feet pounding against the wood. He stormed up the stairs, his hand slamming into the hatch above him and sending it flying off its hinges. He emerged onto the deck, blinking against the sudden flood of sunlight. The ship was in chaos. Men scrambled everywhere, tying down ropes, loading scorpions, and shouting orders. The captain stood at the center of it all, barking commands with spittle flying from his mouth.

"Get those bolts loaded! I want that beast down!" he yelled, pointing at the massive black dragon circling overhead.

Crewmen rushed to man the scorpion bolts, massive siege weapons mounted along the edges of the ship. The creak of the wooden contraptions filled the air as the men struggled to crank them into place, aiming at the dragon as it swept by. Jon's eyes scanned the deck—scattered bodies of sailors who hadn't survived the initial assault, mixed with men and women from the other cells who had managed to escape.

Before Jon could move, the first mate spotted him and the rest of the freed slaves. His eyes widened in fury, and he pointed at them, screaming. "Capture them!"

Jon ducked instinctively as a crewman rushed toward him, swinging a club with wild abandon. The blow sailed over Jon's head, missing him by inches. Before the man could recover, Jon buried his fist into the man's gut. The crewman folded over with a groan, collapsing to the deck. Jon snatched the club out of the air before the man hit the ground and swung it into the next attacker's skull with a sickening crack. The man dropped, blood spraying from the gash in his head.

Another crewman ran at Jon, but before he could even raise his weapon, Jon hurled the club, catching the man square in the chest. The impact sent him tumbling backward, his body smacking against the deck like a rag doll.

Jon was already moving, racing for the edge of the ship. But just as he reached the railing, the ship bucked beneath him, nearly sending him sprawling. He stumbled, falling to the ground just to see Balerion swoop down, releasing a torrent of black fire onto the ships beside them. The flames roared as they consumed the vessels, the wooden hulls exploding in a shower of debris. The heat hit Jon like a wall, even from this distance, and the entire ship trembled as the flames licked at the water.

There was no time to stop. Jon rolled just as a sword swung down at the spot where he'd been on the ground. He kicked out blindly, his boot connecting with the man's chin. The sailor flew back with a grunt, landing in a heap a few feet away. Jon snatched the sword from his hand and spun, just in time to parry another blow aimed at his head. Steel clanged as the blades met, the force of the strike sending a shock up Jon's arm. He twisted his wrist, disarming the man in one swift motion before slashing his throat open. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the man collapsed, gurgling.

Jon laughed, wiping the blood from his face. "At least try and make it difficult," he muttered, stepping over the man's body.

But his amusement died in his throat as Balerion's roar shook the air around them. Jon's head snapped up, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The dragon was coming straight for the ship, its massive wings beating the air, creating gusts that nearly knocked him off his feet. His chuckle turned into a nervous laugh. "Seven hells," he whispered to himself.

Without hesitation, Jon thrust his hand out. In an instant, Winter Weaver came crashing through the wall of the captain's cabin, shattering the wood as it flew into his waiting grip. He turned to the slaves still standing frozen in fear on the deck.

"Run!" Jon barking. "Get off this damned ship!"

The freed slaves didn't need to be told twice. They scattered, running for any chance of escape. Jon sprinted toward the edge of the ship, Winter Weaver held tight in his hand. A crewman charged at him with a sword raised, but Jon swung the axe in a brutal arc, smashing the blunt end into the man's skull. The sailor dropped instantly, his head a bloodied mess.

Jon didn't slow down. He reached the railing and vaulted over just as another blast of fire roared toward the ship. The flames engulfed the vessel, the heat so intense that Jon felt it even as he hurled himself overboard. The fire hit the ship's hull with a deafening explosion, sending pieces of wood and debris flying in every direction.

Jon screamed as the blast flung him into the air, his body tumbling through the sky like a rag doll. He flailed, arms and legs flapping uselessly as he was thrown higher and higher. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still, the roar of the flames and the chaos fading away. Then gravity took hold, and Jon began to plummet.

He saw the mast of the next ship rushing up to meet him and reacted without thinking. His arm shot out, and he slammed Winter Weaver into the thick wood, the blade biting deep and stopping his fall. His shoulder wrenched painfully from the sudden stop, but he gritted his teeth and held on. Hanging from the mast, Jon sucked in a ragged breath, his lungs burning from the heat.

He yanked the axe free and let himself drop to the deck below. He hit the wood hard, the boards cracking beneath his weight, but he was back on his feet in an instant. The nearest crewman barely had time to react before Jon's hand shot out, grabbing him by the throat. The man's eyes bulged as Jon lifted him off the ground with one hand, slamming him against the mast. The sound of bones cracking echoed in the air, and the man's body went limp.

Jon tossed the corpse aside and spun, his eyes scanning the deck. More sailors rushed at him, weapons drawn, but they hesitated now. They'd seen what he could do, and fear was starting to set in. Jon grinned, baring his teeth. He liked it when they were scared. The first man came at him with a sword, slashing wildly. Jon sidestepped the blow and buried Winter Weaver in the man's chest, the axe slicing through armor and bone with ease. He wrenched the axe free, blood spraying across the deck as the man fell to his knees, gasping for breath before collapsing in a pool of his own blood.

Another sailor lunged at him with a spear. Jon parried the strike with the haft of his axe and stepped in close, driving his knee into the man's groin. The sailor doubled over with a wheeze, and Jon brought the butt of the axe down on the back of his head, crushing his skull. More men were coming, but Jon knew this was pointless. There were too many of them, and Balerion was still out there. He needed to get off this damned ship before it went up in flames like the others. He glanced around, spotting a rowboat tied to the side of the deck.

"Time to go," Jon muttered to himself, wiping the blood off Winter Weaver on a dead man's shirt. Jon threw Winter Weaver with a grunt, the blade whistling through the air before slicing cleanly through the thick rope attached to the mast. The tension released with a loud snap, and the rope swung free. Without hesitating, Jon leapt from the railing, grabbing the rope mid-air. The rough fibers dug into his palms as he swung to the next ship, the wind whipping his hair back. His boots hit the deck hard, the impact jarring his bones, but he kept his balance.

The fleet stretched out before him, a line of ships leading toward the distant coast. There were too many to count, and while the thought crossed his mind that he could dive into the water and swim, he knew this would be quicker. And safer, if you could call swinging from one burning ship to the next "safe."

Before he could move, a deafening roar filled the sky. Jon's heart skipped a beat. He looked up to see Balerion, the massive black dragon, diving straight toward him. His wings beat the air, sending gusts of wind that rattled the ship's rigging and caused the flames on the nearby vessels to flare.

"Fuck," Jon muttered under his breath.

He took off running, his feet pounding the deck. He leapt over crates and barrels, dodging the scrambling crew. Behind him, the heat from Balerion's fire roared like a furnace. The flames engulfed the ship behind him, and Jon didn't stop to see it burn. He jumped from one ship to the next, barely catching himself on the edge of a nearby railing. His fingers dug into the wood, and he pulled himself up just in time to avoid another blast of fire.

Balerion ignited everything in its path. Masts collapsed as the fire consumed them, sails turned to ash, and the screams of men filled the air. Jon could feel the heat creeping up his back as he ran. He slid under a falling mast, rolling back onto his feet in one smooth motion. The deck shook beneath him as the ship began to break apart, the flames weakening the hull. Jon spotted a thick rope attached to the mast of the next ship and grabbed it mid-leap, swinging through the air. He landed hard on the next ship, rolling to absorb the impact. But there was no time to rest—Balerion was right behind him, the dragon's black flames licking at the deck as Jon dashed across the planks.

Another explosion rocked the air, this time from the steam as the fire met the water. The force sent Jon flying through the air. He spun wildly, but in the split second before he hit the next ship, he hurled Winter Weaver with all his strength. The axe flew straight and true, embedding itself deep into Balerion's shoulder. The dragon screeched, its roar echoing across the sea as the blade sank into its flesh. Jon hit the deck of the next ship hard, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. His ears rang from the dragon's scream, and for a moment, the world was a blur. Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet, his body aching from the fall. He looked up just in time to see Balerion flapping its massive wings, trying to shake off the pain.

The ship beneath Jon rocked as he regained his footing, and he realized he wasn't alone. A group of Volantene soldiers had surrounded him, their swords drawn. They wore full armor, their faces grim, ready for a fight. Jon narrowed his eyes, wiping the blood from his lip. His hand instinctively reached out to summon Winter Weaver, but something was wrong.

The axe didn't come.

Instead of the familiar pull, Jon felt a resistance—a tug, like something was pulling back against him. His eyes widened in surprise as his hand jerked forward, yanking him off balance. The soldiers paused, their confusion mirroring Jon's.

A sheepish grin spread across Jon's face. "Shit."

Before anyone could react, Jon was yanked off his feet, dragged across the deck by some unseen force. The soldiers barely had time to shout in alarm as Jon was pulled over the railing and into the water below. The cold shock of the sea hit him hard, but he was already being dragged through the waves, the water rushing past him as he hurtled toward the massive black dragon looming ahead.

Balerion.

Winter Weaver was still lodged in the dragon's shoulder, and now it was pulling him straight toward the beast. Jon gritted his teeth, his arm burning as the pull from Winter Weaver dragged him faster through the water. He tried to sever the link, to stop the axe from yanking him toward the massive dragon, but it was no use. The axe was bound to him, and it wouldn't stop until it was back in his hand.

Jon fought to get his feet under him, the force of the pull pushing him across the surface of the water. His feet skimmed along the waves as if he were running on the ocean itself. His eyes widened as the path in front of him became clear—debris littered the sea, and ships filled the horizon, all in the direct path of Balerion's rampage. The dragon, wounded and enraged, was tearing through the fleet with wild fury. Masts splintered, hulls exploded, and flames shot into the sky as ship after ship was destroyed in the beast's wake.

Jon cursed as he smashed through a floating chunk of wood, the impact jarring his body. He spat out a string of profanities, leaping over the next piece of debris and kicking through another that stood in his way. The pull was relentless, his body dragged along the water like a rag doll, and he had to lean and twist to avoid wreckage, bodies, and flames that still floated on the ocean's surface. As Jon barreled forward, he saw something worse—a massive ship dead ahead, sinking fast, directly in his path. The front end of the ship was already under the water, the rear half lifting into the air as it was sucked into the sea. Jon's heart pounded in his chest as his mind scrambled for a solution.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Jon cursed, his eyes darting around.

He spotted a hole in the side of the ship, where water rushed in like a torrent. Without another option, Jon leaned back, his body sliding across the surface of the water as he squeezed through the hole just as he was about to collide with the ship. He shot into the flooded belly of the vessel, the inside of the ship full of fire and collapsing beams. Flames crawled up the walls and ceilings, wood crackling and breaking apart as the ship sank deeper into the ocean.

Jon stumbled as a large chunk of the upper deck collapsed in front of him, blocking his path. With no time to stop, Jon leaped up, his left hand grabbing hold of the ledge above him. He pushed himself up just as the flames swallowed the lower floor. A dead soldier tumbled down from the upper deck, and Jon used the falling body to springboard himself higher, slamming his shoulder into the top deck smashing through it and rolling to his feet.

The heat was unbearable, the ship crumbling around him. Without hesitation, Jon sprinted forward keeping up with the pull and launched himself off the ship's deck, diving back into the ocean. The cold water hit him like a wall, but he surfaced quickly, gasping for air. He was moving faster now, the force of the pull from Winter Weaver stronger than before. Jon dodged more wreckage, kicking through broken masts and splintered hulls as he was dragged closer to the shore.

Flames licked at the water's surface, bodies floated face down, and the sound of wood cracking and ships exploding filled the air. Jon had to duck under the burning remains of a ship's sail, the fabric still smoldering as it skimmed the water. His legs burned, his arms strained, but he kept going, weaving through the carnage as best as he could. A massive ship's mast came crashing down into the water ahead of him, and Jon cursed under his breath. He angled his body to the side, narrowly avoiding the impact, the waves from the crash throwing him off balance for a moment. Then, suddenly, the water rushed past him faster than ever, and Jon's boots hit the sandy shore. He was yanked out of the water and dragged across the wet sand, his body leaving a trail behind him as he skidded to a stop. He planted his feet, breathing hard as the force from the axe finally let up. With a heavy thud, Winter Weaver wrenched itself free from Balerion's flesh and flew into Jon's waiting hand.

He stood there, dripping wet, his chest heaving as he looked up. Balerion's roar echoed across the battlefield, the dragon's massive form looming above the wreckage of the fleet. Jon's heart raced, his fingers tightening around the axe's handle. The dragon, black as night, bled from the wound Jon had inflicted, but the injury only seemed to have enraged the beast further.

With another ear-splitting roar, Balerion crashed toward the shore. The impact was earth-shattering. The dragon's massive body hit the ground hard, sliding across the dirt and carving a deep groove into the earth. Trees were uprooted, and rocks were thrown aside like pebbles as the dragon skidded to a halt, its wings spread wide.

.........

Jon stood panting, water dripping from his body, his muscles burning from the effort. His eyes never left the dragon, still wary, but it seemed Balerion was taking a moment to recover. The beast's massive chest rose and fell slowly, its black scales reflecting the fires in the distance. Jon looked over his shoulder. The Volantene fleet was burning—a hundred ships, maybe more, all engulfed in flames. The sea was choked with smoke, wreckage, and bodies. It was destruction on a scale Jon had never seen.

He turned back to the dragon. Something caught his eye, glinting in the sunlight. Jon squinted, tightening his grip on Winter Weaver as he stalked closer to Balerion. His boots crunched over broken wood and charred debris as he moved carefully. The glint was coming from beneath the dragon's massive form. Jon stepped closer, his eyes fixed on the source.

As he neared, he saw it—armor. A tall man, armored in black plate, with short white-gold hair. The man was handsome, or had been before death. His head was splattered on one side, skull crushed from some impact. His body lay completely still. Jon knew right away the man was dead.

Next to the man was a sword—a dark blade with ripples running down its length. Jon knelt and touched the hilt. "Valyrian steel," he muttered, then his eyes widened. "More than that..." He turned the sword over in his hands, recognizing the craftsmanship. "Blackfyre."

That could only mean one thing. Jon looked down at the dead man, his face twisted in disbelief. This was Aegon Targaryen. The Conqueror. The man who had united six kingdoms and formed the Iron Throne. And now he was dead, lying broken beneath his own dragon.

"Fuck," Jon whispered. The weight of it hit him like a hammer. Somehow, some way, he'd been sent back in time. He knew the stories—Aegon had burned the Volantene fleet at the request of a Prince of Pentos. But this... this was before the conquest. Jon's mind raced. If Aegon didn't conquer Westeros, what would happen? The entire future could be altered.

Jon bent down, inspecting Aegon's legs. They were shattered, mangled from a fall. The harness strapped to his armor was torn, the leather frayed and broken. "He must've fallen from the dragon," Jon muttered to himself, frowning. Aegon wasn't in any shape to conquer anything now.

A low growl pulled Jon from his thoughts. His head snapped up, eyes locking on Balerion. The dragon had recovered and was now staring directly at Jon. Its massive black eyes narrowed, and Jon saw the fire building in its throat. He barely had time to react.

Jon slammed Winter Weaver into the ground, ice shooting up around him. A thick barrier of frozen spikes formed just as Balerion unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames slammed into the ice with brutal force, and Jon grunted, pushing more power into the axe to keep the barrier intact. The heat was overwhelming, and the ice melted as fast as it reformed. Balerion's fire was hotter than anything Jon had ever felt, hot enough to melt stone. But the heart of winter pulsed through Winter Weaver, keeping Jon alive as the battle of ice and fire raged.

After what felt like an eternity, the flames stopped. Jon didn't waste a second. He thrust his hand forward, and a volley of sharp ice spikes shot out, hurtling toward Balerion. They slammed into the dragon's scales, but Balerion barely flinched. Jon cursed under his breath, knowing his ice alone wasn't enough to kill the Black Dread.

He rolled to the side, grabbing Blackfyre from Aegon's corpse as he moved. The sword was heavy in his hand, but its balance was perfect. Jon ran, dodging another stream of fire as Balerion turned its massive head toward him. He leapt over debris, ducking and weaving as the dragon's flames scorched the ground behind him. With a surge of strength, Jon leapt onto Balerion's side, grabbing hold of the dragon's thick scales. The beast roared and bucked, trying to shake him off, but Jon held on with a death grip.

Balerion took off into the sky, wings beating the air with thunderous force. Jon was thrown backward, but he dug Winter Weaver into the dragon's back, using the axe to anchor himself. He slid down Balerion's back, the wind whipping at him, the ground far below. Jon gritted his teeth and climbed, hand over hand, pulling himself back up toward the dragon's head.

Balerion roared again, twisting and flipping in the air, trying to dislodge Jon. The world spun, but Jon refused to let go. He climbed higher, the dragon's thick scales cutting into his hands. His muscles screamed in protest, but he kept going until he reached the base of Balerion's neck. Jon gripped the hilt of Blackfyre, ready to drive the sword into the dragon's skull.

But something stopped him.

A strange connection surged through Jon's body, a pull he had only ever felt with Winter Weaver. But this was different—stronger, deeper. It was like a bond between him and Balerion, something ancient and primal. The dragon stopped fighting. It stopped trying to shake him off. Instead, Balerion leveled out, flying straight through the sky.

Jon's eyes widened in disbelief. He could feel the dragon's heartbeat beneath him, feel its mind brushing against his own. He understood now. He was a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon ran through his veins. With Aegon dead Balerion had no rider, and when Jon got close enough the connection must've formed. "That can't be good..." Jon whispered to himself.

Jon slumped against the dragon's back, exhausted. He had no idea where Balerion was taking him, but at that moment, he didn't care. He rested his head against the beast's warm scales, the wind cooling his sweat-soaked skin as they soared into the distance. Jon didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but when he woke, the sight before him was unmistakable. Dragonstone. The massive black fortress loomed over the island's rocky shore, its towers and spires carved from the volcanic rock. It was livelier than Jon remembered, the village beneath it bustling with life. What had been a small settlement in his time was now more like a large town, filled with thousands of people. The sea around it was dotted with ships, traders and soldiers coming and going.

Balerion flew further inland, heading for the volcanic caverns beyond the fortress. As the dragon roared, the sound echoed through the air, and Jon could hear answering roars from within the caverns. He knew what that meant—other dragons. He couldn't afford to stay. Jon slid off Balerion's back just as he landed, hitting the ground in a low crouch before making a run for it. He slid down the side of the volcano, his boots slipping on the loose rocks, before jumping off the edge of a cliff into the sea. The cold water hit him hard, but it was better than staying with Balerion and the dragons. Jon surfaced, gasping for breath as he swam toward the shore. He spotted a party of riders in the distance, heading toward the cavern Balerion had just landed in. At the head of the group were two women with the same silver-gold hair as Aegon. 'His sisters,' Jon thought. 'Rhaenys and Visenya... though they aren't his wives yet.'

He swam away, keeping low in the water. If they saw him, things would get complicated fast. Jon had no interest in drawing attention to himself, not with all of this madness going on. His plan was simple—get to town, blend in, and figure out his next move.

When he reached the shore and entered the town, things were already chaotic. Two dragons flew overhead, their wings beating the air as they headed in the direction Jon had just come from. Soldiers were boarding boats, clearly in a rush to follow the dragons. Jon watched them for a moment, frowning. 'They must've realized Aegon's missing and are assuming the worst,' he thought. That was good for him. The chaos would buy him time to disappear.

He could've taken Balerion and fled, but that would've been a stupid move. The dragon was too big, too noticeable. And the sisters—Rhaenys and Visenya—wouldn't rest until they hunted him down. He didn't stand a chance against both of them, even with Balerion under him. He had no real experience riding a dragon. They'd have him dead in minutes.

Jon slapped his face, shaking off those thoughts. 'Focus on the short term,' he reminded himself. He needed food, shelter, and coin. That was all. Everything else could wait. It was a shame he couldn't sell Blackfyre. The sword would've fetched a fortune, but it was too recognizable. If anyone found out he had it, they'd link it back to Aegon and realize what had happened. So he'd left it behind on Balerion's back before he made his escape.

---

Over the next few weeks, Jon kept a low profile, doing what he could to survive. He took on minor labor jobs, moving crates, hauling goods, anything that would earn him a bit of coin and a place to sleep. He kept his head down, staying out of trouble. The town was growing restless, though. The soldiers were on edge, the dragons flying overhead more often, and the tension in the air was thick.

One day, Jon heard that the fortress was recruiting more guards. It seemed they were preparing for something, and they needed all the men they could get. Jon decided to try his luck. He joined a group of a few dozen recruits, all of them eager to prove themselves. The trials were simple—pit the recruits against each other, then against an instructor. Jon beat them all easily.

When it was his turn to fight the instructor, a veteran guard with a red face and thick arms, Jon didn't hold back. The man came at him with a heavy training sword, but Jon sidestepped the first swing and knocked him to the ground with a quick strike to the back of the knee. The guard growled and got back up, this time going for a more aggressive attack. Jon blocked the blow and let the man's sword glide down his own blade before slamming the hilt of his weapon into the man's face. Blood sprayed from the guard's mouth as he spat out a tooth. The guard, furious at being bested by someone so young, tried to throw dirt in Jon's eyes, but Jon dodged the attempt easily. He disarmed the man with a swift twist of his wrist, knocking the sword from his hand and sending him crashing to the ground again. A few of the other guards scowled and started to approach Jon, but a loud voice stopped them in their tracks.

"Enough!" the voice boomed.

The guards stood at attention as a large man with black hair stepped into the courtyard. He towered over everyone, his muscles bulging beneath his armor. He was over a head taller than Jon, and Jon was no small man. His arms were bare, thick with muscle, while the rest of him was clad in heavy plate. The man strode up to the fallen guard and spat on him.

"Losing a duel is no excuse to lose your honor," he said, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard. He grabbed the guard by the scruff of his neck and threw him out of the ring like a sack of grain.

The man turned to Jon, his dark eyes studying him. "I am Orys Baratheon, commander of the Dragonstone guard," he said, holding out a massive hand.

"Well met," Jon replied, clasping Orys' hand. "I am Jon Snow."

Orys narrowed his eyes, thinking for a moment. "Snow... that makes you a bastard from the North of Westeros, does it not?"

Jon nodded. "Aye, my father was Valyrian. At least, I think he was. Silver hair and purple eyes. I wanted to understand his culture better."

Orys' eyes widened slightly at that. He looked Jon over, taking in his features more closely. The silver eyes, the strong facial structure—it reminded him of Aegon. He couldn't help but wonder if this young man was more than just some Northern bastard. "Do you know your father's name?" Orys asked.

Jon shook his head, his face falling into a sad look. "No."

"No matter," Orys said, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "He'd be proud of you, especially with how skilled you are with a blade. It'd be a waste to use you as a regular guard."

Jon raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Oh?"

Orys nodded, wrapping an arm around Jon's shoulders. "The fortress's Master-at-Arms died recently during a campaign in the Stepstones. There haven't been any suitable replacements, so I've had to take on the role myself." He turned to face Jon. "Would you be agreeable to take the role?"

Jon couldn't hide his smirk. "It would be more than agreeable," he said with a grin.

"Good," Orys said, smiling back. "You're more skilled than half the men here. I'll have a servant show you to your quarters and explain your duties. I expect great things from you, Jon Snow." Orys clapped him on the shoulder once more before heading off into the fortress.

Jon watched him go, a small grin on his face. He had not expected to be given such an important position. But it made sense—this was right before the Conquest, they must be training up soldiers getting ready for the invasion.

Jon took a deep breath as he wondered whether the invasion would even occur now.

————————————————————

Jon stood in the courtyard, watching over the dozen recruits as they trained. It had been six months since he had arrived in Dragonstone. In that time, the Targaryens had only just held a funeral for Aegon. Rhaenys had refused to believe her brother was truly gone for the longest time, while Visenya had accepted the truth early on. Jon had found it easy to avoid them both, as they spent much of their time searching for Aegon. But now, with the search over and Aegon declared dead, that was bound to change. Jon hoped they wouldn't notice him.

"Strike faster!" Jon barked at the men, his voice carrying across the yard as they trained with swords and shields. They were dressed in full armor, sweat dripping from their brows as they worked under the hot sun. Jon had taken his role as Master-at-Arms seriously, spending every day training the soldiers of Dragonstone. With Orys' help, he had enacted an edict that made training compulsory for men in non-essential trades. The result? Thousands of men had passed through his hands, turning from simple farmers and fishermen into proper soldiers. Crime had dropped, and the men worked more efficiently in their trades, knowing they could be called upon at any moment.

From those who showed promise, Jon had selected the best for the Dragonstone guard, pushing them harder than the others. He knew the importance of well-trained men, especially with the Targaryens preparing for conquest. He had made up his mind to help with the invasion, knowing it was inevitable that Rhaenys and Visenya would take up the cause in Aegon's absence. One less dragon in the skies wouldn't change their ambitions.

"Archers!" Jon shouted, and the soldiers stopped what they were doing, forming a tight circle with their shields raised. The sound of arrows whistled through the air as archers positioned on the walls fired down at them. The men held firm, their shields overlapping to form an impenetrable barrier. "Loose!" Jon commanded, and the arrows stopped. The men went back to striking their dummies, training as hard as ever.

Jon took a cup from a serving girl and drank deeply. The heat in Dragonstone was unbearable at times, though it was nothing compared to the heat of Essos. He wiped his brow just as Orys Baratheon approached him, a smile on his face. They clasped hands in greeting.

"Still working them hard, I see," Orys said with a laugh.

Jon grinned. "You want good soldiers, you need to push them."

"Aye, but I'm afraid their instructor is needed elsewhere," Orys replied, clapping Jon on the shoulder. "Lady Rhaenys and Lady Visenya have called for a meeting of the council, and as Master-at-Arms, your presence is required."

Jon frowned but quickly hid it behind a neutral expression. "Must I? You can answer any questions about the soldiers as well as I can."

Orys shook his head. "No, Visenya wants everyone there. Big announcement. Don't worry—word is she's pleased with the quality of the soldiers you've been training."

Jon swallowed his unease, nodding reluctantly. He had avoided the sisters for six months. Now that they had accepted Aegon's death, their attention would be elsewhere, and Jon had no desire to be in their sights. He followed Orys through the fortress, his mind racing with dark thoughts. 'They know,' a small voice whispered in his head. 'They know you've been riding Balerion. They know you were involved in Aegon's death.'

He shook the thoughts away. 'Not possible.'

As they made their way through the stone halls, Jon's unease grew. They entered the Painted Room, a large chamber where a massive table in the shape of Westeros lay. At the head of the table sat Rhaenys and Visenya. Jon stopped for a moment, taking them both in. Rhaenys was beautiful—short but full-figured, her silver-gold hair falling in waves over her shoulders and down to her ample chest. She wore a black and red gown, her purple eyes gleaming. Visenya stood beside her, equally beautiful but in a more severe way. She was taller than Rhaenys, her hair braided and draped over her shoulder. She wore a tight red tunic, her arms bare, showing the muscle she had built from years of combat training. Her thighs were thick and powerful, and there was something fierce in the way she carried herself. Her eyes scanned the room, but they lingered on Jon the longest.

Jon entered the room with Orys, along with several other lords. Among them was Aethan Velaryon and Alton Celtigar, as well as the Dragonstone Maester. There were other lords present, but Jon hadn't bothered learning their names. He had made a point of keeping to himself, not wanting to draw any attention.

"Welcome, lords," Rhaenys said, her voice smooth and melodic. It was a voice that could calm even the most hardened of men. "I'm glad you accepted our invitation, despite the difficult times we've all endured."

One of the lords spoke up, bowing his head. "We will always answer the call of House Targaryen."

Rhaenys smiled at him. "Thank you, Lord Celtigar." She took a breath before continuing. "As you all know, our brother Aegon has perished. His death weighs heavily on us, not only for the loss of our kin but for the plans we had set in motion."

Lord Aethan stepped forward. "We assumed Lady Visenya would take the throne in his place."

Visenya spoke then, her voice firm but with a seductive undertone. "That was the plan, Lord Velaryon. But my sister believes that while we could conquer Westeros, we could not hold it. The lords there would never accept a queen on the throne, not without a fight."

A murmur rose among the gathered lords, some denying this, others shouting that the rebels should be put to the sword. Visenya raised her hand, silencing them.

"We need another heir," she said simply. "A male heir. This means one or both of us must bear a child. It's not the plan we wanted, but it will give us more time to strengthen our forces."

Rhaenys nodded. "And I hear we have a new Master-at-Arms."

Jon stepped forward. "Yes, my lady."

Rhaenys' eyes swept over him, her gaze growing more intense as she took him in. She shifted slightly in her chair, her lips parting as though she were about to say something more. Visenya cleared her throat, and Rhaenys snapped out of her daze. "I apologize for not meeting you sooner, Master Snow. I've heard from Orys that you've done an excellent job with our soldiers."

"Thank you, my lady," Jon said, bowing his head.

"We'll be recruiting many more soldiers soon, with the coin paid to us by Pentos," Visenya said, her eyes locking onto Jon. "You'll be able to train them, I assume."

"It won't be a problem," Jon replied, stepping back and trying to fade into the background again.

For the next two hours, the council discussed various issues—trade routes, fortifications, recruitment, and the training of more men. Jon kept his head down, hoping to go unnoticed. But as the meeting drew to a close, Visenya's face grew serious.

"Now, for the real reason I've called you here," she said, her voice cutting through the noise.

The room fell silent as everyone turned to look at her. Jon felt a chill run down his spine.

"I've discovered something disturbing while tending to the dragons," Visenya said. "Balerion... has a new rider."

The room erupted in shock. One of the lords shouted, "Does this mean Aegon lives?"

Visenya shook her head. "No. I'm certain Aegon is dead. But someone else has claimed Balerion."

The lords murmured in worry. "How is that possible?" one asked.

"Whoever it is must have strong Valyrian blood," Rhaenys said, her voice soft but firm.

"How do we find this rider?" Orys asked.

"I'll know," Visenya said coldly. "If I can get close to them, I'll know."

Jon's stomach tightened. He kept his face blank, but inside, panic surged. He needed to leave Dragonstone, and fast. They'd find out soon enough that it was him, and if they did, he'd be dead. He cursed himself for accepting the role of Master-at-Arms. Disappearing as a simple guard would've been easy. But as the Master-at-Arms? It would raise too many questions.

Jon was still lost in his thoughts when Visenya dismissed the council. As the lords began to file out, Jon overheard the sisters speaking in Valyrian.

"Nyke jaelagon bona ūndan, hāedar. Ziry ūjōngin kesir." ("I want that one, sister. He looks strong.")

"Sija va moriot iksan issare." ("Stick to what we agreed, Rhaenys. We will test him, but we will only take the strongest.")

Jon clenched his jaw. 'Yeah, I better get out of here,' he thought as the doors closed behind him.

...

Jon walked through the stone halls of Dragonstone, his boots echoing on the floor as he made his way toward the barracks. It had been a day since the council meeting, and his mind was racing with plans for his escape. He had started to sell off his belongings, hoping to gather enough coin to make a clean break for Essos. That was the plan. Slip away quietly before anyone noticed. As he rounded a corner, a strange feeling crept up his spine, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Before he could react, a voice spoke beside him.

"May I join you, Master Snow?" Rhaenys' voice was soft, almost playful, as she stepped up next to him and linked her arm through his.

Jon stiffened but quickly forced a smile. "Of course, Lady Rhaenys," he replied, trying to keep his tone light. "And please, call me Jon. I'm not used to such titles."

"Very well, Jon," Rhaenys said with a warm smile, her arm still firmly hooked around his. "I must say, I've been quite curious about you."

Jon chuckled nervously, trying to keep his wits about him. "There's not much to be curious about, my lady."

"Oh, I disagree," she said, her eyes gleaming as she looked at him. "Your looks, for one. If I didn't know my father, I might have thought you were my brother." She paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "And your skill. You command men well, and your martial prowess is impressive. You even bested Orys, and he's no easy man to beat. He was Aegon's equal, after all."

"I was lucky," Jon said quickly, his eyes darting to the side. "The sun reflected off my sword, blinded him for a moment."

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow, her smile growing. "Was it luck? Orys didn't seem to think so."

Jon clenched his jaw. She was clever, too clever for his liking. She was poking at him, testing him, and he could feel it. She was dangerous in her own way—sharp, observant. And Jon had no doubt she was watching his every move, studying him like a hawk.

"I also find it interesting," Rhaenys continued, her voice dropping to a more casual tone, "that a bastard from the North speaks fluent Valyrian." She switched to Valyrian then, her voice smooth. "Obūli ūndāre." ("It's rather impressive.")

Jon's eyes widened for a split second before he could stop himself. He schooled his features quickly, but it was too late. Rhaenys had seen the reaction. Her smile widened, and Jon knew she was enjoying this. She was toying with him, pushing him into a corner, and he had to tread carefully.

"It was my father's language," Jon replied . "Nyke gīmigon bona iksis suvio iā issare." ("I felt it important to know it.") He switched to Valyrian, keeping his voice steady.

"It must've been hard to find a teacher in the North," Rhaenys mused, her tone light but her eyes sharp.

"I'm self-taught," Jon replied, keeping his answers short.

"You must be rather intelligent," she said, her gaze never leaving his face.

"I am," Jon said, nodding his head. That earned him a giggle from her.

"Shall I call you Maester Snow, then?" she teased, a spark of humor in her eyes.

"I've been known as such," Jon replied, trying to keep the conversation light as they continued walking through the corridors. He knew she was testing him, but he couldn't let her see his nerves.

They talked as they walked, the conversation shifting to more casual topics. Rhaenys spoke about her love for music, and Jon admitted that he too had an interest in it, though he rarely had time to indulge. Rhaenys perked up at this, insisting that Jon play something for her sometime. She kept at it, playfully badgering him until he agreed, though with some reluctance.

"I'll hold you to that," she said with a satisfied smile. Then she turned her gaze back to him, her expression softening. "But enough about me. Tell me, Jon, what made you leave the North and come all the way here?"

Jon's nerves flared again, but he forced himself to remain calm. "I wanted to learn more about my father's people," he said. "I thought I could find answers here."

"Answers about your father?" Rhaenys tilted her head slightly, as if curious. "You must have quite the mysterious past."

"Not as mysterious as you'd think," Jon muttered.

Rhaenys didn't push further, but her smile remained. "Well, I'm glad you came. Dragonstone has benefited greatly from your skills. And I must admit, I've enjoyed getting to know you."

Jon rolled his eyes, though it was more in jest than frustration. "I'm sure you have," he said, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Rhaenys laughed softly. "I truly have, Jon. But I must say, I do wish to know you even better."

Jon's smirk faltered, and his nerves returned. He could feel Rhaenys pulling him closer as they walked, her body brushing against his with every step. She had a way of putting people at ease, but Jon wasn't so easily swayed. He was still on edge, still thinking of a way to avoid whatever trap she was setting.

After a while, Jon stopped walking and gently pulled his arm free. "While it's been enjoyable to walk with you, my lady, I must return to my duties," he said with a respectful bow.

Rhaenys pouted slightly but nodded. "Very well, Jon, but I have enjoyed our talk. I would like for it to continue."

Jon raised an eyebrow. "Continue?"

"Tomorrow, at noon," she said, her tone light and playful again. "I'll be practicing with my lute, and I wish for you to join me. Is that agreeable?"

Jon hesitated. He couldn't exactly refuse her, not without raising suspicion. She was, after all, one of the rulers of Dragonstone. And a dragonrider at that. He didn't like where this was heading, but he had no choice. "That is agreeable," he said, bowing once more. "I shall see you on the morrow, my lady."

Rhaenys smiled, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Call me Rhaenys when we are alone," she said softly, before turning and walking away, her hips swaying as she left.

Jon watched her go, his mind racing with thoughts. He couldn't help but feel that this was the beginning of something dangerous. 'I need to be careful,' he thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched Rhaenys disappear around the corner.

Jon moved quickly through the dim hallways of the fortress, heading straight for his quarters. He'd watched Rhaenys walk away with that knowing look in her eyes, and he wasn't about to waste any more time. Once inside his room, he went straight to the loose stone in the floor. He pried it up with his hands, revealing the sack of gold coins he'd been hiding there since he arrived in Dragonstone. The weight of it was satisfying, the coins clinking softly as he tightened the drawstring around the top.

He'd been saving every bit of gold he could get his hands on, from his wage and what he'd managed to start selling. Now, the time was coming to put it all to use. He had been negotiating with a ship captain for the past few weeks. The man had agreed to sell Jon a small sloop, something he could easily sail alone. It wasn't a grand vessel, but it was enough to get him out of Dragonstone. The captain had promised to stock it with supplies for the journey, though Jon knew it would take at least a week before the ship was ready to sail.

"One week," Jon muttered to himself, pulling his cloak over his shoulders and slipping the sack of gold into a pouch at his belt. He'd be cutting it close, but if he could just make it through the next seven days, he'd be gone. He'd sail for Qarth, maybe even farther. Yi-Ti. The Jade Sea. The thought of a life far away from all this trouble was nice. He'd make it work. He spoke the languages well enough, and the idea of vanishing into a foreign land had its appeal. The women in Yi-Ti weren't bad either.

Jon left his quarters, moving swiftly through the fortress until he reached the town below. The docks were bustling as usual, sailors loading and unloading cargo while merchants haggled over prices. Jon made his way to the small sloop docked near the end of the pier. The ship's captain, a grizzled old man with a weathered face and missing teeth, was waiting for him.

"Here's your coin," Jon said, tossing the sack of gold into the man's hands.

The captain weighed it with a grin, nodding his approval. "Good deal, as we agreed. She'll be stocked and ready to sail by week's end. Be sure you're ready when the time comes."

"I will be," Jon replied curtly, turning on his heel and heading back toward the fortress.

As he passed through the gates, the soldiers saluted him, and he returned the gesture absentmindedly. His mind was elsewhere, focused on getting through the week. He was almost to his quarters, ready to lay low, when a hand grabbed him by the arm.

"Snow!" Orys Baratheon's booming voice echoed through the courtyard. Jon turned to see the big man grinning, already halfway drunk by the look of him. "You're coming with us tonight!"

"Orys, I—"

"No arguments!" Orys barked, laughing as he pulled Jon along with him. Behind him, a group of senior officers was already gathered, most of them in good spirits. "We're heading to the pleasure house in town. You've earned a break."

Jon frowned but knew there was no point in resisting. Orys wasn't the kind of man to take no for an answer, and the last thing Jon wanted to do was draw suspicion. With a sigh, he followed them out of the gates and back down toward the town. The pleasure house was packed with people, the air thick with the smell of wine and sweat. Laughter and music filled the room as men and women mingled, and women dressed in revealing gowns moved among the crowd, offering drinks and much more to the patrons.

Orys wasted no time, grabbing a cup of wine from one of the women and throwing his arm around Jon's shoulders. "Loosen up, Snow! This is where we get to enjoy ourselves!"

Jon nodded but kept his eyes on the floor, feeling out of place. He wasn't in the mood for all this. Not tonight. He took a seat in the corner, trying to keep a low profile as Orys and the other officers scattered, already picking out the women they wanted for the night.

It wasn't long before one of the women approached Jon, a tall ginger-haired girl with a wicked grin on her face. Her hair was thick and long, falling in waves over her bare shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled in the low light. She wore a deep red dress that clung to her curves, leaving very little to the imagination. She sauntered over to him, her hips swaying with every step.

"You look like you need some company, Master Snow," she purred, sliding onto the bench next to him, her leg brushing against his. "You've been working too hard."

Jon forced a smile, though his mind was far from here. "I'm fine," he muttered, taking a sip of the wine she handed him.

The ginger-haired woman wasn't dissuaded. She leaned in closer, her hand resting on his thigh. "Come now," she whispered in his ear, her breath warm against his skin. "You don't look fine to me. Let me help you relax."

Jon's muscles tensed, but he knew better than to push her away. He needed to blend in, play the part. He let her guide his hand to her waist, feeling the soft fabric of her dress against his fingers. She smiled at the touch, her lips brushing against his ear.

"Much better," she whispered, her fingers trailing down his chest.

Across the room, Orys was already deep into his cups, two women draped over him—a petite blonde and a darker-skinned woman with jet-black hair. Orys laughed loudly, grabbing at the women as they fed him more wine. The other officers were scattered throughout the room, lost in their own indulgences. Jon tried to stay in control, but the ginger-haired woman was persistent. She pressed herself against him, her breasts brushing against his chest, her hands moving lower. Jon's mind drifted, the noise of the room fading into the background as he let himself go, allowing her to lead him deeper into the night's distractions.

They disappeared into one of the back rooms, the heat of the moment taking over. Jon pressed her against the wall, his lips trailing down her neck in a hungry line of kisses, his breath hot against her skin. He felt her shiver as he moved lower, his hands gripping her waist firmly. Her skin was soft beneath his touch, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her body intoxicating him. His mouth traveled along her collarbone, lingering there for a moment before moving back up to her jaw. He was panting by the time he pulled back, his eyes dark with lust.

"What's your name?" Jon asked, his voice thick and breathless.

"Yelena," she replied, just as breathless, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she let her outfit slip from her shoulders, the fabric falling to the floor in a soft rustle. Jon's eyes roamed over her, taking in every inch of her body—the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips, and the thatch of red hair between her thighs. His heart pounded in his chest as he took her in, feeling the heat rise in his veins.

Yelena met his gaze, her lips parted slightly as she took a step closer, pressing her bare body against his. Jon felt his blood surge, his body reacting to her nearness. He kissed her again, rougher this time, his hands moving down to grip her hips, pulling her even closer. Her hands roamed over his chest, tugging at the fabric of his shirt, and Jon let out a low growl as he tore it off, the fabric falling to the floor.

They moved together, stumbling toward the bed in the small room, Yelena's soft laughter filling the air as they fell onto the mattress. Jon's hands were everywhere—her waist, her thighs, her breasts—as he pulled her beneath him, his body pressing her down into the bed. She moaned softly, arching her back as his lips found her neck again, kissing and biting as his hands continued their exploration.

Yelena's breath hitched as Jon moved lower, his lips brushing over her breasts before moving down her stomach, his hands gripping her thighs firmly. She gasped as his mouth found her most sensitive spot, her fingers tangling in his hair as he worked, his tongue teasing her in slow, deliberate strokes. She writhed beneath him, her breath coming in short gasps as Jon's touch drove her closer to the edge.

Jon could feel the heat between them, the way her body responded to his every touch, every kiss. He moved back up her body, his lips finding hers once more, and he kissed her hard, their breaths mingling as their bodies moved together. Jon barely had time to react as Yelena flipped him over, pushing him down onto his back. Her nails scraped down his chest, leaving red marks on his skin. She bit her lip, her green eyes blazing with hunger as she looked down at him, her chest heaving with each breath.

Yelena straddled him, her hands pressing against his chest. She moved her hips, positioning herself over him. Slowly, she lowered herself onto him, her breath catching as she took his hard cock inside her. Her soft moan escaped as she sank down fully, her inner walls

tight around him, gripping him with every inch.

Jon's hands moved to her hips, gripping her as she began to move, lifting herself up and then lowering herself back down onto him. The rhythm started slow, but her breathing grew heavier, her body moving with more urgency. "Mmm... ah..." she breathed, her hands bracing against his chest as her body rocked with each movement.

As Yelena rode him, her breasts bounced slightly, her skin glistening with sweat. She arched her back, her hips grinding harder, riding him faster. "Ah... yes..." she gasped, her voice getting louder with each thrust, her thighs tightening around his hips.

Jon could feel the heat of her inner walls, the slickness of her arousal making every movement smoother and more intense. Yelena's moans grew louder, sharper, her nails scratching down his sides as she moved faster. "Ah... Jon..." she whimpered, her pace becoming frantic as she neared her release.

Her hips slammed down harder, her breathing ragged as she chased the feeling. Her nails dug into his skin again, her moans filling the room. "Mmm... yes..." she gasped, her body trembling as she reached her climax. Her muscles tightened around him, pulsing with each wave of pleasure.

Jon groaned, gripping her hips tighter as he felt her body shudder. His release followed soon after, his own body tensing beneath her as he thrust upward one last time. Yelena cried out, her body collapsing onto his chest as the last waves of pleasure washed over her.

Her body was still trembling slightly as she lay on top of him, her skin damp with sweat, her breath coming in short gasps. Jon flipped Yelena over, his body moving with an urgency that surprised even him. As she lay beneath him, her hair fanned out on the pillow, she giggled, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her green eyes sparkled with desire as Jon positioned himself between her legs.

He entered her slowly, deliberately, feeling every inch as he slid inside. Yelena's breath hitched as she took in his length, her fingers gripping his arms tightly. Her body tensed around him, and Jon could feel her adjusting to him, her inner muscles gripping him tightly. He moved deeper, his length filling her completely, stretching her in a way that made her gasp.

"Ah... Jon..." she breathed, her hands clutching his back as he moved in and out of her with slow, steady strokes. Each thrust was deep, her body reacting to every inch of him as he filled her again and again.

Jon's focus was entirely on the way her body responded to him, the way she tightened around him with each thrust, the sounds she made as his length stretched her. He moved with a slow rhythm, taking his time to let her feel every inch of him as he rocked his hips into hers.

Yelena's moans grew louder as he moved faster, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Mmm... yes..." she whimpered, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she felt him completely inside her. Jon groaned, the sensation of her tightness around him driving him further, the friction building between them.

He picked up the pace, thrusting harder now, his length pushing her to her limits. Yelena arched her back, her nails digging into his skin as she cried out in pleasure, her body tightening around him as he moved faster, deeper. Jon's focus remained on how she felt around him, the way her body gripped him, pulling him in.

With each thrust, Jon felt the tension building inside him, the pressure growing with every movement. He thrust into her again and again, his body pressing hard against hers as he gave her everything. Yelena moaned louder, her body trembling beneath him as she reached her peak.

As she came, her inner muscles clenched tightly around his length, sending Jon over the edge. With one final thrust, he groaned, his body stiffening as he released inside her, his length pulsing with each wave of pleasure.

For a long moment, they stayed locked together, their bodies trembling from the intensity. Jon collapsed beside her, his chest heaving, his mind still spinning from the sensation. Yelena lay next to him, her body still quivering, a satisfied smile on her face.

...

Jon stood quietly for a moment, watching Yelena's chest rise and fall as she drifted off to sleep. Her hair spilled across the pillow, and the glow of their time together still lingered on her skin. He moved carefully, not wanting to wake her as he slipped out of the bed. Reaching into his pouch, Jon pulled out a few gold coins and placed them on the table beside the bed. The metal clinked softly against the wood, and he took one last glance at her before getting dressed.

He fastened his sword belt, pulled his shirt tight, and left the room. The night air was cool as Jon made his way back through the town, the streets mostly quiet. The faint smell of sea salt clung to the breeze as he headed toward the fortress, dragging Orys along with him. The man reeked of wine and sweat, barely able to keep upright as Jon pulled him through the gate.

Inside, Jon heaved Orys onto his bed, the big man grumbling incoherently before passing out. Jon didn't stick around. He made his way to his own quarters, quickly filling a bucket with cold water. He grabbed a rag and scrubbed himself clean, wiping away the sweat and grime from the night's activities. His muscles ached, his body still buzzing with exhaustion. After rinsing off, he slipped into bed, the cold sheets against his skin bringing a small measure of relief as he fell into a fitful sleep.

Jon woke only a few hours later, his body protesting the lack of rest. He pushed himself out of bed, ignoring the soreness in his limbs, and dressed for the day. He pulled on light leather armor that left his arms exposed, fastening his vambraces before sliding his sword belt over his waist. The castle-forged steel sword rested comfortably in its sheath as he made his way to the courtyard.

The sun was already high in the sky, and the soldiers were well into their morning drills. Spearheads gleamed as the men practiced their formations, the clatter of metal against metal filling the air. Jon wasted no time, barking orders as he watched the men move through their routines.

"Spear arms up! Keep your shields tight!" Jon shouted, walking through the lines, correcting stances and form. "If you're not on balance, you're dead!"

The soldiers moved quickly, thrusting and shifting their shields as Jon circled them. He worked them hard through the entire morning, pushing them to perfect their drills. The sun beat down, and sweat dripped from the men's faces as they obeyed his commands, each thrust and block sharper than the last. Jon had them running through mock skirmishes when, suddenly, the sound of weapons clattering to the ground made him pause.

He turned to see the men standing at attention, their eyes focused on something behind him. Jon followed their gaze and froze. Visenya was walking across the courtyard, clad in light armor similar to his own. Her long silver hair was tied back, her face set in a calm, calculating expression as she approached.

Jon's heart quickened as she drew closer. He remembered her words from the day before—how she could sense who Balerion's rider was if she got close enough. His thoughts raced. Could she tell just from the meeting? Or was it something else? Would she discover it now? He kept his face neutral as she neared him, but the anxiety gnawed at him from within.

"At ease," Visenya said, her voice sharp but smooth. The soldiers relaxed immediately, resuming their drills as if nothing had happened. Visenya turned to Jon, her violet eyes locked on his.

"My lady," Jon said, inclining his head slightly.

Visenya looked him up and down before speaking. "I've heard much about your skill. Since Aegon's death, I've lacked a competent sparring partner. Orys is often tied up with his duties."

Jon swallowed. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

Visenya didn't answer right away. She walked over to the weapons rack, grabbing two training swords. She tossed one to Jon, who caught it mid-air. "Let's see if Orys' boasts of your abilities are exaggerated."

Jon caught the training sword Visenya tossed him, feeling its weight in his hand. He sighed, glancing at the blunted edge before looking back at her. She stood confidently, her body loose, her face calm. There was no escaping this. He gave a nod to the soldiers standing nearby. "Clear the ring!"

The men quickly moved out of the way, forming a circle around them as Jon stepped into the ring. He held his sword with both hands, the blade angled toward Visenya's center, preparing for the fight ahead. Visenya followed him in, her body turned slightly sideways, her stance low and graceful, holding her sword loosely in one hand, her free arm hanging by her side. She looked relaxed, almost like she was playing.

Jon's eyes locked onto hers, searching for any hint of her first move. He saw the small twitch of her shoulder just before she sprang forward, her sword aimed for his shoulder. Jon shifted to the side, already anticipating the strike. Her blade came in fast, but Jon slashed his own sword out to the right, parrying her thrust. Her sword glanced off his with a clang, and Jon immediately swung back toward her head, hoping to end the fight quickly.

But Visenya spun under his strike, her movements fluid and controlled. She let his sword pass over her head, turning her body as she ducked low. Her blade came up from below, aiming for his side, but Jon leaned back just in time, the tip of her sword missing him by inches.

Before he could counter, she drove her boot into his stomach. The force of her kick knocked him back a step, making him grunt in pain. Jon barely had time to steady himself before she was coming at him again, her sword arcing down in an overhead strike. He brought his sword up, catching her blade with his own, the force of her blow echoing through his arms.

Jon quickly twisted his wrists, throwing her blade off to the side. He stepped forward with a heavy swing aimed at her chest, but she sidestepped, her feet barely leaving the ground as she shifted out of the way. Visenya followed with a quick thrust, aiming for his ribs. Jon slapped her sword away with his own, the movement quick and sharp, and drove his shoulder into her to knock her back.

She stumbled but recovered fast, twisting her body into a spin, her blade coming in low toward his legs. Jon jumped back, the sword barely missing his thigh. He countered with a hard swing toward her midsection, forcing her to block. The clash of their swords rang out in the courtyard, the force of the blow driving her back a step.

Visenya's eyes narrowed as she circled him, her sword moving in small, controlled motions as she searched for an opening. She lunged forward again, her blade darting toward his chest. Jon knocked it aside and followed with a horizontal slash aimed at her arm. Visenya twisted her body, avoiding the strike, and spun into a low sweep with her blade aimed at his knee.

Jon saw it coming and stepped out of range, bringing his sword down hard in response. Visenya raised her sword just in time, blocking the blow with both hands. The impact sent her back, her feet skidding against the dirt, but she didn't hesitate. She was already on the move again, slashing upward in a sharp motion toward his arm.

The blade hit him before he could react, the blunted edge slamming into his forearm with a crack. Jon hissed in pain as the strike broke skin, a line of blood running down his arm. He ignored it,

gripping his sword tighter as Visenya pressed the attack.

She came at him with a series of quick, sharp strikes, each one aimed with precision. Her sword slashed through the air, her body moving fluidly as she attacked his upper body. Jon parried each blow, his arms moving in tight motions as he blocked and countered. Her speed was impressive—too fast to easily catch—but Jon's strength allowed him to keep up. Each time their swords clashed, he could feel her struggling against his weight and power.

Visenya feinted left, her sword dipping toward his leg. Jon started to move to block, but she suddenly reversed her motion, spinning in the opposite direction and slashing toward his neck. He barely managed to raise his sword in time to deflect the strike, the edge of her blade grazing his skin as he stepped back.

She followed with another quick thrust toward his chest, but Jon twisted his body, slapping her blade aside with his own. He stepped in close, driving his elbow into her side. Visenya grunted but spun away before he could follow through. She regained her stance, her sword held low, her eyes never leaving his. He could feel the tension building between them, the air thick with the intensity of the fight. Visenya's attacks were getting faster, more aggressive, but Jon kept his focus, reading her movements, waiting for the right moment.

She lunged again, her blade aiming high for his shoulder. Jon parried it, his sword clashing against hers with a sharp *clang*. She immediately followed with a low strike aimed at his leg, but Jon stepped back, letting her sword pass harmlessly by. He swung his sword hard toward her midsection, and Visenya blocked it just in time, their blades meeting in a shower of sparks.

Jon didn't let up. He pushed forward, his strikes coming heavier now, driving her back. She tried to parry each blow, but the force of his attacks was too much. Her sword arm began to waver under the strain. Jon saw his opening.

As Visenya brought her sword up to block another heavy strike, Jon twisted his grip and knocked her blade out of her hand with a sharp upward motion. The sword flew from her grasp, landing in the dirt several feet away. Before she could react, Jon drove his boot into her chest, sending her sprawling to the ground.

Visenya hit the dirt with a grunt, her chest heaving as she stared up at him, her violet eyes wide with surprise. Jon stood over her, breathing hard, his sword still in hand, the blade pointed at her. Jon stabbed the training sword into the dirt, his breath still heavy from the spar. He stepped forward and extended a hand to Visenya, who was still on the ground, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath. She glanced up at him, then took his hand. As she stood, her grip firm, she gave a nod of acknowledgment.

"You've got skill," she said, brushing off the dirt from her armor. "Even Aegon struggled to beat me at times, and Orys can never keep up with my speed."

Jon gave a short nod, still catching his breath. "Thank you, my lady. You're definitely one of the most skilled fighters I've ever faced."

For the first time, a small smile cracked on Visenya's face at the compliment. She wiped the sweat from her brow, her arm moving with an easy grace that Jon found strangely enticing. Her sharp violet eyes flicked toward him briefly before she picked up her training sword from the ground.

Without another word, Visenya turned and walked back toward the fortress. Unbeknownst to Jon, as she moved, she brought the blade of the training sword to her mouth and licked the edge where it had drawn his blood. Her fists clenched tight, her brows furrowing as if in deep thought, but she didn't pause or hesitate, continuing her steady stride toward the fortress.

Jon, still panting slightly, stood there for a moment, watching her go. He wiped the sweat from his own brow and looked up at the sky. The sun was directly overhead, high in the sky. He cursed under his breath as he suddenly remembered the promise he'd made to Rhaenys that morning.

He moved over to a nearby trough and splashed water onto his arm, wiping off the small streak of blood that had come from the cut Visenya had given him. The cool water felt good against his skin, but he didn't have time to linger. As he turned to head toward his quarters to change, a male servant approached, leading a horse by the reins.

"A gift from Lady Rhaenys, my lord," the servant said, bowing slightly. "She says you'll need it to join her this afternoon."

Jon raised an eyebrow, wiping the water from his face. "Did she tell you where I'm supposed to meet her?"

The servant nodded. "Yes, my lord. She asked that you travel north of the fortress, to the Dragonmount. At the highest point, there is a staircase that leads down."

Jon sighed inwardly. Fuck. He took the reins of the horse with a nod, forcing a smile. "Thank you."

The servant bowed and stepped away as Jon mounted the horse. He was already thinking ahead, hoping Balerion wouldn't cause trouble when he arrived. That was the last thing he needed—his connection to the dragon was a secret he intended to keep hidden. He pulled the reins and nudged the horse forward, riding out of the fortress and toward the Dragonmount.

The ride was quiet, the path steep and winding as it ascended the mountain. The sun beat down on his back, the heat mixing with the sweat from his earlier sparring. As he neared the top, he found the staircase the servant had mentioned, carved into the rock and leading downward into the heart of the mountain. The air here was different, thicker, as if the mountain itself breathed. Jon dismounted, tying the horse to a nearby post, and descended the stairs. The inside of Dragonmount was a maze of large caverns, each one overlooking the dragons that nested there. The walls were rough, carved by hand, and the occasional torch flickered from the walls, casting dim light over the stone.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, two dragon keepers stood waiting, their expressions solemn. Without a word, they guided him further down a narrow path that opened into a wide balcony, overlooking one of the largest caverns. The air was warmer here, the heat from the dragons radiating through the stone. Standing near the edge of the balcony was Rhaenys. She was dressed in a tight-fitting gown that clung to every curve of her body, the red and black fabric hugging her in all the right places. The dress was cut low in the front, showing the soft rise of her chest, and her silver-gold hair was pinned back, cascading over her shoulders. Her figure was slim but full, her waist cinched in, and her hips curved in a way that drew the eye. Jon found himself momentarily distracted by her beauty, the way she stood there, calm and poised, as if the heat of the dragons below didn't affect her at all.

Rhaenys turned her head as Jon approached, a soft smile spreading across her lips. "You made it," she said, her voice light and teasing. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

Jon dipped his head in greeting. "My lady."

Rhaenys' smile faded into a mock frown, her tone playful but firm. "I told you to call me Rhaenys when we're alone, Jon."

He quickly corrected himself, though his nerves were still prickling from the proximity of the dragons. "Apologies, Rhaenys."

Her smile returned, and she motioned for him to sit beside her on the bench that overlooked the cavern. "Good. Now, come sit. We've got much to discuss, and I've been waiting for you."

Jon hesitated for a moment, glancing down into the depths where the dragons rested, their enormous bodies shifting slowly as they breathed. The heat and the smell of sulfur hung heavy in the air. He wondered how many of them were awake, watching him, knowing that he didn't belong here. But he pushed the thought aside and walked over to join Rhaenys, sitting down beside her.

She gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes glinting with amusement. "You seem nervous, Jon."

"Should I be?" he replied, trying to keep his tone even.

Rhaenys chuckled softly, her fingers lightly brushing against his arm as she leaned in slightly. "Not with me, no. You'll be just fine." She paused, her gaze drifting back to the dragons below. "But the dragons, they're a different matter entirely. They sense things that we can't. They are fiercely intelligent creatures."

Jon looked down at the three dragons resting below the balcony. Their massive bodies shifted now and then, wings twitching slightly as they slept. "They are fascinating creatures," Jon said quietly, his eyes tracing the forms of the dragons, their scales shimmering faintly in the dim light.

"That they are," Rhaenys agreed softly. "I remember the first time I flew on Meraxes. The feeling... the freedom. I tried to capture it in a song once, but words and music can only go so far." She smiled faintly, her voice filled with distant memories. "Flying on the back of a dragon is like nothing else in this world."

Jon was handed a drink by a servant, and he nodded his thanks, taking a long sip. The cool wine helped settle the heat still coursing through his body from the sparring earlier. "You made a song?" Jon asked, his curiosity piqued. "I'd like to hear it."

Rhaenys smiled and nodded. "If you insist, Jon." She reached for the lute resting beside her, her fingers brushing the strings lightly as she adjusted it in her hands. She handled the instrument with the ease of someone who had played for years. Soon, she began to strum, and a beautiful melody filled the air. Jon leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. The tune was light and flowing, a reflection of the freedom Rhaenys had described. Her fingers moved deftly over the strings, producing a sound that felt almost like the wind rushing past during flight. As the melody built, Jon felt as if he were soaring with her through the sky. When she finished, he opened his eyes and smiled, clapping lightly.

"That was beautiful," Jon said, his voice filled with admiration.

Rhaenys stood and gave him a small bow, her smile playful. "Thank you, Jon. It means a lot to hear that from you." She sat back down, resting the lute in her lap.

They spent the next while talking about their shared love of music. Jon explained how his cousin had first encouraged him to play when he was younger. "I didn't think much of it at the time, but I found it calming," Jon admitted. "It gave me something to focus on besides all the... training and studying."

Rhaenys smiled softly. "For me, it was my mother. We would sing together sometimes. She had the most beautiful voice. It's one of the few things I still carry with me."

Their conversation flowed easily, and Jon found himself more relaxed than he'd expected. He had been wary of Rhaenys at first, but now, in this quiet moment, she was just another person with her own stories and passions. After a while, Rhaenys grinned mischievously and held out the lute to Jon. "Now it's your turn. Play something for me."

Jon hesitated, his hand hovering over the instrument. "I haven't played in a long time," he admitted. "I might be a little rusty."

Rhaenys waved off his concerns. "Nonsense. Just play something, anything. I'd love to hear it."

Sighing, Jon took the lute from her hands, strumming the strings lightly as he got a feel for the instrument. It had been years since he had played, and as his fingers moved over the strings, memories of Tyene flooded back. He used to play for her, making up songs to make her smile. But those songs were long gone now, faded with time. Except for one.

Jon's fingers found the melody, and the song came back to him as though it had never left. It was the last song he had ever played, the one he had sung when he buried Tyene.

"I suppose I can manage one song," Jon said quietly, and he began to strum. The melody was soft, slow, and filled with sorrow. As he played, Rhaenys leaned in, her eyes fixed on him, completely enraptured by the sound.

Then Jon began to sing, his voice low but steady, each word carrying a weight that seemed to fill the air around them.

Vezhof tīkos hen kesir syt,

Ñuhys āeksio lo daor rūklon,

Ñuhys ñuhoso ōdres rijesīr sȳndro,

Yn ñuhys hāedar sōvī bēvilza.

(I've been chasing echoes through the night,

Whispers of a life we'll never find,

Built a world from fragments of your light,

But the stars are fading, one by one.)

Skorī mōrī daorot jevi aōha vaoreznuni,

Yn tolie jorepagon daor mērī jorrāelagon,

Lykī māzigon hen gaomāzma, iksan se mōrī vaoreznuni,

Se iā ōñagon iā mīsagon sīr jorrāelza.

(I thought I'd find a way to bring you home,

But some things aren't meant to be undone,

Now I'm standing here, all alone,

And it's time to let the silence come.)

Sōvēs iā riñar iksis daor rudin,

Iā dorī mōrī gaomilaksis, iā jorrāelatan daor sōvēs,

Sōvēs iā rijīsīr iksis daor ivestrag,

Iā iā glaeson gīmos iksis mōrī sagon mōzūlys.

(Goodbye to the dreams we never chased,

To the roads we'll never walk, the love we won't taste,

Goodbye to the faces we'll never see,

To the life that's slipping away from me.)

Sōvēs iā iā orvorta iksis daor māzigon,

Iā iā ūndie sir osēnor isse iā hrēso ēdrus.

Sōvēs iā iā rhaenor iksis daor ūndikagon,

Sōvēs aōt, ñuha zōbras lommi.

(Goodbye to the hopes that won't survive,

Goodbye to you, my fading light.)

Ñuhys lenton hāedar ivestrag,

Yn iā rȳbās prūmyr jēdro daor,

Skori valzȳr jorrāelatan ūndas ūndie,

Se iā mōrī iksis daor vēttas rhaenagon.

(I tried to carve our names in time,

But the winds keep blowing them away,

Every hour felt like borrowed time,

And now there's nothing left to say.)

Jon's voice filled the air, the melancholy of the song sinking deep into the atmosphere. His fingers never faltered on the lute, the melody pulling at emotions neither of them spoke aloud.

Ñuha iā morghūlis riñar udligon tolvi,

Hēdrȳ rovalo se iā vēso ēdrus,

Yn sȳndor vēttas sagon vēttas iā vaoreznuni,

Skori aōha dāezōrē lantra tolie mōrī zōbrie.

(I've been holding on to ghosts too long,

Caught between the shadows and the dawn,

But maybe now I'll learn to carry on,

As your memory slowly moves along.)

Sōvēs iā iā rhaenor iksis daor ūndikagon,

Sōvēs aōt, ñuha zōbras lommi.

(Goodbye to the hopes that won't survive,

Goodbye to you, my fading light.)

When the song ended, Jon let the final note linger in the air for a moment before his fingers stilled on the strings. He looked down at the lute, breathing lightly. The courtyard felt heavier now, quieter, the weight of the song hanging between them.

Rhaenys was silent for a moment, her hand coming up to wipe away the tears that had fallen down her cheeks. "That was beautiful," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "Who did you make that song for? They must've been special."

Jon gave her a sad smile, the weight of the memory still fresh. "She was," he said quietly. "She really was."

Before Rhaenys could say more, a servant approached, bowing deeply. "My lady, supper is approaching, and Lady Visenya is expecting you."

Rhaenys nodded and stood, handing the lute back to the servant. "Thank you for joining me, Jon," she said with a warm smile. "I enjoyed this afternoon."

Jon stood as well, bowing slightly. "Thank you for inviting me. It was... good to talk."

As they left the balcony, Jon trailed a few steps behind Rhaenys. As they walked, he noticed Balerion stirring below, his large yellow eyes fixing on Jon. The massive dragon began to lift his head toward the open corridor where they walked. Jon's heart skipped a beat. He quickly raised his hand, motioning for the dragon to stay down. Balerion grumbled softly but lowered his head again just in time as Rhaenys turned around.

"Jon, are you listening?" Rhaenys asked, raising an eyebrow.

Jon nodded quickly. "Of course, Rhaenys."

They mounted their horses and rode back to the fortress together, light conversation filling the air. When they arrived, Rhaenys bid him farewell, and Jon decided to skip supper. He was exhausted, his mind still lingering on the day's events.

Jon made his way to his quarters, undressed, and collapsed into bed. He was exhausted from not sleeping much combined with the full day he'd just had. Needless to say he was out in mere moments.

...

Jon's eyes snapped open, and he immediately sensed something was wrong. A cool breeze brushed against his skin—a breeze that shouldn't have been there. His muscles tensed. Someone had entered his room. Instinct took over as Jon rolled off the bed, grabbing the dagger from beneath his pillow and flinging it toward the shadow in the corner. The intruder moved fast, deflecting the dagger with a sharp clang. Jon watched the figure step into the moonlight. Visenya. Her face was calm but intense, her grip firm around Dark Sister. She wore only a tunic and riding trousers, her feet bare.

She wasted no time, lunging forward with her sword aimed straight for Jon's chest. He rolled over the bed, just managing to avoid the thrust. His axe was buried outside, too far to call without risking his life. He ducked as her sword slashed overhead, narrowly missing his shoulder. She spun, bringing Dark Sister down in a vicious arc, but Jon dodged to the side, weaving between her strikes.

He kicked his fallen dagger into his hand, barely managing to block her next swing. Dark Sister rang against the dagger; Jon knew the Valyrian steel would carve through it if he continued to directly block. He needed to stay on the move. Visenya's attacks were fast, relentless, each strike more aggressive than the last. She spun again, this time using the bed to launch herself into the air. Her sword came down from above, and Jon rolled backward, avoiding the slash. As he pushed himself up, he focused on calling his axe. There was a tug in his chest, the familiar pull of the weapon. He didn't have long. Visenya lunged at him again, her sword slicing toward his side. Jon parried left, then ducked under a sharp slash aimed at his throat. He moved forward, throwing his shoulder into her chest. The impact sent her back, but she flipped midair and landed on her feet, ready to attack again.

Her strikes came faster, her body a blur. Jon deflected her sword, moving quickly to avoid each swing. Dark Sister cut through the air, Visenya pushing him further across the room. Jon gritted his teeth, seeing no opportunity to strike back. She feinted high, and Jon instinctively raised his dagger to block. Too late, he realized his mistake. Visenya's sword came low, slashing toward his legs. He barely dodged the strike, but she aimed the strike upwards managing to catch the guard of his dagger, and his dagger flew from his hand. Dark Sister gleamed in the moonlight, its edge coming down in a brutal arc. Jon reacted fast, kicking the bottom of her arm, sending her strike off course. The sword missed his chest by inches, and Jon caught his dagger midair as it fell.

They clashed again, Jon reversing the grip on his dagger, using quick slashes to deflect her sword. He tossed the dagger into his other hand, switching his stance as they fought across the room. Jon's dagger met Dark Sister's edge with each parry, Visenya's strikes growing sharper and more precise. She pressed him hard, forcing him to block a heavy downward strike that sent a shudder up Jon's arm. He grit his teeth, ducking beneath her next swing, and grabbed her arm throwing her. She flew back into the wardrobe, crashing against the wooden doors. The force rattled the room, but Visenya recovered instantly, pushing off and swinging at Jon's side.

He parried it again, but the impact sent him stumbling, his back against the wall. Visenya didn't let up, her sword slashing in quick, fluid movements. Jon ducked under another swing, barely avoiding the blade. Finally he saw an opening. Jon feinted a block, then stepped in close, driving the hilt of his dagger into Visenya's stomach. She gasped, her body folding slightly from the blow. At the same moment, Jon's axe flew into his hand, its weight familiar in his grip. Without hesitation, he swung the axe, the blunt end slamming into her ribs.

Visenya staggered back, but Jon didn't give her time to recover. He grabbed her wrist and spun her around, throwing her onto the bed. She hit the mattress hard, the frame creaking under the impact. Jon leaped forward, ready to finish it, but Visenya was quicker. She kicked her legs up, catching Jon in the chest and flipping him over her head.

He crashed to the floor, the wind knocked out of him. Before he could react, Visenya was on him. She drew a small dagger from her tunic, and in an instant, the blade was pressed against his throat. Her breath was heavy, her eyes burning with intensity. Jon lay still, his chest rising and falling as he stared up at her, the cold steel of the dagger biting into his skin.

"Tell me who you are right now, or I'll open up your neck!" Visenya spat, her eyes blazing as she pressed the dagger harder against Jon's throat. Her knuckles were white from gripping the blade, her body coiled with fury.

Jon, still gripping his axe tightly, laughed, the sound rough in the tense silence of the room. "As soon as you cut my neck, I'll bury this axe in your back," he said, his voice cold and sharp.

Visenya's expression didn't falter. "If you're fast enough," she shot back, her voice as hard as steel.

"Then I suppose we're at a stalemate," Jon replied, his grip tightening on the axe handle, ready to strike the moment her blade moved. But Visenya didn't back down, her eyes filled with rage and a glint of something darker.

"Tell me who you are and why you killed my brother!" she shouted, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and grief, her hand shaking slightly as the dagger stayed pressed against Jon's throat.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jon replied evenly, his gaze locked on hers.

"Do you take me for a fool?" she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "I know you're Balerion's rider. I know you appeared in the lower town at the same time Balerion arrived. Our spymaster uncovered your presence, your arrival coincided perfectly. You killed Aegon and stole Balerion!"

Jon didn't flinch, even as her accusations flew. She was getting desperate now, her words filled with emotion rather than logic. "You killed Aegon," she continued, her voice trembling with anger, "and even if it kills me, I'll cut your neck so deep your head will dangle from your body. But I want to know the name of the man who took my brother from me!" She leaned in closer, the dagger biting deeper, her breathing labored with the weight of her emotions.

"I didn't kill your brother," Jon said, his voice firm but calm. "I was being held captive on a ship headed for Lys. I was there when Aegon burned the fleet. Balerion fell from the sky, and Aegon... he fell off. He died in the fall. His body is still there, on an island off Lys. His legs were shattered, and his head was caved in. He didn't survive the fall."

Visenya's face twisted, her emotions shifting between rage, sorrow, frustration, and denial. Her grip loosened slightly as she stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. "You... aren't lying," she whispered, her voice thick with sorrow. Tears welled in her eyes, and a few fell, landing on Jon's face. It was a strange sight—Visenya, who was always so strong, now so vulnerable.

She blinked, her expression hardening again, though her sorrow still lingered. "That still doesn't explain why you're Balerion's rider," she said, her voice steadying, but her eyes still red. "Don't bother denying it. I tasted your blood; I can feel your bond... and more."

Jon's brow furrowed. "Balerion attacked me. I jumped onto his back, and then the bond formed. I know nothing more than that."

Visenya's expression flickered with doubt, but she seemed to believe him, or at least was beginning to. Jon felt a sliver of hope, thinking this could end with his head still attached to his shoulders. But she wasn't done with him yet.

"I ask again, who are you? Only someone with strong Valyrian blood can bond with a dragon. Tell me your real name."

"You know it," Jon said, his voice steady. "I am Jon Snow."

Visenya's face twisted with anger again as she pressed the dagger harder against his throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "Lie to me again, and we both die," she said coldly, her face a mask of deadly seriousness.

Jon could tell she meant it. She wasn't bluffing. He felt the weight of his next words heavy on his tongue. "My birth name is Daemon Targaryen..."

"That's not possible," Visenya said, though the truth was clear in her eyes. She knew he wasn't lying. "The only Targaryens left are me and Rhaenys. Who are your parents? Where did they come from?"

Jon's mind raced. She was asking questions he couldn't answer—not truthfully, at least. His mind shifted to the axe, its magic flowing through him. Channeling the power of the weapon, he focused the energy around his neck, pushing the blade away from his skin with a subtle force. Visenya's eyes widened in surprise as her blade lifted slightly, just enough for Jon to act.

In a flash, Jon struck. His fist slammed into her stomach, and she staggered backward, gasping for breath. He pushed her hard, sending her flying into the wall. The impact rattled the room, but Visenya quickly recovered, her eyes flashing with renewed anger. Jon's axe slammed down beside her arm, shattering her dagger in half as it fell to the floor.

Jon moved in close, his hand wrapping around her throat. "I am Daemon Targaryen," he said, his voice low and deadly. "That is all I will tell you. How I came to be here, who my father and mother are, that will remain a secret. But know this—we are family, and I don't want to kill you."

Visenya struggled briefly in his grip, but Jon's words seemed to calm her. Her body relaxed slightly, and she stopped fighting against him. After a long, tense moment, Jon released her, and she stepped back, breathing heavily.

"You look very similar to Aegon," Visenya said after a pause, her voice softer now. "Your blood holds the same taste and power as a Targaryen. I believe we are related, though in what way, I do not know."

She looked him over once more, her eyes lingering on his face, trying to piece together the truth. "Do not try to leave Dragonstone," she warned, her voice regaining some of its edge. "You will not be harmed, but I must speak with Rhaenys about this."

Jon nodded slightly, his heart still racing from the fight. Visenya turned and began to walk out of the room, her footsteps light and purposeful. But before she left, she paused at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder.

"We will also discuss the foreign magic you're using... at some point," she added, her tone unreadable.

With that, she disappeared into the hallway, leaving Jon alone in his room. He let out a long breath, the tension slowly draining from his body. He doubted he'd be attacked again tonight, but sleep was out of the question. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring into the dark.

...

For the next few days, Jon found himself doing little else besides his duties as Master-at-arms. The routine of training soldiers and overseeing drills kept him occupied, though his mind constantly wandered back to the conversation with Visenya. He had been tempted to flee several times, the urge to disappear and avoid whatever consequences might come from his bloodline being revealed. But, as it turned out, Visenya had been true to her word. No one came after him. No threats, no accusations. Just silence.

One morning, while inspecting the training grounds, Orys Baratheon approached him with a stern expression. "Jon," Orys said, motioning for him to follow. "We need to go to the throne room. Now."

Jon frowned, unsure of what to expect, but he followed Orys as they left the courtyard. On the way there, Orys broke the silence, his voice low and filled with a strange disappointment. "You never told me we shared blood. You knew I was close with Aegon, and you didn't say a word. That knowledge would've meant something to me, Jon."

Jon walked beside him, unable to offer much more than a quiet apology. "I'm sorry, Orys, but there are things I couldn't—still can't—talk about."

Orys glanced at him, his eyes hard, before looking away. "Well, it seems it's out in the open now. Let's get this over with."

When they arrived at the throne room, Jon's surprise was immediate. Standing at each side of the throne were Rhaenys and Visenya, both dressed in extravagant gowns. Rhaenys wore a flowing gown of deep red and gold, the fabric hugging her figure, her hair cascading down her shoulders in soft waves. Her eyes shone with a warmth that Jon hadn't expected, her beauty striking in the soft glow of the room.

Visenya, on the other hand, was equally stunning but in a different way. She wore a gown of dark black and silver, the intricate designs highlighting her sharp features. Unlike Rhaenys, who often smiled and carried herself with ease, Visenya's expression was more reserved, though her gown made her look no less regal. Jon had never seen her in anything other than armor or combat gear. The sight of her dressed like this caught him off guard.

"Leave us, Orys," Visenya commanded as they entered. Her voice was calm but carried the authority of a dragonlord. Orys bowed slightly and left the room, closing the doors behind him, leaving Jon alone with the two Targaryen women.

Jon's nerves began to rise again, but Rhaenys stepped forward, her smile doing much to calm him. "I'm disappointed you never told me we were family, Daemon," she said, her voice soft but teasing as she placed a hand on his chest. "It's the best news I've received in months."

Jon met her gaze, offering a weak smile. "I assumed I'd be executed for stealing a dragon," he replied, half-joking.

Rhaenys giggled, her fingers trailing lightly against his chest. "You will not be executed, Daemon," Visenya interrupted, stepping closer as well, her tone more serious but lacking any anger.

"We've talked, Rhaenys and I, and we've come to a decision on what must be done," Visenya said, her eyes locked on Jon's.

The two women stood before him, barely inches away now. Their presence was overwhelming, they were both classic Valyrian beauties of the highest calibre, even their scent was enticing, though Jon admitted that could just be his Valyrian blood attracting him.

"You are strong," Visenya began, her voice steady. "You are skilled. You are bonded to the largest dragon in the world. And you are a true Targaryen. At this moment, you are the last male Targaryen."

Rhaenys nodded, stepping closer. "Both of us agree this is an opportunity too good to pass up."

Jon's heart beat a little faster, unsure of what was coming. "What do you mean?" he asked.

Rhaenys smiled again. "We will give you three choices."

"You will marry both of us," Visenya said plainly, "and take your rightful place as Lord of Dragonstone."

"Or," Rhaenys added, "you will impregnate both of us and have the option of either continuing your duties or leaving afterward."

"Or," Visenya's voice was sharp, "you will be exiled and never allowed to return."

Jon's eyes widened slightly, stunned by the options laid before him.

"Think carefully, Daemon," Rhaenys said, her voice soft as she stroked his chest again. "This is your choice, and we will not harm you no matter what you decide."

Jon couldn't hide his shock. This was far from what he had expected the conversation to be about. "I have to admit," Jon began slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, "I'm shocked. Are you not both in love with Aegon?"

"We loved Aegon," Rhaenys said, her voice filled with affection. "He was our brother, and while he would have married us and done his duty, he wasn't interested in either of us... his interests lay elsewhere. Towards someone like you, perhaps."

Jon absorbed her words, nodding slowly. "And you're both content with marrying me?"

Rhaenys's smile grew wider. "I find you fascinating. It's difficult to stay away. You're attractive, and we share similar interests. I would be happy to marry you and get to know you more." She pressed herself against him, her body warm against his.

Jon turned his gaze to Visenya, who had been silent. Her eyes were steady, but her expression showed more thought. "You are strong, skilled with a blade, and you clearly have a talent for the higher mysteries. You are interesting, and I would also like to know you more."

Before Jon could respond, Visenya continued. "If you choose the first option, we will proceed with our plans to invade Westeros. You will become King."

Jon blinked at that, his mind racing. The Conquest—Aegon's Conquest—was still necessary. Without it, who knew what the future would hold? He thought about the weight of it all, the responsibility, and the opportunity.

After a moment of silence, Jon made his decision. "I will marry you both and become Lord of Dragonstone."

Rhaenys squealed with joy, standing on her tiptoes as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. Jon kissed her back, feeling the warmth and excitement in her embrace. When they broke apart, Jon noticed Visenya standing there, looking a little more reserved. Without hesitation, Jon pulled her closer as well and pressed his lips against hers.

Visenya was stiff at first, unsure, her lips barely moving. But after a few moments, her uncertainty faded, and she became more aggressive, kissing him back with intensity. Jon held her close, feeling the strength in her as their lips parted.

"We will have the marriage within the week," Rhaenys said, her voice full of excitement.

Jon nodded, glancing between them both. If he was to be the Lord of Dragonstone, he would need to take command soon. "After we are married, we will begin preparations for our invasion."

————————————————————-

Jon stood in Aegon's old chambers, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls. A week had passed and they had just had the marriage ceremony. They had been wed the old Valyrian way, bound by blood and fire, and now, the final step awaited them. The bedding. Jon had prepared for many things in his life, but this moment was not one of them.

The people of Dragonstone had been uncertain about accepting him as their new lord. Whispers spread among the smallfolk, doubts lingered in the minds of the lords and knights. But when Jon had mounted Balerion and flown the Black Dread over the keep, any hesitation crumbled. That was more than enough to get them in line. His dragon, his power, and the presence of Rhaenys and Visenya at his side had silenced all objections. The people knew who held the power now. Jon was their Lord of Dragonstone, and he was not to be questioned.

Now, here in the same chambers where Aegon had once stood, Jon faced a different kind of challenge. He stood before two women—Rhaenys and Visenya—both of them staring at him, waiting for him to take the final step. Both sisters were dressed in their wedding gowns, sheer and clinging to their bodies, teasing the inevitable.

Jon licked his lips, his heart pounding as he looked at them, still hardly able to believe what was happening. The two women were the image of Valyrian beauty. Both had the same long, silver-gold hair, flowing down their backs, and their eyes were a deep violet, burning with purpose and desire. The two sisters could've been twins, and yet, their differences were stark.

"I never imagined this happening," Jon said, his voice thick with hunger, eyes roaming over their bodies. "Not even in my wildest dreams."

Rhaenys smiled, stepping forward, her hips swaying as she moved. "It's happening," she said, her voice sultry and firm. "And it'll be happening until the sun rises." She began to pull at the ties of her gown, letting the fabric slip from her shoulders. In moments, it pooled at her feet, leaving her completely bare. Her skin was smooth, pale as the moon, her breasts full and firm, her body slim but soft in all the right places. She stood confidently, watching Jon with a smile that promised a long night ahead.

Visenya followed, her movements more deliberate, more commanding. "We must make sure the Targaryen bloodline doesn't die out," she said, her voice low and serious. "We won't stop until we're certain of that." She pulled her gown off with a single, fluid motion, letting it fall to the floor. Her body was leaner than Rhaenys', more muscled, shaped by years of battle and dragon riding. Her breasts were smaller but firm, her stomach tight, her legs strong. She looked like a warrior goddess, but there was no denying the raw, primal hunger in her eyes.

Jon's blood was hot as he tore his own clothes off, tossing them aside. The cool air of the chamber hit his skin, but it did nothing to cool the fire burning inside him. His cock throbbed as he stepped toward them, his breath ragged with anticipation. He had never imagined something like this, never thought he'd find himself between two women like Rhaenys and Visenya. But here he was, and there was no turning back.

Rhaenys was the first to reach him, her hands soft but firm as they slid over his chest, down his stomach, until they wrapped around his length. She gave him a slow, teasing stroke, her eyes never leaving his. "You're ours now," she whispered, leaning in to kiss him, her lips hot against his, her tongue slipping into his mouth.

Visenya moved behind him, her hands trailing over his shoulders, down his back, her nails digging in just enough to send a shiver down his spine. "We'll make sure of it," she whispered into his ear before biting down on his neck, hard enough to leave a mark.

Jon groaned, his body caught between the two sisters, their hands and mouths all over him. He had never felt anything like this before—the hunger, the heat, the raw, animalistic need. It was overwhelming, and yet, he wanted more. He needed more.

Rhaenys pulled away just enough to look him in the eyes, her hand still stroking him slowly. "Don't hold back," she said with a grin. "We want all of you."

Visenya's hands slid lower, grabbing his ass and pulling him tighter against them. "We're not stopping until we're full of you," she growled.

Jon growled in return, the lust overtaking him. He grabbed Rhaenys by the hips, pulling her body against his, feeling her heat against his cock. Her soft, breathy moan sent a jolt through him as he lifted her, pressing her back against the wall. She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her eyes burning with need.

Behind him, Visenya didn't wait. Her hands slid down to his thighs, her breath hot against his skin as she whispered in his ear again. "We will make you a true dragon tonight, Jon. We will not stop until we're carrying your seed."

Behind him, Visenya's hands gripped his hips firmly, her body pressing against his back, her breath hot on his neck. She slid her fingers lower, cupping his balls and squeezing gently, sending jolts of pleasure through him.

Jon's heart raced, his entire body on fire as he stood caught between them. He could feel the heat of Rhaenys in front of him, her hand still stroking him, while Visenya's fingers teased him from behind. The sensation was overwhelming, his mind clouded with desire as they both worked together, drawing him into the fire that surrounded them.

Rhaenys, never one to wait, pulled Jon forward, guiding him to the bed. She lay back on the soft furs, spreading her legs wide for him, her violet eyes locked onto his with a hungry gaze. Her hands reached up, cupping her own breasts, squeezing them as she watched him, her body ready and waiting.

"Now," she whispered. "I want you now."

Jon wasted no time. He climbed on top of her, positioning himself at her entrance, his cock throbbing with need. He could feel her wetness, her heat, as he pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. Rhaenys moaned loudly, her head falling back, her body arching beneath him as he filled her.

He began to move, his hips thrusting against hers, slow at first, but soon harder, faster, as her body responded to him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her nails digging into his shoulders as she moaned louder with each thrust.

Behind them, Visenya watched, her eyes burning with desire. She wasn't going to wait her turn. She moved to the bed, kneeling beside Rhaenys, her hand sliding over her sister's body, teasing her breasts, her nipples, as she leaned down and kissed her deeply.

Rhaenys gasped into the kiss, her hands tangling in Visenya's hair as their lips moved against each other, their tongues sliding together. Jon groaned at the sight of the two sisters locked in such an intimate embrace, their bodies moving together as they both moaned into the kiss.

Visenya didn't stop there. She moved lower, her lips trailing down Rhaenys' neck, then over her breasts, sucking on her nipples, biting gently before moving even lower. Jon slowed his pace as he watched, his cock still buried deep inside Rhaenys, but his focus now split between the two sisters.

Visenya moved down until she was between Rhaenys' legs, her breath hot against Jon's cock where it disappeared into her sister. She pressed a kiss against Rhaenys' inner thigh, then another, before sliding her tongue over Jon's length as it moved in and out of her sister.

The sensation of Visenya's mouth on him, even as he was inside Rhaenys, was almost too much. Jon groaned, his hands gripping Rhaenys' hips tighter as he thrust harder, faster, his cock slick with both Rhaenys' wetness and Visenya's teasing tongue.

Visenya's hands moved up to Rhaenys' hips, spreading her sister wider as she continued to lick and kiss where their bodies met. Rhaenys moaned loudly, her body trembling beneath Jon, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the pleasure built higher and higher.

"Don't stop," Rhaenys panted, her hands gripping the sheets as Jon pounded into her harder, her body arching beneath him as Visenya's tongue flicked over her clit.

Jon couldn't hold back any longer. He thrust deep into Rhaenys, his cock twitching as he filled her, spilling himself inside her with a deep, guttural groan. Rhaenys cried out, her body shuddering as she came with him, her nails digging into his skin as she rode the waves of pleasure.

But the night was far from over.

...

The night had only just begun, and the chamber was filled with the heavy sounds of breath and pleasure. Rhaenys and Visenya, their bodies glowing with sweat, lay beside each other on the bed, their hands roaming across each other's skin, their lips meeting in soft, hungry kisses. Jon watched as the two sisters moved against each other, their shared desire igniting something even deeper within him. Their bond, both as siblings and lovers, fueled the heat that filled the room.

Rhaenys lay on her back, her legs spread wide, with Visenya positioned between them. Her silver hair cascaded over Rhaenys' thighs as she kissed her sister's inner thighs, her tongue flicking closer and closer to Rhaenys' wet core. The soft sound of Rhaenys' moans filled the air as Visenya's tongue finally made contact, licking slowly up and down, savoring every moment as she tasted her sister.

Jon's cock stirred again, already hardening at the sight of the two women so intimately involved with each other. He stood at the edge of the bed, watching as Visenya's mouth worked on Rhaenys while Rhaenys squirmed beneath her, her moans growing louder with each passing moment. Jon could hardly believe the scene in front of him—both sisters lost in their shared pleasure, completely uninhibited, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony.

Rhaenys' hands gripped Visenya's hair, pulling her sister's head closer as her hips lifted from the bed, pressing harder against her mouth. "Yes, just like that," Rhaenys gasped, her body trembling. "Don't stop."

Jon couldn't take it anymore. He moved forward, climbing onto the bed behind Visenya. He positioned himself so that he was on his knees, directly behind her, his hands gripping her hips as he pushed his cock against her entrance. She was already wet from their earlier passion, and Jon slid inside her easily, filling her completely in one long, deep thrust.

Visenya moaned into Rhaenys' pussy as Jon began to thrust into her from behind, the force of his movements pushing her mouth even harder against her sister. Rhaenys gasped, her back arching as she was caught between the two sensations—Visenya's tongue and Jon's deep thrusts. Her hands gripped the sheets, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the pleasure built inside her.

Jon's hands gripped Visenya's hips tightly, his body moving in rhythm with hers, each thrust sending shockwaves through both women. He could feel Visenya tightening around him, her body shuddering as she continued to lick and suck on her sister, her own pleasure building with every thrust.

Rhaenys' head fell back, her eyes closed as she gave herself over completely to the sensations. Her body trembled as she neared the edge, Visenya's skilled tongue and Jon's powerful thrusts sending her spiraling toward release. "Yes... yes..." she gasped, her body writhing beneath them.

Jon watched as Rhaenys' body shook with pleasure, her climax building with each passing second. He could feel Visenya tightening around him as well, her own body reacting to the intensity of the moment. Jon thrust harder, faster, the sound of their bodies slapping together filling the room as Rhaenys finally cried out, her orgasm hitting her like a wave.

Rhaenys' back arched off the bed, her legs trembling as she came, her hands clutching the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. Visenya moaned into her sister's pussy, her mouth working faster now as she brought Rhaenys through her climax, her own body trembling as Jon continued to fuck her from behind.

But even as Rhaenys came down from her high, the night was far from over.

Without pulling out of Visenya, Jon moved his hands to her hips, lifting her slightly so that Rhaenys could shift beneath her. Rhaenys, still trembling from her release, eagerly repositioned herself, sliding beneath Visenya so that she was now face-to-face with her sister. Her hands moved to Visenya's breasts, squeezing and teasing them as she leaned up, capturing Visenya's lips in a deep, hungry kiss.

Jon groaned at the sight of the two women kissing, their bodies pressed together as he continued to thrust into Visenya from behind. The sound of their lips meeting, the soft gasps and moans that escaped them as they touched each other, only fueled his desire further. He gripped Visenya's hips tighter, pulling her back against him with each thrust, feeling the tightness of her body around him.

Rhaenys' hands moved lower, sliding between Visenya's legs, her fingers finding her sister's clit and rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles. Visenya moaned into Rhaenys' mouth, her body shaking as she was caught between Jon's hard thrusts and her sister's teasing fingers.

"Make her come for me," Jon growled, his voice thick with lust as he continued to pound into Visenya. "Make her scream, Rhaenys."

Rhaenys grinned up at him, her fingers moving faster against Visenya's clit, her other hand teasing her breasts, her nipples hardening beneath her touch. "She's going to come," Rhaenys whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "And when she does, you'll fill her just like you filled me."

Jon groaned at her words, his thrusts growing more erratic as his own climax approached. He could feel Visenya trembling beneath him, her body tightening as Rhaenys' fingers worked her clit, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Yes... yes... I'm going to—" Visenya's words were cut off by a loud, desperate moan as her body convulsed, her orgasm hitting her with full force. Her legs shook, her hands gripping Rhaenys' shoulders as her entire body trembled.

Jon grunted, thrusting deep into her one last time as he followed her over the edge, spilling himself inside her with a deep groan. Visenya moaned loudly as she felt him fill her, her body shuddering as she rode out the final waves of her climax.

The three of them collapsed onto the bed, their bodies spent, but still tangled together. Rhaenys and Visenya's hands continued to roam over each other's skin, soft and gentle now, their lips meeting in lazy, lingering kisses as they came down from the intensity of the moment.

Jon lay beside them, his breath coming in heavy pants as he watched the two sisters, their bodies pressed together, their hands still exploring each other. There was one thing he knew for sure, he'd definitely made the right decision.

————————————————————-

Jon stood in the painted room of Dragonstone, his gaze sweeping over the lords gathered around the table. The map of Westeros was laid out before them, marked with figures representing the various kingdoms. Lords loyal to House Targaryen surrounded the table, their eyes focused on him as he began to speak.

"We will move down the Blackwater Rush," Jon said, his voice steady. "I'll take 3,000 men to the mouth of the river. There, we will establish a fort. That will be our foothold on the mainland, the center of our supply line from Dragonstone."

Visenya, standing beside him, added, "We've also secured a trade agreement with Pentos. They will provide the supplies we need. Food, weapons, materials. This will ensure our forces remain well-fed and well-armed."

Jon turned to Lord Aethan Velaryon, his eyes sharp. "Your task is vital, Lord Aethan. You must maintain naval supremacy along the eastern coast. The Vale has a small fleet, but the real threat is from Dorne. The Dornish have been battling pirates from the Stepstones for generations. They know sea warfare well."

Aethan nodded confidently. "They can't compare to the strength of House Velaryon, my lord. We are the lords of the sea. We will keep them at bay."

"Good," Jon said. "We need to keep the supply lines open. If necessary, form a blockade off the coast of the Stormlands. The Dornish won't dare initiate a naval battle in those waters."

He paused for a moment, letting the plan sink in. "Rhaenys and Visenya will each take 1,000 men and secure the castles along the coast. Rosby, Stokeworth... We need to secure these strategic locations before moving inland. I'll focus on Duskendale and Maidenpool once we're situated at the fort."

Jon's eyes returned to Lord Aethan. "Once the area is secured, continue ferrying the smallfolk and builders across. I want that fort up quickly."

"Yes, my lord," Aethan replied with a firm nod.

"This is the easiest part of our campaign," Jon continued, his tone grave. "But don't be mistaken—the other kings won't take this lightly. As soon as word spreads, they'll begin to marshal their forces. We need to act quickly."

Visenya, standing tall beside him, asked, "Who will we strike first?"

Jon didn't hesitate. "The Gardeners of the Reach. They're likely to ally with the Lannisters of the Westerlands. From what I know of the Lannisters, they're clever and opportunistic. We'll destroy the Gardeners with a token force and force the Lannisters to bend the knee."

One of the lords at the table raised a brow. "And if they refuse?"

Jon's gaze hardened. "Then Casterly Rock will collapse into the sea."

The room fell silent for a moment. The gathered lords knew what that meant. With dragons, nothing was impossible.

Rhaenys stepped forward, her voice calm but filled with purpose. "After the Reach, Visenya and I will attack the Riverlands and deal with House Hoare. Their hold on the Riverlands is tenuous at best. With our dragons, they won't stand a chance."

Another lord spoke up, his voice uncertain. "Where will you be during all this, my lord?"

Jon looked across the table at the men gathered around him. "Orys and I will take 8,000 men and march on the Stormlands. The weather there is unpredictable. A dragon can be rendered useless in a battle if one of the infamous storms rolls through. But I have an advantage should it come to that."

There were murmurs around the table, but Jon offered no further explanation. The details of his plan were his own, and he wasn't going to reveal them yet.

The meeting continued, with more plans being laid out. Jon detailed the logistics of the supply lines, the roles of the various lords, and the importance of speed. Every step had to be executed flawlessly for the invasion to succeed. They couldn't afford to waste time.

When the meeting was finally over, Jon dismissed the lords, watching them file out of the room, their minds clearly burdened by the tasks ahead. As the doors closed behind the last of them, Jon exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. The past few weeks had been grueling, and planning the invasion had taken its toll.

His memories of Aegon's Conquest weren't perfect, but they were enough to guide him through the most critical phases of the campaign. He had made adjustments, hoping to speed up the conquest, but it still weighed heavily on his mind. The pressure was constant. And then, of course, there was the matter of Dorne—always a thorn in the side of any would-be conqueror.

"You are tense," Visenya's voice came from behind him. She stood with her usual stern expression, her arms crossed as she observed him.

"I'm fine," Jon replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

Visenya stepped closer, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. "You need to relax."

Jon barely had time to react before she stepped up to him, her hands already on his waist, yanking at the ties of his trousers like she was on a mission. She didn't ask, didn't wait for permission—Visenya never did. She just did what she wanted, and right now, she wanted this.

Jon let out a shaky breath as she undid his trousers, freeing his cock with quick, rough movements. His heart pounded in his chest, but he didn't say a word. He just watched her, his body already responding as her hand wrapped around him, firm and demanding.

Without a word, she dropped to her knees in front of him. No teasing, no soft touches—just her, on her knees, taking control. She didn't waste any time. Her mouth was on him in seconds, lips closing around his cock, sucking him in deep with a hard, determined rhythm.

Jon's head fell back, a low groan escaping his throat as she took him all the way in. Her tongue worked him over, swirling around the tip, while her hand gripped the base, stroking him in time with her mouth. There was nothing soft about the way she sucked him off—she was relentless, her mouth tight and demanding, as if she was proving a point.

"Fuck," Jon grunted, his hands gripping the edge of the table tighter. He thrust his hips forward without thinking, pushing deeper into her mouth, but Visenya didn't back off. She took it, her hand tightening around his base as she sucked him harder, her tongue flicking against him with every thrust.

Her eyes stayed locked on his, sharp and unyielding, her jaw tight as she worked him over with the same fierce determination she brought to everything else. Jon could feel the heat pooling in his gut, his breath coming in ragged gasps as she kept going, her mouth driving him closer and closer to the edge.

Visenya didn't slow down, didn't give him a break. Her hands gripped his thighs, her nails digging in as she bobbed her head up and down, taking him deep, her mouth making obscene, wet sounds as she sucked him off. It wasn't delicate—it was rough, intense, the way everything with her was.

"Shit," Jon growled, his hips jerking as he felt the pressure building, his cock twitching in her mouth. His hand slid into her hair, gripping it roughly as he thrust into her, losing himself in the feel of her lips around him, her tongue working him over. He was close—too fucking close.

But Visenya didn't ease up. If anything, she pushed harder, sucking him faster, her tongue flicking over the tip before she took him all the way in again. She was in complete control, and Jon was on the brink of losing it, his muscles tensing as the pressure built to a breaking point.

"Visenya... I'm gonna—" Jon barely got the words out before it hit him. His whole body tensed as he came hard, his release spilling into her mouth in thick, hot pulses. Visenya didn't pull away. She didn't stop. She took all of it, her throat working as she swallowed, her lips still wrapped tightly around him as she drained every last drop from him.

Jon groaned, his body shuddering as the waves of pleasure crashed over him, his hand still tangled in her hair. He could feel her swallowing him down, her mouth still working him over until he was completely spent, his cock twitching one last time before she finally pulled back.

When she stood up, there was no playful smirk, no teasing grin. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes still fixed on his, sharp and unreadable as ever. She looked at him like she always did—stern, intense, like she had done exactly what she needed to do and nothing more.

"Feel better?" she asked, her voice rough, almost cold. It wasn't a question so much as a statement.

"Much," Jon said with a breathless chuckle.

She turned and walked toward the door without another word, her shoulders still tense, her posture rigid. She left without a second thought leaving Jon standing there still erect. 'Maybe I'll go visit Rhaenys.'

————————————————————-

War was coming to Westeros, and it was coming from Dragonstone. The sky was filled with the deep shadows of three massive dragons circling above the island, their wings beating in unison. On the shores below, at least a hundred ships were gathered, their sails emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Thousands of soldiers filled the decks, their armor glinting under the rising sun. The sound of men readying themselves for war echoed across the water as the sea breeze tugged at the banners.

Above them, Balerion the Black Dread led the charge, his enormous black wings cutting through the sky like the shadow of death itself. Atop Balerion's back stood Jon, his figure a dark silhouette against the morning light. He held the thick reins in his hands to steady himself as the dragon soared above the fleet. His black armor gleamed, chain mail clinking as the wind whipped around him. At his side, Blackfyre rested in its sheath, and across his back, Winter Weaver was strapped tight.

To his left and right flew the other dragons. Meraxes, with Rhaenys on her back, gleamed silver in the sunlight, her wings stretching wide as they caught the wind. Vhagar, ridden by Visenya, was a hulking beast of dark bronze, her growls rumbling through the air like distant thunder. All three dragons let out deep roars, their voices carrying across the fleet below.

Jon urged Balerion forward, the beast roaring as he surged westward, leading the invasion toward Westeros. Behind him, the ships began to move, the sound of oars dipping into the water blending with the roar of the dragons. The wind carried them across the narrow sea, the massive force of men and dragons leaving Dragonstone behind as they flew toward conquest. The three dragons flew ahead of the ships, keeping a watchful eye on the horizon as the fleet followed closely behind. Jon stood tall on Balerion's back, his eyes scanning the landscape as they neared the shores of Westeros. The air was cool and crisp, but beneath him, the heat of Balerion's scales radiated through his armor.

By noon, they had reached the mainland. The sun sat high in the sky, casting its light over the rolling hills and dense forests below. Jon signaled to the others, and the three dragons descended, their massive forms casting long shadows over the land as they circled the chosen spot for their fort.

Jon brought Balerion down in a wide clearing near the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, his claws sinking into the earth with a deep thud. The ground trembled slightly under the weight of the dragon as Jon leaped down from his back, landing on solid ground. Visenya and Rhaenys followed suit, their dragons landing nearby, shaking the earth with their sheer size.

"This is where we'll build the fortress," Jon said, his voice firm as he gestured to the surrounding land. "It's high ground, close to the river. We'll be able to defend it and maintain a supply line back to Dragonstone."

Rhaenys and Visenya both nodded, their eyes scanning the terrain. Jon looked to them and added, "Rosby and Stokeworth are your targets. Go there, offer them terms of surrender. Give them a week. By then, our men will be here."

Visenya nodded in agreement, her eyes sharp as ever. "If they refuse?"

"Then we burn them to the ground," Jon replied simply, his voice cold and steady.

Without another word, Rhaenys and Visenya mounted their dragons once again. Meraxes and Vhagar roared into the sky, their wings beating as they took off toward their respective targets, leaving Jon and Balerion behind to oversee the preparations for the fort.

Over the next few days, the shores began to fill with activity. Thousands of soldiers arrived by sea, the banners of House Targaryen fluttering in the wind as the men disembarked from the ships. They were a disciplined force, moving quickly to set up camps along the coastline. Tents sprang up like a forest of canvas, and the air was thick with the sounds of hammers and saws as the men began constructing the fort.

Jon oversaw everything, ensuring that the work progressed smoothly. The foundations of the fort were laid out, and supplies continued to arrive from Pentos, just as Visenya had arranged. Food, weapons, and materials poured in, carried by smaller ships that docked along the river's edge.

As the days passed, the fort began to take shape, its wooden walls rising from the ground like the skeleton of a beast. The men worked tirelessly, driven by the knowledge that this fort would be the first foothold of their conquest. Jon watched it all unfold, the fire in his chest burning brighter with each passing hour. Jon stood at the edge of the fort's construction, watching as more ships arrived, ferrying more men and supplies to the shore. The banners of House Targaryen fluttered proudly in the wind. The invasion had begun, and Westeros would soon know the fire and fury of House Targaryen. Westeros would bow to House Targaryen, or it would burn.

...

Rosby and Stokeworth had both bent the knee. Jon had flown to the camps where the lords of both houses awaited his arrival, their terms of surrender agreed upon. Balerion descended from the skies, his massive wings beating the air, sending gusts of wind over the gathered men. The ground shook as the dragon landed with a thud, his shadow casting over the entire encampment. Soldiers from both Rosby and Stokeworth stared in awe and fear, eyes wide, as Balerion, the largest dragon in the world, roared, the sound echoing through the valley. Some men stumbled back in terror; others held their breath.

Jon leaped off Balerion's back, landing heavily on the ground in his full black armor. The weight of Winter Weaver rested against his back, and Blackfyre hung from his side. He strode toward the canopy where Lords Rosby and Stokeworth sat, both visibly shaking. Jon's dark helmet obscured his face, making him look every bit the nightmarish warrior come to take their lives if they didn't submit. As he approached, the air around him seemed heavier, as if even nature itself bent to his will.

Rhaenys and Visenya, standing beside the two lords, watched silently, their faces calm, betraying none of their thoughts. The lords, on the other hand, were stiff, hands trembling as they sat beneath the canopy, their gazes flickering nervously from Jon to Balerion.

Jon stopped in front of them, reaching up to remove his helmet. He handed it to Rhaenys without a word, and his cold, stern eyes fell on Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth. "I'm sure my wives have told you the terms of surrender," Jon said, his voice firm.

"They have, my lord," Lord Rosby answered, his voice shaky but clear.

Jon nodded. "Bend the knee. Declare me your king, and you will keep your lands and titles."

The two lords hesitated for a brief moment before both got to their knees, their faces pale as they bowed before Jon. "We, Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth, swear fealty to you, Daemon Targaryen, and declare you our rightful king. We pledge our swords, our lands, and our lives to your service," they said, their voices low.

Jon looked down at them, watching as they knelt in submission. "Good," he said after a pause. "Gather your forces I want you ready to march, and bring me 1,000 swords from each of you."

Both lords nodded quickly, standing and moving to gather their men. As they walked off, Rhaenys looked at Jon with a curious smile. "Why do you need their swords?" she asked.

Jon smiled slightly, the hint of something mischievous in his eyes. "It's a surprise," he said simply.

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow but didn't press him further. Visenya, standing nearby, gave Jon a look of approval, though she said nothing. The sisters watched as Jon began organizing the troops, preparing for the next phase of their campaign.

---

A few days passed as the men prepared to march, and the camp bustled with activity. Jon stood with Rhaenys and Visenya near the edge of the camp when a rider approached at full speed. The horse skidded to a halt in front of them, and the rider dismounted quickly, bowing before Jon.

"My lord," the rider said breathlessly, "Maidenpool and Duskendale have joined forces. They march upon us with an army of 3,000 men."

Rhaenys snickered at the news, and Visenya let out a low, amused laugh. "What fools," Visenya said. "We have over twice their number. Why would they bother with such a move?"

Jon's eyes narrowed, thinking. "Old men cling to power even if it kills them. They care less for death in their twilight years."

Visenya stepped forward, her expression hard. "I will go and burn them," she said, her hand already moving to summon her dragon.

Jon held up a hand, stopping her. "No. I will go. I'll take 1,000 men and be back in a week."

Both Rhaenys and Visenya turned toward him, concern flashing in their eyes. Rhaenys stepped closer and placed a hand on his arm. "Be careful," she whispered before leaning in and kissing him softly on the lips.

Visenya followed, her stern face softening as she stepped up and kissed him as well. "Return to us, husband," she said quietly.

Jon nodded, his resolve firm. He quickly gathered his forces, taking 1,000 men and setting out toward Duskendale. Lords Rosby and Stokeworth marched with him, though their faces betrayed their discomfort at having to submit to a foreign invader. The grumblings from both lords didn't go unnoticed by Jon, though he said nothing for now. He wanted them to witness what was about to happen firsthand.

The 1,000-strong force marched across the land, the banners of House Targaryen flying proudly over their heads. After a few days of travel, they stopped as the army of Maidenpool and Duskendale came into view across the field. Jon's forces formed ranks, but Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth both looked uneasy, their eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of Jon's dragon.

"Where is he?" Lord Rosby muttered, panic rising in his voice. "Where is Jon?" The night before he had told both lords he wouldn't be riding with them anymore and that he would join them during the battle, but it was looking more and more doubtful every moment.

The enemy forces took the field, their men forming into ranks, shields and spears glinting in the afternoon sun. Their commanders signaled the charge, and the army of Maidenpool and Duskendale surged forward, a sea of men rushing toward Lord Rosby's troops.

Suddenly, a deafening roar sounded from above. The soldiers on both sides froze, their eyes shooting up to the sky as the sun disappeared behind a massive shadow. Balerion, the Black Dread, soared overhead, his enormous wings casting the entire field in darkness. Jon rode atop the dragon, his armor gleaming black as Balerion descended. The soldiers below began to scatter, terror gripping their hearts as they realized the full extent of the threat they faced. Balerion swooped over them. "Dracarys!" Jon shouted, his voice echoing across the battlefield.

Balerion reared his massive head back, and with a deep, guttural growl, unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames shot across the field, roaring toward the enemy soldiers. The fire was black as night, hotter than any flame the men had ever seen. It spread quickly, forming a ring around the army, cutting off any chance of retreat.

Jon directed Balerion to tighten the circle of fire, the flames growing closer and closer as the enemy soldiers desperately tried to flee. Their screams filled the air as the fire consumed them, melting armor and flesh alike. The heat was unbearable, and the stench of burning bodies filled the field. As the fire closed in, Jon urged Balerion to land. He dismounted, pulling Winter Weaver from his back, the heavy axe resting in his hand. The remaining soldiers, trapped inside the circle of flames, screamed in terror as the flames crept closer. Jon walked toward them slowly, his armor gleaming in the light of the fire.

"Do you surrender?" Jon shouted, his voice cold and commanding.

One of the lords, his face pale with fear, stepped forward, falling to his knees. "We surrender! Please, spare us!" he begged, his voice shaking.

Jon watched as the flames grew nearer, their heat licking at the soldiers on the outside of the circle, their screams turning into shrieks of agony. With a flick of his wrist, Jon swung Winter Weaver to both sides, summoning a wave of cold that extinguished the flames. The ground froze beneath his feet as frost spread across the field.

The remaining soldiers dropped their weapons, falling to their knees in surrender. Jon said nothing as he watched the fear in their eyes.

After the battle, Lords Darklyn and Mooton knelt before Jon, their heads bowed. "We swear fealty to you, Daemon Targaryen," they said, their voices low and defeated. "You are our king."

Jon looked down at them, satisfied. "Good," he said simply, before turning to his men. "Gather the survivors. We march back to the Kingsfort."

The invasion had only just begun, and Westeros would soon bow before the dragon or burn in their flames.

————————————————————

A few months had passed, and the conquest had moved swiftly. Jon and his forces had secured the entire region stretching from the Vale to the Stormlands. Castles that once resisted now flew the banner of the three-headed dragon, and the lords of these lands had bent the knee or burned beneath the might of Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar. The army under Jon's command had swelled to 10,000 men, soldiers gathered from the conquered lands and those loyal to House Targaryen.

The heart of this new territory was now known as the Crownlands, named by Jon as the seat of the kingdom he intended to forge. The fort they had built at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, now called Kingsfort, stood as the symbol of their rule. It was here that Jon stationed 8,000 of his men, ensuring the safety of their new domain. The remaining 2,000 were prepared to march south into the Reach, where the Gardeners ruled. Though it was a small force compared to the vast armies of the Reach, the strength of the three dragons made numbers irrelevant.

Even the most hardened lords knew the truth—no force in Westeros could stand against the dragons.

Under the light of a full moon, Jon rode Balerion, the Black Dread. The dragon's massive wings carried them effortlessly through the night, the land beneath them bathed in silver light. The coast of the Crownlands stretched out below, the dark waters of the narrow sea shimmering in the moonlight. In front of Jon sat Rhaenys, her back leaning against his chest as they rode together. Her silver-gold hair shone in the pale light, and her eyes gazed ahead, her expression wistful.

"Our dream is finally being realized," Rhaenys said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried over the wind.

Jon tightened his hold on her, his hands resting on her waist as they flew. "It's just the beginning," he replied, his voice steady and filled with conviction. His eyes were focused on the horizon. Rhaenys sighed contentedly, her body relaxing against him. She turned her head slightly, her cheek brushing against Jon's. "You've made all of this possible, Jon. Without you, we'd still be waiting in Dragonstone."

Jon shook his head slightly. "We've done this together," he said, his hand sliding up to gently caress her neck before his fingers moved lower, tracing the line of her stomach. "But this is only the start. The Reach will fall next, and then the Riverlands, and after that... all of Westeros will bow to us."

Rhaenys, seated in front of Jon, twisted around to face him, her violet eyes flashing with that wild spark she always had, though this time there was more to it—something primal, something hungry. The moonlight caught her silver-gold hair as it whipped around her face, and she didn't hesitate for a second as she leaned forward, her lips crashing against Jon's in a heated kiss.

Rhaenys, straddling Jon, had already yanked his trousers open, her own pulled down just enough to give them what they needed. She wasn't one for teasing tonight—there was nothing soft or slow about what was happening. She was hungry, desperate, and she wasn't waiting any longer.

Without a word, she gripped Jon's cock, guiding him to her entrance, and in one swift, hard motion, she dropped herself down onto him, taking him in deep. Both of them groaned, their breath mixing with the cold air as Rhaenys ground her hips down against him, her hands gripping his shoulders for balance.

"Fuck," Jon grunted, his fingers digging into her hips as she began to ride him, her body slamming down onto his cock with a rough, fast rhythm. There was nothing gentle about it—Rhaenys was wild, her violet eyes dark with lust as she fucked him hard, her body moving in time with the steady beat of Balerion's wings.

Rhaenys didn't hold back. Her hands slid down Jon's chest, nails scratching at his skin as she bounced on him, her head thrown back, mouth open in a breathless gasp as she took him deeper with each thrust. The wind whipped around them, the world beneath them a blur, but all that mattered to her was the feel of Jon inside her, stretching her, filling her up.

"Is that all you've got?" Rhaenys growled, her voice rough as she slammed her hips down harder onto him, her nails digging into his skin. "Come on, Jon. Fuck me like you mean it."

Jon let out a low, guttural growl, his hands gripping her ass as he thrust up into her, meeting her rough movements with his own. The cold air whipped around them, but the heat of their bodies pressed together burned hotter than anything. His cock throbbed inside her, and every time she slammed down onto him, the friction made him see stars.

"You want it harder?" Jon grunted, his voice thick with lust as he thrust up into her again, harder this time, his hands squeezing her hips tight enough to bruise. "You'll fucking get it."

Rhaenys moaned loudly as he fucked her harder, her body rocking against him with every thrust. She was soaked, slick, and every time Jon's cock filled her, she could feel herself getting closer to the edge. "Gods, yes," she gasped, her hands moving to his shoulders, nails raking across his skin as she rode him, grinding her hips in circles, trying to take him even deeper.

Jon's head fell back, his grip on her tightening as he thrust into her harder, faster, feeling her body squeeze around him, the tight heat of her nearly driving him over the edge. He couldn't hold back much longer, and from the way Rhaenys was moaning, he knew she was close too.

"Come on," Jon growled, his voice low and rough. "I know you're about to come. Don't hold back. I want to feel you."

Rhaenys moaned again, her hips grinding down onto him harder, her body trembling as she reached for the edge. "Fuck... Jon..." she gasped, her voice breathless as her head fell back, her entire body shuddering. She gripped his shoulders tight, her nails digging in hard as her orgasm hit her like a storm.

She came hard, her body squeezing tight around him, her moans loud in his ear as she rode out the waves of pleasure, her hips still moving, still grinding against him as she tried to draw every last bit of sensation from him. Jon groaned, thrusting up into her one last time before his own release took him.

"Fuck," Jon growled, his hips jerking up into her as he spilled inside her, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he came hard. His grip on her hips was so tight it hurt, but he didn't care. All that mattered was the feel of her body wrapped around him, the way she moaned as she took every drop.

They stayed like that for a few moments, both of them panting, their bodies still trembling from the intensity of it. The cold air bit at their skin, but the heat between them burned hot, keeping them warm even as the wind whipped around them.

Rhaenys smirked, still catching her breath as she leaned down, her forehead resting against Jon's. "Not bad," she muttered, her voice rough and breathless. "But I hope you've got more in you, Jon. We're not done yet."

Jon grinned, his hands still gripping her hips as he looked up at her. "Oh, I've got plenty more," he growled, his breath coming in short gasps. "You're not getting off that easy."

Rhaenys grinned wickedly, her hands sliding back down to his chest as she lifted herself off of him, already thinking about the next round. They still had the rest of the night ahead of them, and neither of them had any intention of stopping now.

(AN: This is where I'm gonna stop gang, I want to continue but tbh there is too much to write about. I want to showcase the large scale battles but if I do that then it'll push this to like 50k words. So if you guys want a part 2 it'll be showing all the battle. Anyway I hope you enjoyed the story)