The cold sea spray whipped across Jon's face as the ship cut through the choppy waters toward Dragonstone. His eyes were locked on the dark silhouette of the island fortress ahead, its jagged cliffs rising like the teeth of some ancient beast. The imposing keep, built in the shape of a dragon, loomed ominously in the distance, shrouded in mist. For a moment, Jon could feel the weight of history pressing down on him—the legacy of the Targaryens, of conquest and fire, and the blood of those who had ruled before.
But Jon wasn't here for history. He was here for survival. And if Daenerys Targaryen did not agree to help him fight the Night King, there would be no future at all.
Davos stepped up beside Jon, his weathered face set in a grim line. "Quite the sight, isn't it? Doesn't look like the kind of place you come back from easily."
Jon glanced at him, lips tightening in agreement. "No. But we don't have a choice."
The wind howled as the ship closed in on the shore, the crew working quickly to drop anchor. Soldiers from Dragonstone waited on the rocky beach, their black-and-red armor gleaming in the dull gray light. Jon noticed the dragon sigils on their banners, a reminder of the power Daenerys held. Even from here, Jon could feel the tension of the moment. This was no ordinary meeting between two rulers. This was the convergence of fire and ice.
Jon stepped off the ship with Davos at his side, followed by the handful of Northern guards who had accompanied them. The Dragonstone soldiers stood silently, their faces impassive as they escorted Jon and his party up the steep path toward the fortress. The wind grew colder the higher they climbed, the cliffs offering little protection from the elements.
As they ascended, Jon's thoughts turned inward. He wondered what kind of ruler Daenerys Targaryen truly was. He had heard the stories of her victories across the Narrow Sea, of how she had freed the slaves of Slaver's Bay and forged a path of fire and blood. But was she a ruler who would understand the greater threat they all faced? Or was she like her ancestors, consumed by the desire for power and conquest?
They reached the gates of the fortress, and Jon felt a strange sense of unease as they were led through the massive doors. The interior of Dragonstone was cold, dark, and foreboding, its walls carved from black stone. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and sulfur, the latter reminding Jon of the stories he had heard about the dragons.
As they entered the throne room, Jon's breath caught in his throat. Daenerys Targaryen sat upon her throne, a majestic seat carved from dragonbone. Her silver hair flowed down her back like molten moonlight, and her presence commanded the room with an intensity Jon had rarely seen. She was surrounded by her advisers, including Tyrion Lannister, whose sharp gaze flicked over Jon with curiosity.
But Jon's attention was immediately drawn to the creatures that flanked the throne. The dragons—massive, scaled beasts—lay curled in the shadows of the chamber, their eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. The air in the room felt thick with heat, as if the very stones beneath their feet were warm from the dragons' presence.
"Your Grace," Tyrion said, breaking the silence. "This is Jon Snow, King in the North."
Jon nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes locking with Daenerys'. He could see the weight of her title in her gaze, the strength and confidence of a queen who had fought and earned her power. But there was also a guardedness in her expression, as if she was sizing him up, waiting to see if he was a threat or an ally.
"Your Grace," Jon said, his voice steady as he stepped forward. "I've come to ask for your help."
Daenerys' expression remained unreadable as she studied him. "Help with what, exactly? From what I understand, you've already declared yourself a king. And kings rarely come asking for help."
Jon wasn't surprised by her tone. He knew this wouldn't be easy. "I didn't come here to make demands, or to claim any right to the Iron Throne. I came because we face a threat unlike any we've ever seen. A threat that goes beyond crowns and thrones."
Daenerys tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. "And what threat would that be?"
"The dead," Jon said, his voice low but firm. "The Night King is coming. His army of the dead is marching south, and if we don't stop him, there won't be any kingdoms left to rule."
For a moment, there was silence. The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of the unimaginable. Jon knew how impossible it sounded—the idea of an undead army rising from the north to destroy all life. And yet, he had seen it with his own eyes.
Daenerys leaned back in her throne, her fingers resting lightly on the armrest. "The dead?" she repeated, skepticism lacing her tone. "You expect me to believe in fairy tales?"
Jon felt his frustration rise, but he forced himself to remain calm. "I've seen them. I've fought them. And I swear to you, they are real. The Night King commands an army of thousands—tens of thousands. They're coming for all of us."
Tyrion stepped forward then, his expression thoughtful. "I've heard stories of the White Walkers from Maesters and old songs, but stories are not proof, Jon. You're asking Daenerys to set aside her war for the Iron Throne based on your word alone."
Jon met Tyrion's gaze, knowing this was the critical moment. "You know me, Tyrion. You know I wouldn't come here unless I was sure. I didn't come to Dragonstone to beg for aid lightly. I came because we have no other choice. If we don't unite against the Night King, none of us will survive."
Daenerys watched him closely, her gaze sharp and calculating. She rose slowly from her throne, stepping down toward Jon with measured grace. Her dragons stirred in the shadows behind her, their low growls reverberating through the room.
"And why should I trust you?" Daenerys asked, her voice soft but dangerous. "You are a king in your own right, are you not? You could be here to deceive me, to weaken my forces while your allies take advantage."
Jon shook his head, his voice hardening with conviction. "I am not your enemy. I don't care about thrones or titles. I care about the living. I care about stopping the Night King before it's too late."
Daenerys studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for any sign of deception. Jon held her gaze, his heart pounding in his chest. This was it. If she didn't believe him—if she refused to help—the North would fall, and the rest of Westeros would follow.
Finally, Daenerys spoke again, her voice quieter this time, but still filled with authority. "If what you say is true, then we are all in grave danger. But I cannot abandon my war for the Iron Throne on faith alone."
Jon's jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Tyrion stepped in. "Perhaps there's a way to prove it, Your Grace. If Jon can provide us with evidence—something more concrete—then we can decide how best to act."
Jon glanced at Tyrion, thankful for the suggestion. He had been prepared for skepticism, but it was clear that words alone wouldn't be enough to convince Daenerys.
"North of the Wall," Jon said. "We could capture one of them. Bring it here, show you the truth."
Davos, who had been silent until now, spoke up. "A dangerous task, Your Grace, but it might be the only way to make the truth clear."
Daenerys considered the proposal, her expression thoughtful. "Very well," she said finally. "If you can bring me proof—if you can show me the reality of this threat—then I will consider joining your cause. But until then, I must focus on my own war."
It wasn't the answer Jon had hoped for, but it was something. At least she was willing to listen, to give them a chance. And that was more than he had expected.
Jon nodded, his face set with determination. "I'll bring you proof, Your Grace. And when I do, I hope you'll be ready to fight."
Daenerys met his gaze, her expression unreadable. "We shall see."
With that, the audience was over. Jon turned and walked out of the throne room, Davos at his side. The wind howled outside as they descended the steps of Dragonstone, but Jon felt a flicker of hope in his chest. They had a chance now—a slim one, but a chance nonetheless.
And for the first time in weeks, Jon felt like they might have the beginnings of a plan.
As they boarded the ship to return to the North, Jon's mind raced with what lay ahead. They would need to gather a small party, head beyond the Wall, and capture one of the dead. It was a mad idea, but madness was all they had left in the face of such an enemy.
The winds picked up as the ship pulled away from Dragonstone, the waves crashing against the hull.
The war for the living had begun.