The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and distant spices as The Wind Dancer glided into the bustling harbor of Pentos. Jon Snow—no, Aemon Targaryen, he reminded himself—stood at the prow, his grey eyes scanning the horizon. The city sprawled before him like a jewel, its terracotta rooftops and marble spires gleaming under the afternoon sun. This was no frozen Winterfell, no grim Castle Black; Pentos pulsed with life, wealth, and danger.
Beneath his cloak, Jon felt the comforting weight of Dark Sister strapped to his back. Ghost padded silently at his side, his white fur catching the sunlight, and Ancalagon—hidden deep below deck—rested in the same crate that had sheltered him since Braavos. Jon's mission was clear: infiltrate the estate of Illyrio Mopatis, steal the dragon eggs rumored to be hidden there, and disappear without a trace.
But fate had other plans.
The City of Spices and Shadows
Pentos was unlike anything Jon had ever seen. The air buzzed with voices in a dozen languages, merchants haggling over silks, spices, and strange trinkets from far-off lands. Street performers danced to the music of flutes and drums, their colorful clothes swirling like fire. The markets overflowed with exotic goods—cages of bright-plumed birds, piles of fragrant saffron and pepper, and jewelry that sparkled in the sun.
But beneath the surface beauty lurked a darker reality.
As Jon navigated the labyrinthine streets, he found himself near the slave markets. Despite knowing the vile reputation of Essos's trade, seeing it firsthand was different. Rows of men and women, their wrists shackled, stood in the harsh sunlight while buyers inspected them like livestock. Some were young, barely older than Arya, their eyes hollow with fear. A woman with golden hair and bruised skin caught Jon's gaze for a moment before looking away, resigned to her fate.
His heart clenched—but only for a moment.
Focus, Jon reminded himself, tightening his grip on Ghost's fur. He couldn't afford to be distracted by the injustices of this world. Not yet. There were greater wars to fight, enemies that would reduce all these men and women, free or slave, to ash and bone if left unchecked. When the time was right, he would return with the power to change things. But for now, sentiment was a luxury he couldn't afford.
The Estate of Illyrio Mopatis
By nightfall, Jon had gathered enough information to begin his infiltration. Illyrio Mopatis, a wealthy magister of Pentos, lived in an opulent estate surrounded by high walls and guarded gates. The estate was infamous for its sprawling gardens, marble halls, and hidden vaults filled with treasures from across Essos and Westeros.
But Jon wasn't here for gold or jewels. He was here for the dragon eggs.
Illyrio's mansion rose like a fortress in the heart of the city, its walls gleaming under the moonlight. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their torches casting long shadows across the cobblestone paths. But Jon had no intention of walking through the front gates.
In the quiet of his rented room at a nearby inn, Jon closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. He felt the familiar warmth of Ghost's consciousness, the primal senses of the direwolf flooding his thoughts. His heartbeat slowed, his breathing synchronized with the wolf's as their minds merged.
Through Ghost's eyes, Jon prowled the estate's outer walls. The guards' patterns were predictable—lazy, even. Illyrio's men were confident in their master's wealth and influence, believing no one would dare cross him.
They were wrong.
The Theft
Under the cover of darkness, Jon moved like a shadow through the alleys, his black cloak blending seamlessly with the night. Ghost slipped ahead, scouting the path and signaling when it was clear. When Jon reached the outer wall, he scaled it effortlessly, his years of training in Winterfell's godswood and his newly honed strength making the task almost trivial.
Inside, the estate was a maze of marble corridors and gilded chambers. The scent of incense and rich food lingered in the air, masking the faintest whispers of conversation from distant rooms. Jon moved with calculated precision, avoiding the occasional servant or guard with practiced ease.
Ghost's warging had revealed the location of the vault—deep beneath the main hall, behind a heavy iron door guarded by two men. Jon studied them from the shadows, his mind racing. A direct confrontation would leave evidence. But there was another way.
He closed his eyes and reached for Ghost again.
The direwolf moved swiftly, circling around the estate to create a distraction. A sudden, blood-curdling howl echoed through the night, followed by the terrified shouts of the guards. The two men at the vault door rushed toward the commotion, leaving their post unguarded.
Jon seized the moment.
He approached the door, his fingers deftly working the lock with the tools he'd acquired in Braavos. Within moments, the heavy door creaked open, revealing the treasure within.
Three dragon eggs, nestled in velvet-lined chests, glowed faintly in the dim light. Their scales shimmered in hues of black, green, and gold, each radiating a latent power that made Jon's skin prickle.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the warm surface of the black egg. A surge of energy coursed through him, a connection he couldn't explain but felt deep in his blood.
These belong to me, he thought, lifting the eggs carefully into his satchel. They were always meant to be mine.
The Glimpse of Destiny
As Jon prepared to leave, a faint sound stopped him—a soft, melodic voice singing in the distance.
He froze, his heart inexplicably drawn to the sound. Moving silently through the estate, he followed the voice until he reached a secluded garden bathed in moonlight.
There, beneath the shade of a blossoming tree, stood a young girl with silver-gold hair that cascaded down her back like a river of light. She couldn't have been older than ten or eleven, her delicate features framed by the soft glow of the moon. She sang softly to herself, her voice carrying a haunting beauty that made Jon's breath catch in his throat.
Daenerys.
He knew it instantly, though they had never met. The blood of the dragon recognized its own. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear, but from something deeper—an unexplainable pull, as if the universe itself had conspired to bring him here.
For a moment, Jon considered revealing himself. The thought of taking her away, protecting her from the life of abuse he knew awaited her under Viserys's care, burned in his mind.
But he was not ready. Not yet.
One day, he vowed silently, his eyes lingering on her delicate form. When I have the power, I will return for you. I will have you by my side, not as a prize, but as my equal.
With one last glance, Jon turned and slipped back into the shadows, his heart heavy but resolute.
The Escape
Jon's escape from Pentos was as meticulous as his infiltration. He left no trace, no evidence of his presence. The guards blamed the wild howl of a direwolf for their distraction, never suspecting the true thief had walked among them.
By the time dawn broke over the horizon, Jon was already aboard a ship bound for the distant shores of Essos, the stolen dragon eggs secured in the hold. Ghost lay at his feet, his red eyes watchful, while Ancalagon stirred in his crate, sensing the presence of his unborn kin.
As the city of Pentos faded into the distance, Jon stood at the ship's stern, the wind whipping through his dark hair. The journey ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear:
He was no longer Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell. He was Aemon Targaryen, the last dragon, and his time was coming.