The narrow sea glistened under the moonlight as the ship cut through the waves, its wooden hull creaking with every swell. Jon stood at the bow, the salty breeze whipping through his dark hair. Ghost lay beside him, his red eyes watchful, while Ancalagon stirred restlessly in the hold below. The three stolen dragon eggs, nestled securely in Jon's satchel, radiated a subtle warmth that seeped through the fabric, a constant reminder of the power he now carried.
Slaver's Bay lay ahead, a den of cruelty and corruption. But for Jon, it was more than a destination—it was the crucible in which he would forge his destiny.
The Road to Power
The journey to Slaver's Bay was long and perilous. Jon traveled by sea for weeks, avoiding major ports and relying on small, unremarkable trading vessels to keep his movements hidden. The whispers of the stolen dragon eggs had begun to ripple across both Westeros and Essos, reaching the ears of powerful men. Illyrio Mopatis had been furious when he discovered his prized dragon eggs missing, and his suspicions—though not confirmed—were dangerous enough. Varys, the Spider, had his own networks, and Jon knew that once the master of whispers caught the scent of dragons, it wouldn't be long before others followed.
But Jon remained careful. He left no trail, no witnesses. Just shadows and silence.
As the ship approached the shores near Slaver's Bay, Jon felt the growing weight of his mission. He had power, yes, but it was still latent—unformed. The eggs needed to hatch. The dragons needed to rise. And he needed to become more than just a shadow in the game.
The Ritual of Fire and Blood
Jon disembarked near a remote stretch of coastline, far from the prying eyes of the slavers and merchants. The land was harsh and dry, the sky overhead painted with streaks of crimson as the sun dipped below the horizon. He led Ghost and Ancalagon into the hills, seeking a secluded place to perform the ritual that had haunted his dreams.
He found an ancient, crumbling ruin—a forgotten temple of Valyrian design, its stone walls etched with faded runes and symbols of dragons long dead. The air was thick with the scent of ash and salt, and Jon felt a strange familiarity in the place, as if his ancestors whispered through the very stones.
Jon unpacked the dragon eggs, placing them carefully in a circle on the cold, cracked floor. The black-and-red egg, Rhaegal, seemed to pulse with life under his touch. The green egg, Meleys, glimmered like an emerald in the fading light, while the white egg, Silverwing, shimmered with a ghostly glow.
He knelt in the center of the circle, his hand resting on Dark Sister. The ancient Valyrian steel blade hummed with an energy that resonated with the eggs, as if the sword itself remembered the days when dragons ruled the skies.
Jon closed his eyes and began to chant.
The words were foreign, ancient Valyrian phrases he had learned through dreams and visions. His voice echoed through the temple, mingling with the rustling wind and the distant crash of waves. As the ritual intensified, Jon drew Dark Sister across his palm, letting his blood drip onto the eggs.
"Zaldrīzes ānogār." Dragons of fire and blood.
The eggs began to tremble, faint cracks appearing along their hardened surfaces. The warmth intensified, growing into a searing heat that made Jon's skin burn. Ghost growled low in his throat, and Ancalagon hissed, his eyes glowing with an inner fire.
Jon didn't flinch. He poured more of his blood onto the eggs, feeling the life within them stir and awaken.
Suddenly, the temple was filled with blinding light as the eggs shattered, releasing bursts of flame and smoke. Jon shielded his eyes, but the heat was unbearable, pressing against him like the breath of a dragon.
When the smoke cleared, three hatchlings emerged from the shards of their shells.
Rhaegal, the black-and-red dragon, let out a piercing shriek, his scales glinting like molten metal. Meleys, the green dragon, hissed and stretched her wings, her emerald eyes gleaming with intelligence. Silverwing, the smallest of the three, flapped her delicate white wings, her gaze fixed on Jon with an eerie intensity.
Jon felt the bond instantly—a connection deeper than words, forged in blood and fire. The dragons recognized him as their own, and he knew, without a doubt, that they would follow him to the ends of the earth.
Testing the Flame
With the dragons hatched, Jon's power grew by the day. But it wasn't just the dragons that changed—he changed with them.
Ancalagon, now larger and more difficult to conceal, became his closest confidant and his greatest weapon. Jon trained with the dragons in the secluded hills, testing their strength and his own control. He discovered he could sense their emotions, their hunger, their rage. When he willed it, Ancalagon breathed fire, scorching the earth in brilliant torrents of flame.
But it wasn't just fire Jon controlled.
The ritual had awakened something within him—a latent Targaryen power that transcended the physical. His dreams became more vivid, filled with visions of the past and future. He could see glimpses of the Long Night, the advancing White Walkers, and even fleeting images of people he had yet to meet. His warging abilities, honed through his bond with Ghost, extended to his dragons. Through their eyes, he soared above the lands, watching, learning, preparing.
Yet, with each display of power, Jon felt the weight of his secrecy pressing down on him. The dragons could not be hidden forever, and the whispers of the stolen eggs had grown louder.
Whispers in the Wind
In the cities of Westeros and Essos, the rumors spread like wildfire.
Three dragon eggs, believed lost to history, had vanished from the estate of Illyrio Mopatis. The magister was livid, his fury spilling into the streets of Pentos as he sent out agents and bounty hunters to track down the thief. Though he had no proof, his suspicions fell upon the shadows of the past—Could it be a Targaryen?
Varys, ever the spider, had his own theories. The master of whispers gathered information from his little birds, piecing together fragments of truth from across the narrow sea. The theft was bold, precise—too much so for a common thief. The involvement of a direwolf in the theft had not gone unnoticed, and Varys, with his knowledge of Westeros's noble houses, knew what that might imply.
But neither Illyrio nor Varys had names. Just shadows and whispers.
For now.
The Ascent of the Dragon
Jon stood atop a rocky outcrop overlooking the bay, the three young dragons circling above him in the twilight sky. Ancalagon roared, his black wings slicing through the air, while Rhaegal, Meleys, and Silverwing followed in his wake, their cries echoing across the barren landscape.
The sight was awe-inspiring—a vision of the future that sent chills down Jon's spine.
He was no longer just a bastard from Winterfell. He was a Targaryen, a dragonlord, and the last hope of a dying world.
But the game was far from over.
As the sun set over Slaver's Bay, Jon tightened his grip on Dark Sister, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Long Night was coming.
And he would meet it with fire and blood.