Jon landed hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as the frozen earth swallowed him whole. Dust and ice rained down, filling the air with a bitter chill. He coughed, wincing at the sharp pain in his ribs. Above, a faint glow of firelight peeked through the hole he had fallen through.
Ghost's distant howl echoed from above.
Jon pushed himself up, eyes adjusting to the darkness. He had fallen into some kind of underground cavern—deep, ancient, untouched by time. The walls were smooth, unnatural, not shaped by wind or ice. He took a cautious step forward, hand tightening around Longclaw's hilt.
A low growl sounded behind him.
Jon turned sharply, blade half-drawn. Ghost had leaped down after him, landing gracefully on the icy floor. The direwolf's eyes glowed faintly as he sniffed the air, ears twitching.
There was something down here.
Jon moved carefully, boots crunching against the frost-covered ground. The cavern stretched forward into darkness, but faint blue light shimmered along the walls. He stepped closer, brushing away layers of frost and dust. What he saw made his breath catch.
Carved into the stone was an ancient sigil—a dragon with outstretched wings, its body coiled like a serpent. Not just any dragon. A three-headed dragon.
The sigil of House Targaryen.
Jon traced the design with his fingers, feeling the grooves left by hands long dead. He had seen the emblem before, on banners, on Daenerys's ships, on the armor of her Unsullied. But here, deep beneath the ice, it felt different. As if it had been waiting.
A soft glow pulsed beneath his hand.
Jon stepped back as the ground trembled slightly. The frost cracked, revealing something buried beneath layers of ice. Slowly, carefully, he brushed away the snow—until his fingers touched something smooth and hard.
An egg.
It was large, nearly the size of his chest, with a surface like hardened scales. Faint veins of red and black ran through it, pulsing with a dim, unnatural glow.
Ghost let out a low whine, stepping closer, sniffing at the egg with cautious curiosity.
Jon swallowed. He had never seen a dragon egg before, but he knew what this was. He had seen Daenerys's dragons. He had heard the stories of how they were born from fire and magic. But those eggs had come from Essos, from the ruins of Valyria.
What was one doing here, buried beneath the ice of the far North?
A chill ran down his spine—not from the cold, but from the weight of destiny pressing upon him. He was not supposed to be here. He was not supposed to find this.
And yet, it felt as if the world had brought him to this moment.
Jon exhaled slowly, then reached out, placing both hands on the egg.
The cavern trembled again, and for the first time in a long while, Jon Snow felt truly afraid.