A/N: Took me a while to figure out how to write Euron. An intresting character and feels a lot like the Joker from DC. Let me know how you liked this interpenetration and hope you enjoy the read and please leave a comment with your review :)
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Year 300 AC
Oakenshield, Shield Islands
Euron Greyjoy's fingers traced the coastline of the Reach on the map spread before him, lingering over Oldtown like a lover's caress. Torchlight danced across the great hall of Lord Hewett's castle, casting long shadows over the newly-hung kraken banners that proclaimed the Shield Islands as conquered territory.
"The Citadel holds more power than all the armies of Westeros combined," Euron told the assembled ironborn captains, his voice smooth as still water. "Knowledge is a weapon sharper than Valyrian steel."
Twenty of his most trusted captains hunched around the table, their weathered faces illuminated by guttering torches. Outside the castle windows, the Iron Fleet rode at anchor in the harbor, black sails furled, waiting like patient predators.
"Let the roses gather their thorns around Highgarden. When they do, we'll pluck the golden rose of Oldtown while it stands unguarded." Euron's pale blue eye gleamed in the torchlight, while his patch covered the other—the eye that had seen too much, or so the whispers went.
Ralf the Limper cleared his throat. "Why divide our strength? We should strike with everything we have."
Euron's smile never reached his eye. "A wise captain knows when to set bait and when to spring the trap." He gestured to the map. "Oldtown is our true prize, but House Tyrell must believe Highgarden is threatened. Their bannermen will rush home to defend their liege lord's seat, leaving the Citadel vulnerable."
"Victarion would never split his forces," grumbled Red Ralf Stonehouse, one of his brother's former captains. "He'd say it invites defeat."
The great hall fell silent. Men shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting between Red Ralf and their king.
Finally, it was getting boring.
Euron's smile widened, blue lips curving beneath his beard. "My brother is sailing to Slaver's Bay to fetch me a dragon queen. He follows my commands, as do you." He stepped closer to Red Ralf, resting a hand on the man's shoulder. "The Citadel holds secrets older than the Iron Islands, older than the First Men. Knowledge that will make us kings of more than just salt and rock."
The captain paled beneath his weather-beaten skin.
"Tell me, Red Ralf," Euron continued, his voice a whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the hall, "have you ever wondered why maesters wear chains? What binds them? What... secrets they keep locked away?"
No one spoke. Even the sea beyond the windows seemed to quiet.
"I have seen things that would turn your bowels to water," Euron said, releasing the captain's shoulder. "Trust that I know the path to power."
The war council concluded shortly after, with Euron assigning specific captains to lead the feint toward Highgarden while reserving the stronger portion of the fleet for Oldtown. As the captains filed out, servants entered bearing platters of food and flagons of wine—plunder from the Shield Islands' stores.
"Eat! Drink!" Euron commanded, settling into Lord Hewett's high seat. "Tomorrow we continue our conquest."
The feast that followed was raucous and crude, befitting ironborn victory. Euron watched it all with detached amusement, sipping wine that had once belonged to the lord whose castle he now occupied.
Falia Flowers entered the hall, naked save for a serving girl's apron that did nothing to hide her swollen belly. She carried a flagon of wine, her eyes downcast as she approached Euron's seat. Her father, Lord Hewett, was bound to a chair at a lower table, forced to watch his bastard daughter serve his conqueror.
"More wine, my king?" she asked, her voice barely audible above the carousing.
Euron's eye traced the curve of her pregnant form. "You serve well, sweet Falia." He held out his cup, watching his captains' reactions. Some leered at her nakedness, others averted their gaze with discomfort. All of them understood the message: everything on these islands belonged to Euron Greyjoy now.
As the night wore on and the wine flowed freely, a curious sensation crept over Euron. A voice, deep and watery, seemed to whisper at the edge of his consciousness.
The tide rises, Crow's Eye. The time approaches.
Euron glanced around, but none of his men appeared to hear it. The voice continued, a cold current beneath his thoughts.
The child you've planted grows strong. Its blood will feed the storm. The mother's tears will swell the tide. Give them to the deep, and I will give you heights no kraken has ever known.
Euron drained his cup, his expression betraying nothing of the voice that whispered promises of power. He had heard such voices before, in distant waters and after drinking shade of the evening. This one spoke of things he had already planned—the blood sacrifice that would ensure his victory.
"Clear the hall," he commanded suddenly. The ironborn looked up in surprise, but none dared question him. "Leave only my trusted few. And you," he pointed to Falia, "remain."
The hall emptied quickly, leaving only Euron, Falia, and three of his most loyal men—those who had seen enough of his sorcery to follow without question.
"Come here," he beckoned to Falia. She approached hesitantly, one hand protectively over her belly.
"You wanted to be my salt wife," Euron said, his voice gentle as he took her trembling hand. "You wanted to be my queen."
"Yes, my king," she whispered, hope flickering in her eyes.
"Instead, you'll be something far greater—the mother of my power, remembered in song long after lesser queens are forgotten." He brushed her cheek with cool fingers. "Our child will open the way to godhood."
Confusion, then dawning horror crossed her face as his meaning became clear.
"Prepare the Silence for a midnight ritual," Euron instructed his men. "The girl is to be bound to the prow."
"The Drowned God will bless our journey with favorable winds," one of his men nodded, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty.
Euron didn't correct him. Let them believe it was for the Drowned God. The truth was far older and darker than the deity the ironborn worshipped.
As his men led a now-sobbing Falia away, Euron retreated to his private chamber. From a locked chest, he withdrew a blue glass bottle of shade of the evening. The thick, inky liquid would show him what was to come.
He drank deeply, the bitter substance staining his lips bluer than before. The visions came quickly—himself seated in the Citadel's great library, surrounded by burning books and broken chains. Maesters knelt before him, their faces contorted in terror. The scene shifted to the top of the Hightower, where he commanded a great storm that swallowed Oldtown whole.
And above, dragons circled.
The vision pleased him. Under a moonless sky, Euron personally supervised Falia's binding to the prow of Silence. Her tears streamed down her face as she begged for mercy, for the life of their child.
"Hush now," he told her, securing the ropes himself. "Your death brings life to my ambitions. There is no greater purpose."
The ritual began as Euron had performed many times before, though never with such a significant sacrifice. As he spoke words in a language older than Valyria, he felt the power building around him. The watery voice returned, stronger now.
The child's blood will feed the storm. Give it to the deep.
When it was done, and the sea ran red with sacrifice, Euron felt a surge of power unlike any before. The voice spoke clearly now, no longer a whisper but a promise in his mind.
You begin to understand, Crow's Eye. But this is merely the first step. More blood. More sacrifice. Then you will rise above all men.
Dawn found Euron returning to his assembled captains, renewed vigor in his step and certainty in his commands. He issued final orders for the feint against Highgarden and the main assault on Oldtown, his blue eye gleaming with the knowledge of what was to come.
Later, he stood alone on the deck of Silence, gazing toward the mainland of Westeros. The Reach would soon know the fury of the ironborn, but more importantly, the power that Euron Greyjoy had claimed for himself.
His blue lips curved into a smile. The storm was coming, and he would be its master.
----------------------------------------------------
Meereen, Slaver's Bay
Victarion stood at the prow of the Iron Victory, salt spray stinging his face as he turned the dragon horn in his hands. Dragonbinder, they called it. Six feet of twisted black metal, banded with red gold and Valyrian steel. The horn's surface was covered in strange glyphs that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.
"Dragons will come when this horn is blown," he muttered to himself, running his fingers along the ancient runes. "Euron gave me this horn to claim the dragons, but Euron gifts are poison."
His blackened hand throbbed as he gripped the horn tighter. The flesh had been charred nearly to bone before Moqorro had healed it with his red god's magic. Now it was stronger than before, though stained the color of soot. Like the horn itself, his hand was both blessing and curse.
The creak of deck planks announced Moqorro's approach. The towering priest's red robes billowed in the wind, flame tattoos seeming to dance across his coal-dark skin.
"The dragons are near, Lord Captain," Moqorro said. "I have seen them in the flames. Two remain in the city while the black one flies with the queen."
Victarion grunted. "Will they answer to this horn as Euron claims?"
"The horn is Valyrian, forged with blood magic and bound to dragons. But there is danger." Moqorro's eyes reflected the setting sun. "The horn kills the man who sounds it. His lungs turn to ash, his throat to cinders."
"Then what use is it to me?" Victarion demanded.
"The horn is bound to blood, Lord Captain. With your blood upon it, the dragons will know their master, even when another's breath gives it voice."
Victarion studied the priest's face for signs of treachery. The red men served strange gods and spoke in riddles, but Moqorro had proven useful. His burned hand flexed unconsciously.
"What must be done?"
Under the cover of night, Moqorro prepared the ritual on the foredeck. The crew kept their distance, muttering prayers to the Drowned God. A bronze bowl sat between them, firelight dancing across its surface.
Moqorro drew a curved blade across Victarion's forearm. Blood welled black in the darkness, dripping into the bowl with a sound like distant rainfall.
The priest began to chant in High Valyrian, words that made Victarion's skin crawl. He dipped his fingers in the blood and traced the glyphs on the horn, each one flaring briefly as the blood touched it.
Victarion felt a strange pull as his blood soaked into the horn, as if some part of him was being drawn into the twisted metal. When Moqorro pressed the horn into his hands, it felt warmer, almost alive.
"It is done," Moqorro said. "The horn is bound to your blood now."
Victarion didn't understand the magic, but he understood power. He would use this horn to take the dragons from Daenerys Targaryen, and then he would take her as his wife. And when that was done, he would turn the dragons on Euron.
Dawn broke to reveal the shores of Slaver's Bay and the great city of Meereen beyond. But what caught Victarion's eye was the battle already in progress—a fleet of ships blockading the harbor, and beyond the walls, the dust clouds of armies clashing.
"The slavers have come for their property," Moqorro observed.
Victarion bared his teeth in what might have been a smile. "Then they'll find only ironborn steel instead."
He called his captains to the deck, issuing swift commands. "We break their line. Ram and board. Take their ships or send them to the Drowned God."
The men roared their approval. This was what the ironborn lived for.
"What is dead may never die!" Victarion bellowed.
"But rises again, harder and stronger!" came the answering cry.
The Iron Fleet struck the blockade like a hammer. Victarion's flagship, the Iron Victory, drove its ram deep into the side of a Yunkai galley. The impact sent men flying from both decks, but the ironborn were ready, their axes and swords already drawn.
Victarion leaped across the gap between ships, his axe swinging. The first slaver died with his skull split, the second with his throat opened. His blackened hand seemed to pulse with each kill, growing stronger as it tasted blood.
All around him, the Iron Fleet was shattering the blockade. Ships burned, men screamed, and the ironborn reaped their bloody harvest. Victarion fought with savage joy, each swing of his axe a prayer to the Drowned God.
By midday, the harbor was theirs. Slaver ships burned or fled, and the ironborn stood victorious. As Victarion wiped blood from his axe, a small boat approached from shore, bearing men in armor unlike the slavers'.
"Second Sons," Moqorro identified them. "Sellswords who fought for the dragon queen but turned their cloaks."
The sellsword captain, a grizzled man with a face like weathered leather, climbed aboard. "You've made quite an entrance. The name's Brown Ben Plumm."
"Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet."
"You've bloodied the slavers' nose, but there's an army still at the gates. For the right price, the Second Sons might remember where their true loyalties lie."
Victarion considered the man. Sellswords were faithless by nature, but useful when pointed at an enemy.
"Help me break the siege, and you'll have gold enough to make your men rich."
The combined attack caught the besiegers completely by surprise. The ironborn and Second Sons struck from behind while the defenders sallied from the gates. Caught between hammer and anvil, the slavers' army began to crumble.
Victarion fought at the front, his axe rising and falling in a rhythm of death. His black hand throbbed with each kill, as if drinking in the slaughter. Men fled before him, their courage broken by his relentless advance.
By nightfall, the siege was broken. The remaining slavers retreated in disarray, leaving their dead and wounded behind. Victarion stood amid the carnage, blood-spattered but unbowed, as the gates of Meereen opened to receive their saviors.
The Great Pyramid of Meereen rose like a mountain of stone at the city's heart. Victarion climbed its endless steps, his captains following behind. At the summit, the ruling council awaited—old men and eunuchs playing at governance while their queen was gone.
An aged knight with a white beard rose to greet them. "I am Ser Barristan Selmy, Hand of Queen Daenerys. Meereen thanks you for your timely aid, Lord Greyjoy."
Victarion sized up the old knight. His reputation had reached even the Iron Islands—Barristan the Bold, they called him. Old now, but still dangerous.
"I bring you ships, swords, and victory," Victarion declared. "In return, I will have your queen when she returns."
A ripple of tension passed through the council. The shaven-headed leader of the Unsullied—Grey Worm, they called him—remained expressionless, but his hand tightened on his spear. Beside him, a Ghiscari noble with a shaved head scowled openly.
"Queen Daenerys alone will decide whom she weds, Captain," Barristan replied diplomatically. "But the people of Meereen are grateful for your timely intervention against our enemies."
Before Victarion could respond, a commotion arose outside. The council members turned toward the windows, their faces registering shock. Victarion followed their gaze and felt his heart hammer against his ribs.
Two massive dragons circled the pyramid, their wingspans blocking out the sun as they passed. One was cream and gold, the other green and bronze. Their scales glittered in the sunlight, their movements as graceful as they were terrifying.
"Rhaegal and Viserion," someone whispered.
Victarion felt the dragonhorn at his belt grow warm, as if responding to the creatures' presence. Soon, he thought. Soon they would be his.
"My offer stands," he said, turning back to the council with renewed confidence. "The Iron Fleet will defend Meereen against all enemies. When Daenerys Targaryen returns, she will find her city secure—and a worthy husband waiting."
Ser Barristan's face remained impassive. "We thank you for your protection, Lord Captain. But as I said, such decisions must await the queen's return."
Later, alone on a balcony high in the pyramid, Victarion watched the dragons soar between the city's ancient buildings. His hand rested on the dragonhorn, feeling its power thrumming beneath his fingers.
Not yet, he decided. Let them think him merely an ally for now. When the time was right—when Daenerys returned—he would reveal his true strength. The dragons would be his, and through them, the queen as well.
His blackened hand clenched as he imagined Euron's face when he learned his gift had become his doom. What is dead may never die, brother, he thought. But you will.
----------------------------------------------------
Castle Black, The Wall
The wind howled against the Wall, driving snow into drifts that piled against the ancient ice. Jon hovered before Castle Black's northern gate, his massive obsidian form casting a shadow over the small tribe of Free Folk huddled in his wake. Swirling snowflakes melted before they touched his scales, steam rising from his hide as he addressed the group.
"The choice is simple," Jon rumbled, his dragon voice carrying despite the wind. "Accept these terms and live behind the safety of the Wall, or find your own way past it. Winter cares not for your pride."
His words hung in the frigid air. The Free Folk would join the Night's Watch in manning the Wall and fight in southern conflicts if called upon—the same agreement other wildlings had accepted. Harsh terms, but necessary ones. Though he would not ask them for hostages this time.
He remembered how he'd once demanded child hostages from Tormund's people—sons and daughters held at Castle Black to ensure compliance.
No need for that now, he thought. They fear what I've become more than any oath or threat.
The irony wasn't lost on him. As Lord Commander, he'd struggled to make the Watch and wildlings trust each other. Now, as a dragon, he commanded obedience through terror. It wasn't the unity he'd dreamed of, but perhaps fear of him was better than their fear of each other.
At least fear of me might keep them alive through winter.
The tribe's leader, a weathered man with frost clinging to his thick beard, turned to his people. They numbered barely eighty—mostly women, children, and elders, with only a handful of fighting men. Jon saw the resignation in their eyes. They'd survived too much to die from stubborn pride.
Murmurs of discontent rippled through the group. A younger man spat in the snow, while an old woman clutched a child closer to her chest. But none voiced outright refusal.
The leader turned back to Jon, his expression hard but pragmatic. "We'll take your terms, dragon." He nodded once, grudgingly, maintaining what dignity he could. "Better to bend the knee than feed the Others."
"Wait here," Jon instructed. "I'll speak with the Watch."
With a powerful thrust of his wings, Jon rose into the air. The tribe shrank below him as he ascended to eye level with the sentries manning the Wall's ramparts. His dragon senses picked up details no human eyes could discern—the rapid heartbeats of the black-clad figures, the sour smell of their sweat cutting through the cold, the trembling of hands on crossbows.
"Brothers of the Night's Watch," Jon called out, his voice echoing against the ice. "I am Jon Snow, your Lord Commander."
The effect was immediate. Several men stumbled backward. One dropped to his knees, making frantic signs to ward off evil. Others stood frozen, crossbows half-raised but fingers unwilling to pull triggers.
"Gods be good," one whispered. "He has returned."
A stockier figure stepped forward—Jon recognized him as Rory, a ranger who'd served at Castle Black for nearly a decade.
"Lord Commander Snow died," Rory challenged, voice quavering despite his defiance. "What are you?"
Jon ignored the question. Time for explanations would come later.
"Open the gates," he commanded. "The Free Folk below have agreed to the same terms as the others. They will help man the Wall and fight when needed."
"We've scarce enough bread for our own men," Rory countered. "The Lord Commander would understand that."
Heat flared beneath Jon's scales, frustration building. These were his own men, yet they looked at him with the same fear they'd reserve for the Others. The Wall itself seemed to respond to his anger, droplets of water beading on its surface nearest to him.
"I am still Jon Snow," he growled, scales rippling with barely contained fury. "I am still your Lord Commander. And I have not forgotten my duty to the realms of men."
The brothers exchanged nervous glances, unconvinced.
Jon's patience snapped. He drew himself up, chest expanding, and released a thunderous roar that shook the very Wall. Icicles crashed down around the sentries as they covered their ears in pain. The sound reverberated across the frozen landscape, a declaration of power that required no translation.
"Open. The. Gates."
The display had its intended effect. The brothers scrambled to obey, shouting orders down to the courtyard. Ancient mechanisms groaned to life, and the massive gates began to inch open.
Jon descended to hover protectively over the Free Folk as they approached the tunnel. They moved cautiously, maintaining distance from both the black brothers and their dragon escort. Children stared up at Jon with a mixture of fear and wonder as they passed beneath him.
Once the last wildling had entered the tunnel, Jon soared over the top of the Wall. The familiar sensation of crossing that boundary—from the true north to the lands he'd always called home—felt different now. The Wall's magic tingled across his scales, acknowledging him as something neither fully human nor fully beast.
He descended into Castle Black's southern courtyard, sending men scattering in all directions. Horses reared in terror, breaking free of their handlers. A cart overturned as its owner abandoned it. Training exercises ceased instantly as all eyes turned skyward.
Through the chaos, Jon spotted Edd standing alongside Tormund, Melisandre, several Watch officers and the kings men. Unlike the others, they stepped forward rather than back, though caution marked their approach.
Jon landed with surprising grace for his massive size, claws digging into the frozen ground. Steam rose around him as snow melted beneath his heat.
"Jon?" Tormund called out, his voice carrying a hint of uncertainty despite his boldness.
Melisandre's eyes gleamed with fervent belief, while the Watch officers hovered between curiosity and terror. Several kept their hands on their sword hilts.
Jon had no interest in addressing them all. His gaze fixed on Edd, whose familiar face showed the strain of recent days.
"We need to speak," Jon said, his voice quieter but no less commanding. "Alone."
Protests erupted immediately. Tormund stepped forward, insisting on being included. Melisandre spoke of prophecies and visions that demanded interpretation. The officers muttered about security and protocol.
A deep, thunderous rumble emanated from Jon's throat, vibrating the very air around them as tendrils of dark smoke began to curl from his nostrils, rising in ominous spirals against the cold northern sky. The acrid scent of brimstone mingled with the crisp winter air, a physical manifestation of the frustration building within his massive draconic form which seemed to quiet the crowd.
Jon ignored them all, his red eyes never leaving Edd's face. The message was clear—this was not a request.
After a moment, Edd nodded and approached. Jon lowered his massive clawed hand to the ground before his friend causing all by Edd to take a few steps back. Edd eyed it warily, then climbed on with some difficulty.
"If you drop me, I'll come back to haunt you," Edd muttered, his gallows humor intact despite everything.
Jon felt a surge of gratitude for this man who still treated him as Jon Snow, not merely as a monster. With careful movements, he lifted Edd and took flight again, ignoring the shouts from below.
They flew for nearly a league before Jon found a suitable clearing among the trees. He landed gently, setting Edd down before turning his great head to face his friend.
The time had come for truth—about the Night's Watch, the North, and the war that would determine the fate of Westeros. Jon could only hope that Edd would understand what needed to be done.