The wind was cold and whispering. It swept across the Narrow Sea like memory—sharp, invisible, and unrelenting. Jon Snow stood at the prow of the ship, silver streaks in his dark hair catching moonlight, eyes narrowed on the horizon. Dragonstone lay ahead. But his mind was far from the waves.
He needed a bride. Not for love. For legacy. For men. For power, that would come later. He had the dragon. Soon, he'd have a seat of power. But Westeros would not kneel to myth alone. He needed a queen who would bring armies and loyalty—who would bind the realm to his cause.
His thoughts drifted across the map of Westeros.
The North. Sansa. Strong. Respected. Cold. Their shared blood complicated things, but politically, it made sense. Yet would she ever trust the brother who left? The man who returned not as a wolf, but something more?
The Vale.No strong queen, but potential. The knights of the Eyrie were still proud, still dangerous. Marriage into one of their houses could bring numbers, but not true strength
The Stormlands.Storm's End belonged to Gendry now, Baratheon in name. He may have sisters or relativesmarrying one would give Jon the blood of Robert and the fury of the storm. A powerful symbol. A blunt alliance.
Dorne.Rulerless. Unpredictable. But Dornish women held power, and a marriage here could cement the South. Yet Dorne did not love dragons. It would be a marriage of thorns.
The Iron Islands.Yara. Fierce. Loyal. A bond of fire and sea. But she would never bow. And their unity, though powerful, would never be stable. Salt and fire were oil and spark.
The Hightowers. Ancient, rich, respected. Quiet, but dangerous in their own way. A daughter of their house might lend credibility. A southern alliance of old prestige and new fire.
Too many roads all winding. Not easy. But he would choose. When the throne was ready. When the world was watching. The sea shifted beneath them. Tormund approached. "Smell that? Stone's close." Jon nodded. "Dragonstone." They arrived in silence. Drogon landed first, gliding low and vanishing into the volcanic caves behind the castle—like a creature returning to a forgotten nest. Jon disembarked Ghost padded beside him. Tormund followed with wary steps. No guards. No torches. The gates stood open. The fortress was empty. Not welcoming—abandoned. Jon walked through the halls slowly, the walls pressing in with old ghosts. The air was heavy with ash, the bones of fire long gone. Daenerys had once walked these stones. So had Stannis. So had princesses and monsters alike. Since Ageon, The Quonqueors' time
The throne room waited in silence. He stepped inside. Ghost stayed close. Tormund hung back. The throne was black stone, carved like molten teeth. Not the Iron Throne. But older. Pure. The true seat of House Targaryen. Jon approached. He laid a hand on it. and sat in it
Here, it would begin.
From this place, the future would rise.
And somewhere, in some corner of Westeros, a queen was waiting.
Not for love.
For war.
For what would come next.