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Dawn painted the Godswood as Jon and Yennefer made their way through the ancient trees. Steam rose from the hot springs. Jon's boots crunched softly on fallen leaves as he led Yennefer to their usual training spot.
"We should be safe here," Jon said, surveying the familiar space. The heart tree was visible in the distance, its carved face a silent witness to their secret sessions.
Yennefer nodded, her violet eyes scanning their surroundings. "Begin with what you mastered yesterday," she instructed, her voice carrying that particular blend of authority and encouragement that always made Jon stand a little straighter.
Taking a deep breath, Jon extended his hand, palm up. He focused on the familiar warmth in his chest, coaxing it forward rather than forcing it. A small flame appeared above his palm, flickering gently in the morning breeze.
"Good," Yennefer murmured, circling him with measured steps. "Now shape it. Remember, feel rather than think."
Jon narrowed his eyes in concentration. The flame wavered, then began to change—elongating, splitting, reforming. Within moments, a miniature wolf prowled across his palm, its fiery tail swishing as it moved.
"Seven hells," Jon whispered, amazed at his own creation despite having practiced this very exercise for days. "It looks almost alive."
The fire-wolf raised its tiny muzzle and let out a silent howl before dissolving back into a simple flame. Sweat beaded on Jon's forehead from the effort, but he maintained the fire's intensity.
"Impressive," Yennefer said, genuine pride in her voice. "Your control has improved dramatically." She came to stand before him, close enough that he could smell her signature scent of lilac and gooseberries. "Today, we'll try something more challenging."
Jon raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "More challenging than creating fire-wolves?"
"Maintaining your focus while distracted," she replied with a mischievous smile that made his heart rate quicken. "In battle, you won't have the luxury of perfect concentration. You'll need to control your fire while your attention is divided."
Jon nodded, understanding the logic. "What did you have in mind?"
Yennefer's eyes sparkled with mirth. "I'll provide the distraction. You maintain the flame—keep it steady, neither growing nor diminishing." She stepped closer, her fingers trailing along his arm. "And for added difficulty, shape it into a dragon."
Jon swallowed hard, already feeling distracted by her proximity. "A dragon? I've never attempted anything that complex."
"Then today seems like an excellent day to try," Yennefer replied, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "Unless you don't think you're ready?"
The challenge in her tone sparked something in Jon. "I'm ready," he said with more confidence than he felt.
He closed his eyes briefly, centering himself, then reopened them and summoned the flame once more. This time, he envisioned the shape before creating it—wings, a sinuous neck, a spiked tail. The fire responded to his will, twisting and reshaping itself until a crude dragon hovered above his palm.
"Not bad," Yennefer murmured, beginning to circle him again. "But focus on the details—scales, claws, the membranes of its wings."
Jon concentrated harder, refining the shape. The dragon became more defined—individual scales glinted along its back, its wings developed delicate, translucent membranes, its eyes glowed with fierce intelligence.
"Much better," Yennefer approved. "Now maintain it while I... test your focus."
She began to speak in a low, seductive tone about things they might do later in her chambers, describing in vivid detail how she would remove his clothing piece by piece. Jon felt heat rising to his face that had nothing to do with his fire magic. The flame-dragon wavered dangerously.
"Steady," Yennefer reminded him, her breath warm against his ear. "Control your reactions, channel that energy into the flame instead of letting it disrupt your focus."
Jon gritted his teeth, struggling to maintain concentration as Yennefer continued her verbal assault on his senses. The dragon stabilized, though its tail whipped more vigorously, reflecting his agitation.
"The Wild Hunt would use far worse distractions," Yennefer said, abruptly shifting to a more serious topic. "They'll exploit any weakness, any momentary lapse in concentration."
Jon nodded, grateful for the change in subject. "What exactly are their abilities? You've mentioned they hunt across worlds, but what powers do they possess?"
Yennefer's expression darkened. "They command ice and frost, can summon blizzards in the height of summer. Their spectral hounds can track prey across impossible distances." She paused, watching as Jon's dragon began to fly in small circles above his palm. "But their most dangerous ability is their capacity to step between worlds, appearing and disappearing at will."
"Like how you arrived here?" Jon asked, his curiosity momentarily overriding his concentration. The dragon's wings faltered, and he quickly refocused.
"Similar, but with far greater control," Yennefer confirmed. "I was brought here by accident—a spell gone wrong. They travel deliberately, precisely."
Jon considered this, the flame-dragon now soaring in tighter formations. "Last night, I had another dream," he admitted, his voice low. "The same one I've had three times this week."
Yennefer's eyebrow arched with interest. "Tell me."
"I saw a woman with eyes like mine—purple, I mean. She was in some kind of palace with open courtyards and pools of water. There were orange trees everywhere." Jon shook his head, struggling to recall the details. "She was reading scrolls, then suddenly she looked up, as if she could see me watching her."
"Did she speak?" Yennefer asked, her tone carefully neutral.
"No, but I felt... connected to her somehow. Like we shared something important." The dragon in his palm flared brighter for a moment. "It wasn't like a normal dream. It felt real."
Yennefer was silent for a moment, her violet eyes thoughtful. "It could be significant. Those with magical bloodlines sometimes develop psychic connections, especially when their powers are awakening simultaneously."
"You think she's real? That I'm somehow seeing someone else with... abilities like mine?"
"It's possible." Yennefer moved to stand directly before him. "Orange trees suggest somewhere southern—Dorne, perhaps, or across the Narrow Sea. If the Wild Hunt is hunting someone else with power, this could be them."
Jon frowned, the dragon momentarily flickering as his concentration wavered. "But why would I be connected to her? I've never been south of Winterfell."
"Blood calls to blood," Yennefer said softly, almost to herself. "Particularly when that blood carries magic." She refocused on Jon. "We'll discuss this more later. For now, let's see how long you can maintain that dragon while properly distracted."
Yennefer's eyes gleamed with sudden playfulness as she moved closer, trailing her fingers along his arm. "I have something rather... unorthodox in mind."
"Unorthodox?" Jon questioned, his dragon flame flickering slightly as she stepped into his personal space.
"Your enemies will use any means to break your concentration," Yennefer whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "Some distractions are more... pleasant than others, but no less dangerous if you allow them to control you."
Before Jon could question her further, Yennefer slowly dropped to her knees before him, her violet eyes never leaving his. Jon's breath caught in his throat as understanding dawned.
"Maintain the dragon," she instructed, her voice husky with desire. "Keep it flying, keep it steady, and whatever you do—don't let the flame die."
Jon swallowed hard, the flame-dragon above his palm already wavering dangerously as Yennefer's deft fingers began unfastening the laces of his breeches.
"I... don't think this is what most teachers have in mind for concentration exercises," he managed, fighting to keep his voice steady.
Yennefer laughed softly, the sound sending shivers up his spine. "I'm not most teachers," she reminded him, freeing his already hardening length from its confines. She gazed up at him with unmistakable hunger. "And you, Jon Snow, are certainly not most students."
Her fingers wrapped around his impressive shaft, stroking slowly as she admired it. "Nine inches of Northern steel," she purred appreciatively. "Who would have thought the quiet Wolf of Winterfell was hiding such a weapon?"
Jon's face flushed with embarrassment and arousal, the flame-dragon in his palm lurching drunkenly through the air. "Yenn... we're in the Godswood," he protested weakly.
"All the more reason to maintain your focus," she replied with a wicked smile. "Unless you want the Old Gods to witness you losing control?"
With that challenge issued, Yennefer leaned forward and placed a deliberate kiss on the tip of his cock. Jon hissed through clenched teeth, the dragon flame briefly flaring larger before he wrestled it back into shape.
"Good," Yennefer praised, giving him a teasing lick from base to tip. "Channel the energy, don't fight it. Let it flow through you and into your creation."
Jon nodded, struggling to follow her instructions as she began exploring him with her tongue—tracing veins, circling the sensitive head, teasing the underside with feather-light touches. The dragon above his palm began to fly in more erratic patterns, matching his quickening heartbeat.
"Remember to breathe," Yennefer instructed, pausing her ministrations briefly. "Control comes from within. Your body's reactions are just another form of energy to be harnessed."
Taking a deep breath, Jon focused on steadying the flame creature. It was working—until Yennefer wrapped her lips around him properly and took him into the wet heat of her mouth.
"Seven fucking hells," he groaned, nearly losing the spell completely. The dragon dipped alarmingly before recovering, now flying in tight, agitated circles.
Yennefer hummed appreciatively around his shaft, sending vibrations through his core. She pulled back with a soft pop, stroking him with her hand as she smiled up at him. "I do love when you curse," she teased. "So wild for the honorable Jon Snow."
"Hard to be honorable with you on your knees before me," Jon retorted, his voice rough with desire.
"Yet your dragon still flies," she pointed out, nodding at the flame creature that continued its aerial dance above his outstretched palm. "You're doing remarkably well."
Before he could reply, she took him deeper, her head bobbing slowly as she established a rhythm. Jon bit his lip, fighting the urge to close his eyes and lose himself in the sensation. The dragon above his palm began to glow brighter, its wings beating more steadily as Jon channeled his mounting pleasure into his magical creation.
Yennefer pulled back, her lips glistening. "Delicious," she murmured, hand still working his length. "You taste like winter and fire all at once. Like nothing else in any world I've visited."
Jon struggled to maintain his composure as she altered her technique, taking just the head into her mouth and sucking gently while her tongue swirled over the sensitive tip. His free hand moved of its own accord to tangle in her raven locks.
"Sorry," he mumbled, trying to withdraw, but Yennefer caught his wrist.
"Don't apologize," she said, guiding his hand back to her hair. "Guide me. Show me what pleases you most." Her violet eyes flashed with challenge. "Just keep that dragon flying."
Jon tentatively tightened his grip in her hair, directing her movements as she resumed her ministrations. The feeling of control—both over her actions and his magic—created an intoxicating feedback loop of power and pleasure.
"You're magnificent like this," Yennefer said between long, slow licks. "Standing in the ancient place of your gods, wielding fire while being pleasured by a sorceress from another world." She grinned wickedly. "What would the honorable Ned Stark say?"
"Please don't mention my father right now," Jon groaned, making her laugh—a sound that quickly turned to a moan as she took him impossibly deep, her throat relaxing to accommodate his considerable length.
The dragon above Jon's palm was now performing elaborate aerial maneuvers—diving, spinning, and soaring with newfound grace. Far from disrupting his focus, Jon found the dual sensations of pleasure and magic feeding into each other, enhancing both experiences.
"Your control is... impressive," Yennefer observed, pausing to catch her breath. Her hand continued stroking him, slick with her saliva. "Most men would have lost the spell entirely by now."
"I have a demanding teacher," Jon replied with a half-smile. "One who accepts nothing less than perfection."
"Mmm, flattery will get you everywhere," she purred, before swallowing him down again, her pace increasing.
Jon's breathing grew ragged as pleasure coiled tighter in his core. The flame-dragon responded to his mounting arousal, its fire burning hotter, its movements more precise and powerful. Despite the growing tension in his body, Jon maintained remarkable control over his creation.
"Yenn," he warned, feeling his climax approaching. "I can't... much longer..."
She pulled back just enough to speak, her hand still working him steadily. "Remember what I taught you about redirecting energy? This is no different." Her eyes locked with his, challenging and encouraging all at once. "Channel it. Use it. Make your dragon stronger as you reach your peak."
Jon nodded, focusing intently as Yennefer resumed her skilled attentions. The pressure built within him—both magical and physical—until he stood on the precipice of release. With a final groan, he surrendered to the pleasure while simultaneously pouring his energy into the flame-dragon.
As ecstasy washed over him, the dragon above his palm exploded in size and detail, transforming from a small creation to a magnificent beast that momentarily filled the clearing with light and heat before dissolving into harmless sparks that rained down around them.
Yennefer swallowed every drop he offered, her eyes never leaving his face as she watched his expression of mingled pleasure and triumph. When she finally pulled away, she looked as satisfied as if she'd been the one pleasured.
"Now that," she said, rising gracefully to her feet, "is what I call mastering your focus under distraction."
Jon laughed breathlessly, still trembling from the intensity of his release. "If that's how all our training sessions will end, I might become the most powerful fire-wielder in history."
Yennefer straightened her dress with a smirk. "Consider it positive reinforcement." She reached up to brush a strand of hair from his flushed face. "Though I must say, your dragon at the moment of climax was... spectacular. Far beyond what I expected."
"I felt connected to it in a way I haven't before," Jon admitted, refastening his breeches. "Like the pleasure somehow amplified the magic."
"Passion and power are often linked," Yennefer explained, her scholarly tone at odds with their recent activities. "In my world, many spells are cast through moments of extreme emotion—including pleasure."
Jon's eyes darkened with renewed interest. "Perhaps I should return the favor, then? See what magic you might conjure at the height of pleasure?"
"You know," she said, undoing the laces of her bodice, "in my world, some believe making love in sacred places heightens one's connection to magical forces."
Jon's eyes tracked her elegant fingers as they worked the complex knots of her clothing. "Is that why you insisted on continuing our... activities here today?" he asked, his voice already rough with desire.
Yennefer laughed, the sound musical and seductive in the quiet sanctuary of the Godswood. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply enjoy the way you look at me when you're trying not to want me in a place you consider holy."
The dress slipped from her shoulders, revealing the creamy expanse of her skin, interrupted only by the black leather boots she still wore—thigh-high. Jon swallowed hard at the sight of her standing there, gloriously naked except for those boots, her full breasts rising and falling with each breath, pink nipples already hardened in the cool air.
"Seven hells, Yenn," he breathed, drinking in her beauty. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
"I have some notion," she replied with a smirk, her gaze dropping meaningfully to the obvious bulge in his breeches. "Though I'd prefer a more... hands-on demonstration."
Jon moved toward her, shedding the last of the hesitation that had marked their first encounters. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, one hand tangling in her raven hair while the other traced the curve of her waist. Yennefer melted against him, her naked body pressing against his still-clothed form.
"You're overdressed, Lord Snow," she murmured against his lips, her nimble fingers already working at the ties of his jerkin.
"And you," he countered, pulling back to appreciate her state of undress, "are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." His hand slid down to caress the supple leather of her boot. "Though I admit, I'm curious why you kept these on."
Yennefer's smile turned wicked. "You'll understand soon enough."
They made quick work of his clothing, garments falling carelessly to the forest floor until Jon stood as naked as his lover, his muscled form golden in the fading light. His cock stood proudly between them, thick and hard with wanting her.
"Touch me," Yennefer commanded with a growing desperation.
Jon needed no further invitation. His hands explored her body with hunger—cupping the weight of her breasts, thumbs brushing over sensitive nipples, fingers tracing the curve of her hip. He lowered his head to take one peaked nipple into his mouth, sucking gently before grazing it with his teeth. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure through Yennefer, who arched into his touch with a moan that seemed too loud for the sacred space.
"Someone will hear," Jon warned halfheartedly, moving his attention to her other breast.
"Let them," Yennefer gasped, her head falling back as pleasure coursed through her. "Let all of Winterfell know how well the Bastard of Winterfell pleasures his sorceress."
Something stirred in Jon at her words—a possessive pride he'd never felt before meeting this woman from another world. His hands grew bolder, one sliding between her thighs to find her already slick with desire. He circled her entrance teasingly before slipping a finger inside her tight heat, then another, curling them to stroke that spot within her that never failed to make her tremble.
"Jon," she moaned, her hips rocking against his hand. "Gods, don't tease me today. I need you—"
Her words dissolved into a gasp as Jon withdrew his fingers only to press her back against the nearest tree, lifting her with surprising strength. Instinctively, Yennefer wrapped her leather-clad legs around his waist, the smooth material creating a delicious friction against his bare skin. The position aligned them perfectly, his cock sliding through her wet folds without penetrating.
"Now I understand the boots," Jon murmured appreciatively, feeling the leather dig into his lower back as she crossed her ankles behind him.
"Clever boy," Yennefer purred, rolling her hips to increase the maddening friction. "Now, are you going to make me beg, or are you going to fuck me properly against this tree?"
Jon's control snapped at her words. He shifted his hips and thrust forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt inside her. The sensation was overwhelming—her tight, wet heat enveloping him completely, her inner walls clenching around him as if reluctant to let him withdraw even for another thrust. He groaned against her neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin there as he struggled to maintain his composure.
"Yes," Yennefer hissed, her nails digging into his shoulders. "Just like that. Hard and deep, Jon Snow."
He established a relentless rhythm, each thrust driving her back against the rough bark of the tree. Jon knew it must be uncomfortable, perhaps even painful, but Yennefer's moans held nothing but pleasure as she urged him on with breathless demands and filthy encouragements.
"Harder," she commanded, tightening her legs around him, the leather boots creaking with each movement. "Make me feel it tomorrow. Make me remember who I belong to when I'm sitting at your father's table."
The image she conjured—of her sitting primly at dinner, still feeling the evidence of their passion—nearly undid him. Jon growled low in his throat, adjusting his grip on her thighs to angle deeper, striking that spot inside her that made her walls clench rhythmically around him.
"Is this what you wanted?" he rasped against her ear, surprising himself with his boldness. "To be fucked like this in the sight of the old gods?"
"Yes," Yennefer moaned shamelessly, her head thrown back in abandon. "Gods, yes. You feel so good inside me, so big, stretching me just right—"
Her words devolved into incoherent sounds of pleasure as Jon increased his pace, driving into her with a force that would have concerned him if not for her enthusiastic response. The sounds of their coupling echoed through the Godswood—skin against skin, the wet sounds of their connection, their mingled moans and gasps.
Jon felt the familiar tightening in his core, the pressure building with each thrust. But he was determined to bring Yennefer to her peak first. He shifted slightly, changing the angle so the base of his cock rubbed against her sensitive bud with each movement.
"Jon," she gasped, violet eyes flying open to meet his. "I'm close, so close—don't stop—"
"Never," he promised, increasing his pace despite the burning in his muscles. "Come for me, Yenn. Let me feel you."
As if his words were the permission she needed, Yennefer shattered around him, her inner walls clamping down on his length as waves of pleasure washed over her. She didn't try to muffle her cries, her voice echoing through the Godswood as she called his name like a prayer.
The sight of her coming undone, combined with the exquisite pressure of her climax around him, pushed Jon over the edge. He buried himself as deep as possible inside her and surrendered to his release, pleasure exploding through his body in white-hot pulses. Each throb sent sparks dancing behind his eyelids, his vision momentarily overwhelmed by the intensity of his climax.
For long moments, they remained joined, breathless and trembling in the aftermath. Jon rested his forehead against hers, their shared breath mingling in the cooling evening air. Slowly, carefully, he lowered her feet to the ground, steadying her as her legs—even with the support of the boots—threatened to give way beneath her.
"Well," Yennefer said when she finally caught her breath, a satisfied smile playing at her swollen lips, "I believe we've thoroughly scandalized your Old Gods today."
Jon couldn't help but laugh. "If they didn't strike us down for what we did this morning, I think we're safe."
He helped her gather her scattered clothing. Yennefer made no move to remove her boots, instead simply slipping her dress back over her head, the fabric clinging to her still-damp skin.
"You know," she said conversationally as she worked to lace up her bodice, "in my world, some sorceresses believe that sex magic is among the most powerful forms of spellcasting."
Jon raised an eyebrow as he pulled on his own breeches. "Is that so?"
"Mmm," she nodded, smoothing her skirts. "The release of energy during climax can be harnessed for various magical purposes." Her violet eyes gleamed with mischief. "Perhaps that explains the strange weather today."
Jon glanced up, noticing for the first time that the sky above the Godswood had turned an unusual shade of purple-gold.
"Are you saying we did that?" he asked, gesturing upward, equal parts alarmed and fascinated.
Yennefer laughed. Jon loved hearing that sound. "Probably not," she admitted. "But it's a lovely thought, isn't it? That our passion might literally move the heavens?"
Jon shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips as he finished dressing. "With you, Yenn, I'm beginning to believe anything is possible."
She stepped closer, trailing her fingers along his jawline. "A wise perspective, Jon Snow." Her expression softened into something almost vulnerable. "Though I must say, magic or no magic, what happens between us is... extraordinary."
Jon caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm—a gesture far more tender than their recent passionate coupling. "On that, my lady, we are in complete agreement."
Rhaenys Targaryen
The morning sun cast long shadows across the Water Gardens as Rhaenys—known to most as Rhae Sand—leaned against a marble column, her purple eyes focused on a young servant boy arranging fruits on a silver platter. She concentrated, narrowing her gaze, reaching out with that strange new awareness that had awakened.
Focus on his thoughts. Just the surface. Like skimming water with fingertips.
A whisper of sensation brushed against her mind—nervousness, concern about dropping the platter, a flash of irritation at another servant who had criticized his work. Nothing deep, nothing coherent, just... feelings.
"Careful with the blood oranges," Rhaenys called out, just as the boy was about to place one precariously atop the arrangement. "Prince Doran prefers them placed along the edges."
The servant startled, wide-eyed. "Yes, my lady. How did you...?"
Rhaenys offered a mysterious smile. "I notice things."
As he hurried away, she pressed two fingers against her temple. A dull ache had begun to form there—the price of her experimentation. Each attempt left her a little more drained than the last.
Time to try someone more challenging.
She shifted her attention to one of the Martell guards standing at rigid attention near the entrance to the gardens. A warrior's mind might be more disciplined, more difficult to access. Perfect for testing her limits.
Rhaenys closed her eyes briefly, focusing her concentration. This time, she pushed harder, imagining fingers of thought reaching toward the man's consciousness.
...shift ends at midday... damned heat... wonder if Myra will be at the tavern tonight...
Fragmented thoughts, louder now, more distinct than the boy's emotions. Rhaenys felt a small thrill of success, but it quickly faded as a sharp pain lanced through her head. She winced, instinctively pulling back.
I can grasp surface thoughts, but not memories. Nothing deeper. Nothing from the past.
She spent the next hour moving from target to target around the gardens—a handmaiden, another guard, a visiting merchant. Each attempt refined her understanding of her strange new gift, but each also increased the throbbing behind her eyes.
As midday approached, Rhaenys found herself near Prince Doran's private solar, intending to rest in the shade of a nearby alcove. Two voices drifted through the partially open window, and she recognized them immediately—uncle Doran and her uncle Oberyn.
"—still concerned about the Velaryon knight," Doran was saying, his voice low but clear in the still air. "His questions are too pointed."
"And yet he makes no direct inquiries about Rhaenys," Oberyn replied. "Only vague references to dragon's blood."
Rhaenys crept closer, pulse quickening. She pressed herself against the warm stone wall.
"He mentioned Lyanna Stark yesterday," Doran said, causing Rhaenys to freeze in place. "Asked if I believed the stories about Rhaegar and her."
Rhaenys frowned. Lyanna Stark? But why would a Velaryon knight care about a woman dead for nearly fifteen years?
She had never believed the tales Robert Baratheon had spread about her father. Rhaegar Targaryen, a rapist? Her father, who sang to her and played the harp? Impossible. And yet, Lyanna's name still sparked bitter feelings. Whatever had happened between them had destroyed everything—her family, her birthright, her identity.
When she tried to focus her newfound ability on the men inside, hoping to catch their unspoken thoughts, a sudden, stabbing pain shot through her skull. Rhaenys gasped, stumbling backward. Something warm trickled from her nose, and when she touched it, her fingers came away red with blood.
"Rhae? Gods, what happened?"
Arianne Martell stood before her, lovely face twisted with concern. Her cousin moved quickly to support Rhaenys, leading her to a nearby bench hidden among flowering vines.
"It's nothing," Rhaenys said, accepting the handkerchief Arianne pressed into her palm. "Just the heat."
Arianne's dark eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me. You've been acting strange for days now. Distant. Distracted. And now you're bleeding for no reason?"
Rhaenys dabbed at her nose, considering her options. Of all people, Arianne might understand. They had shared everything since childhood—secrets, dreams, kisses when they were sure no one was watching.
"If I tell you something impossible," Rhaenys whispered, "will you think I've gone mad?"
Arianne took her hand, squeezing it gently. "Rhaenys, you are already mad." Arianne joked but she must have seen her pointed look, and she raised her hands almost in surrender. "I promise, now what's wrong."
Despite herself, Rhaenys laughed. "I can... hear things. Not with my ears. With my mind."
Arianne blinked, expression frozen somewhere between disbelief and fascination. "You mean... thoughts? You can hear thoughts?"
"Not exactly. Feelings, mostly. Surface thoughts. Nothing deep." Rhaenys shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "It started last week ago. I was reading those old Valyrian texts and—"
"Wait," Arianne interrupted, eyes wide with excitement. "Can you hear mine right now? What am I thinking?"
Rhaenys smiled at her cousin's enthusiasm. "It doesn't work that well. And it hurts to try too much. That's why my nose was bleeding."
"But you're actually reading minds? Like in the stories about the ancient Valyrians?" Arianne's voice rose with each question, childlike wonder overtaking her usual composure. "Can you control animals too? Move objects? What about—"
"Arianne!" Rhaenys laughed, genuine and warm for the first time in days. "No, nothing like that. Just... whispers. Impressions." Her smile faded. "And something else. I feel like I'm being watched. Something cold. Something... not human."
Arianne's excitement dimmed, replaced by concern. She reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair from Rhaenys's face with a tenderness that made her heart ache.
"You don't think it's just the strain? This new ability taking its toll?"
"No," Rhaenys said firmly. "It's real. Whatever it is."
Arianne studied her for a long moment, then leaned forward, pressing her lips against Rhaenys's in a deep, passionate kiss that tasted of citrus and promise. When they parted, Arianne rested her forehead against Rhaenys's.
"We'll figure it out," she whispered. "Together. As we've done everything else. The Martells have protected you this long, haven't we? Whatever comes, you won't face it alone."
Rhaenys nodded, warmth spreading through her chest at Arianne's words. For a moment, the fear that had been her constant companion receded. She was not just Rhaenys Targaryen, hunted daughter of a fallen dynasty. She was loved. She was protected.
But as they sat there together, the warm breeze carrying the scent of flowers and salt from the distant sea, Rhaenys felt it again—that cold, watching presence. Like eyes of ice tracking her every move. Like frost creeping across her skin despite the Dornish heat.
Jon Snow
Jon drifted into sleep with the scent of lavender and lightning in his nostrils, Yennefer's perfume mingling with the lingering smell of her magic from their evening's training. His muscles ached pleasantly.
Winterfell's stones groaned in the night, contracting with the cold as they had for thousands of years. Yennefer's breathing beside him lulled him deeper, down into darkness, down into—
Heat. Dry, scorching heat.
Jon gasped, suddenly standing beneath a blazing sun that had no business in the North. His boots sank slightly in fine sand, and before him spread gardens unlike any he'd ever seen. Fountains sparkled, casting rainbows through the air. Children laughed and splashed in shallow pools. And there, beneath an orange tree heavy with fruit, sat a young woman.
Those eyes...
The woman was clearly Dornish, with olive skin and black hair that curled past her shoulders. But her eyes—purple as twilight. Like his own. Jon had always wondered about his eye color, so unlike the Starks'. Lord Stark had never confirmed it, but Jon had heard the whispers that his mother might have been Lady Ashara Dayne, known for her haunting purple eyes.
The woman froze, her head snapping up as if he'd spoken aloud. She stared directly at him, lips parting in shock.
"Who are you?" she demanded, rising to her feet. No one else in the garden seemed to notice her speaking to empty air, or Jon's presence at all. "How are you here?"
Jon tried to step forward, finding it difficult, as if he were walking through water. "My name is Jon Snow. I'm... I don't know how I'm here. I was asleep at Winterfell."
"Winterfell?" The woman's eyes widened. "In the North? This is... impossible."
"I've been told many impossible things lately," Jon said with a wry smile. "Magic. Other worlds. This seems to be another for the list."
The woman approached cautiously, studying him. "Your eyes," she said finally. "They're like mine."
Jon's hand instinctively reached toward his face. "Yes. I've been told they're unusual for a northerner. People say my mother might have been from Dorne."
She regarded him with a guarded expression. "I'm Rhae Sand," she offered after a moment. "Daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell."
"A bastard," Jon said, noting her surname. "Like me."
"Yes. Like you."
Jon studied her face. "Have we met before? You seem familiar somehow."
"I don't think so," Rhae replied, her tone carefully neutral. "I've rarely left Dorne, and never traveled North."
Jon nodded, yet he felt as if he had seen her before, somewhere, sometime. "This will sound mad, but... can you do things? Strange things, I mean?"
Rhae's posture stiffened. "What kind of things?"
Instead of answering with words, Jon held out his palm. With a thought, a small flame appeared, dancing above his skin without burning him.
Rhae's eyes widened. "How are you—" She stopped herself, glancing around as if checking for eavesdroppers in this dream world. After a moment's hesitation, she said quietly, "I hear thoughts. Not clearly, not deeply, but... whispers."
A sudden chill swept through the garden, the vibrant colors dimming as if a cloud had passed over the sun. Jon felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.
"What's happening?" Rhae asked, wrapping her arms around herself.
Jon watched in horror as frost began to creep across the stones, the fountains freezing solid in an instant. The children in the pools vanished like smoke, the entire dreamscape growing increasingly distorted.
"We're in danger," Jon said urgently, his voice quickening as the cold advanced. "Someone—something—has found us. They're hunting people with abilities."
Rhae's eyes widened. "Who? What are they?"
The frost was already racing between them, a wall of ice crystals forming with supernatural speed.
"Wait!" Rhae called, her voice growing distant as the vision began to fracture. "How do I—"
The dream shattered. Ice crystals exploded between them, and Jon felt himself being violently pulled away, Rhae's face disappearing into darkness. He cried out, thrashing against the sensation—
"Jon! Jon, wake up!"
Yennefer's voice cut through the void. Jon's eyes flew open to find her leaning over him, her face tight with concern. His body was drenched in sweat despite the chamber's biting cold. His breath clouded in the air between them.
"Gods, it's freezing," he gasped, sitting up. Frost coated the inside of the windows, and the water in the washing basin had frozen solid.
"What did you see?" Yennefer demanded, her violet eyes intense. "You were thrashing, calling out someone's name. Rhae?"
Jon rubbed a hand over his face. "A woman in Dorne. Rhae Sand, she called herself." He swung his legs over the side of the bed, reaching for his discarded tunic. "She has purple eyes, like mine. And abilities too. Different from mine. She can... read thoughts, somehow."
Yennefer's eyes narrowed. "Purple eyes? That's a Valyrian trait. In your world, that usually means—"
"Targaryen blood," Jon finished. "Or maybe Dayne. I don't know. But there was something about her, Yenn. A connection I can't explain."
"The Wild Hunt will have sensed it too," Yennefer said grimly. "That's what the frost means. They've detected you both."
"I need to warn her properly. She has no idea what's coming." Jon stood, reaching for his sword where it rested against the wall. "We need to go to Dorne."
"That would take weeks, even traveling hard."
"We can pay for a ship in White Harbor." Jon quickly pointed out.
"That would still take a long time. There may be another way. A faster way. I told you about portals."
"You said you couldn't create one strong enough to travel any significant distance."
"Alone, no. But with your power added to mine..." She left the thought unfinished.
Suddenly, the stone floor beneath them trembled. The trembling intensified, items on Yennefer's table toppling over, bottles shattering.
"What's happening?" Jon shouted over the growing rumble.
Yennefer's eyes widened with something Jon had never seen in them before: fear.
The air in the center of the chamber began to shimmer and distort, twisting like heated air above a flame, but with an unnatural blue glow. The temperature plummeted further. Jon's fingers went numb around the sword's hilt.
"Jon!" Yennefer stretched her hand toward him, fingers splayed. "Hold onto me! Don't let go, no matter what!"
Jon lunged for her, but the distance between them seemed to stretch impossibly. A blinding white light flooded the chamber, searing his vision. He felt a violent tug at his center, as if a hook had buried itself in his gut and yanked.
"YENN!" he screamed, her name torn from his throat as her outstretched hand grew more distant. The last thing he heard was her desperate cry, calling his name.
Then... silence.
Jon opened his eyes to steaming mist and the smell of sulfur. He lay sprawled on damp earth, sword still clutched in his hand. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees, blinking to clear his vision.
This was not Winterfell.
Twisted, skeletal trees surrounded him, their bark black as coal. The ground beneath him steamed with unnatural heat, bubbling pools of mud scattered throughout the dismal forest. The sky above held no sun, only a sickly yellow glow filtering through haze.
"Yennefer?" Jon called, his voice sounding flat and muffled in the thick air. No answer came.
He rose unsteadily to his feet, drawing his sword fully from its scabbard. Jon recalled Yennefer's brief descriptions of her world—was this it? Had he somehow been pulled through to where she came from?
A guttural growl from behind made him whirl around, blade raised. The creature that emerged from the mist walked on two legs but resembled no man Jon had ever seen. Its skin was gray and mottled, face distorted with too many teeth crammed into a misshapen jaw. Curved claws extended from elongated fingers, and its eyes glowed with malevolent yellow light.
"Seven hells," Jon breathed, settling into a fighting stance.
The creature snarled, then lunged with shocking speed. Jon barely brought his sword up in time, the blade slicing across the monster's chest. It howled but didn't fall, black ichor oozing from the wound. Jon focused, calling heat to his palm, letting it flow into the sword. The sword's blade ignited, wreathed in dancing flame.
The creature hesitated at the sight, then attacked. Jon parried, countered, his training serving him well even against this unnatural opponent. But for every blow he landed, the creature seemed to grow more enraged rather than weakened. It drove him back step by step, until Jon's heel caught on a root and he stumbled.
The monster saw its opening and leapt, claws extended toward Jon's throat. He raised his sword, knowing he wouldn't be fast enough—
A blur of motion, the whistle of a blade through air, and suddenly the creature's head was rolling away from its body, which collapsed in a twitching heap.
Jon scrambled to his feet, flaming sword still raised, to face whoever—or whatever—had intervened.
A man stood before him, one sword in hand, another sheathed one strapped to his back. His hair was white as snow despite his muscular build and relatively youthful face. Most striking were his eyes—cat-like, yellow, with vertical pupils that regarded Jon with wary assessment.
"Not bad for a human," the stranger rumbled, his accent unfamiliar to Jon's ears. "But you're a long way from wherever you call home. This is a bad place to get lost."
Jon lowered his sword slightly, though the flame continued to dance along its edge. "I didn't exactly choose to come here."
The white-haired man's eyes narrowed, taking in Jon's flaming sword with new interest. "No human controls fire like that without Signs." His grip tightened on his weapons. "What are you?"
Before Jon could answer, more growls echoed through the mist. The stranger cursed.
"No time. More drowners coming. If you want to live, follow me." He turned and began moving swiftly through the trees.
Jon glanced back at the fallen creature—a drowner, apparently—then at the mist where more growls approached. With little choice, he extinguished the sword's flame and hurried after the white-haired swordsman into the unknown wilderness.
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