Wolf King of Oblivion

The Silence was alive with cruelty. The crew's laughter echoed through the storm, a chorus of wickedness as sharp as the salt air. Jon Snow, shackled to the mast on the upper deck, could feel every drop of rain like a dagger against his skin. His head hung low, blood and seawater dripping from the fresh cuts across his back.

Euron Greyjoy stood over him, an emperor in his twisted court. The pirate lord's black cloak flapped like the wings of a great raven, his sapphire eye gleaming in the flashes of lightning.

"Still breathing, Snow?" Euron's voice was a mockery of concern, laced with sadistic amusement. "The sea has been kinder to you than I have. Perhaps it likes you." He leaned closer, the stink of wine and blood on his breath. "But it won't save you. You'll break, just like the rest."

The crew roared with laughter as Euron stepped back, raising a whip slick with rain. Jon braced himself, his jaw clenched tight against the coming blow. It wasn't the first, and it wouldn't be the last.

The lash bit into his flesh, and he grunted but refused to cry out. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Stubborn wolf," Euron hissed, his voice rising above the wind. "Let's see how far that pride takes you when the Drowned God calls for your soul."

As if summoned by Euron's words, the storm surged. The winds howled louder, and the ship groaned under the weight of the waves. For a moment, the crew hesitated, glancing at the boiling sea with unease. Even Euron seemed to pause, staring out at the churning abyss.

Then the first wave struck.

It came like a hammer, a wall of black water crashing over the deck. Men screamed as they were tossed like rag dolls, their bodies swallowed by the sea. The Silence tilted violently, and Jon's chains bit into his wrists as he struggled to keep his footing. The storm had turned vengeful, its fury relentless.

Euron's laughter cut through the chaos. "You see, Snow? The Drowned God speaks! He chooses who lives and who dies!" His arms were spread wide, as if he were welcoming the storm's embrace.

Another wave hit, snapping one of the masts like a twig. The ship shuddered, its hull splintering. Around Jon, the crew scrambled in panic, their bravado shattered. But Euron stood firm, his grin unyielding, his voice booming as he shouted prayers to the Drowned God.

Jon's chains snapped. The mast they had tied him to splintered, freeing him as the ship lurched again. He hit the deck hard, pain shooting through his body. Gasping, he clawed his way toward the edge of the ship, where the waves loomed like living things, hungry and merciless.

"Run, little wolf!" Euron's voice called out, though it sounded distant now, as if coming from another world. "Run to your gods! See if they'll save you!"

Lightning struck the ship, splitting it in two. Fire and seawater erupted, and Jon was thrown into the icy depths. The world became a whirl of darkness and salt, his limbs flailing as the sea dragged him under.

For a moment, there was nothing. Just cold. Just silence.

But then, something stirred. A presence—ancient and vast, pressing against the edges of his mind. He felt it before he saw it, a force pulling him deeper into the void. His lungs burned, his body screaming for air, yet he couldn't resist the pull. It was as if the sea itself had a will, and it had chosen him.

The darkness grew darker still, until it wasn't water surrounding him, but something else. Something other. Shadows that moved like liquid, whispers that spoke in languages Jon didn't understand. A gate loomed before him, its frame jagged and fiery, its center a swirling vortex of red and black.

Oblivion.

The word came unbidden, a whisper in the depths of his soul. He tried to scream, but no sound came. The gate opened wider, consuming everything.

When Jon awoke, he was lying on cold, barren ground. The sky above was a deep, unnatural red, with twin moons casting a pale, eerie light. Mountains of jagged rock loomed in the distance, and rivers of fire carved paths through the alien landscape.

He pushed himself to his knees, his body trembling. The chains were gone, though their marks still marred his wrists. Around him, the air was thick with heat and the stench of sulfur.

In the distance, something moved—shapes that were not human, creatures with glowing eyes and twisted forms. Jon's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight. This was no place in Westeros. This was no place in the world he knew.

"Where…?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. The word was swallowed by the oppressive silence.

And then, a voice—deep, commanding, and cold—rippled through the air.

"Dovahkiin."

Jon turned, but there was no one there. Only the endless wasteland, stretching into eternity. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alone.

But in that loneliness, something stirred. Not fear, but resolve. He was a wolf, a Stark of Winterfell, bastard or not. And if the gods had cast him into this hell, he would find a way out—or die trying.