Song of the Dragon: Chronicles of the Youngest Prince born in winter

You know, I've always believed that nature is impartial. It takes back what's hers, and there's a certain fairness to that. But gods? Gods are biased as hell. I must've pissed one off because my day was pure chaos from start to finish.

First, I was walking to the store, minding my own business, when an earthquake hit. Out of nowhere, a section of the street rose up like a ramp, and a sixteen-wheeler launched off it like something out of an action movie. It was about to flatten me, but I barrel-rolled out of the way at the last second.

Then, during my daily nap in the forest—you're probably wondering why animals didn't attack me. That's easy; I'm so quiet that I give off this creepy vibe that keeps them away. Anyway, I was sleeping when I noticed it was colder than usual. I opened my eyes just in time to see lightning crackling in the sky and smelled chlorine. I rolled to the side just before three lightning bolts struck the exact spot I'd been sleeping. Peaceful nap ruined.

The last one, though? Absolute bullshit. A freaking satellite fell three feet in front of me. No warning, no buildup—just a sudden crash that knocked me back a few feet. You'd think that'd be it, right? Wrong.

As I was trying to recover from the shock of almost dying three times in one day, my neighbor accidentally shot me while cleaning his gun. Through the wall, no less. And that's how I died.

I don't even know how long I've been staring into this nothingness. It could be seconds, minutes, hours, days... hell, even centuries or millennia. All I know is the cold.

At first, the cold was unbearable. I thought it couldn't get any worse, but I was wrong. Imagine being naked in the coldest part of Antarctica for ten minutes. That's what it felt like—all the time. Through sheer willpower, meditation, and what I could only call blind stubbornness, I eventually adapted. Over time, I learned to manipulate the cold, creating ice and snow from the endless void. It was difficult without water as a base, but I managed.

Then, one day, I heard a voice behind me.

"Well, damn. I didn't expect anyone to last over a billion years here. Honestly, I thought you'd go insane after the first month."

I turned around and saw her: a smoking-hot goth girl with a smirk that screamed danger. It took me a moment to realize she was Death of the Endless.

Her words registered, and I froze. "Did you say I've been here for a billion years?"

She nodded casually. "Yep. Exactly 1 billion, 359 million, 538 thousand, 883 years, 5 months, 29 days, 12 hours, 34 minutes, and 86 seconds. Well... 12 hours, 35 minutes, and 12 seconds now."

I blinked. "What?"

Death shrugged. "Long story short, a bunch of gods were arguing, their powers flared up, and Earth got caught in the crossfire. You died because of their little tantrum. To make up for it, I'll reincarnate you in the Game of Thrones universe with six wishes. Keep in mind, though, you'll be the youngest bastard son of Baelon Targaryen and Runa Stark. You'll inherit their memories and attachments, but otherwise, you'll be yourself."

The Wishes

I thought about it carefully. I wasn't going to die early, especially not in a world as brutal as Westeros.

"I want the ability to manipulate cold," I started. "Next, I want the three mystic ships from Pirates of the Caribbean. Then, Jack Sparrow's compass. I also want the three Deathly Hallows along with all the spells I remember before I died. And I want to keep all my skills from my previous life. Finally, I want an ice dragon, or at least one nearby when I wake up."

Death considered it, then smirked. "Done. When you wake up, you'll be on the Black Port, a custom harbor hidden miles from King's Landing. There will also be a Room of Requirement nearby for convenience. Next to you, you'll find a Valyrian steel sword and Jack Sparrow's compass. Oh, and enjoy your ice dragon—it's not too far from where you'll be."

Before I could thank her, she snapped her fingers, and the void disappeared.

In a forest clearing, two boys were sparring.

One, a tall twelve-year-old with pure red hair and golden eyes flecked with purple, wielded a wooden short greatspear. His strikes were precise and relentless, pushing his opponent back step by step.

The other boy, of average height with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, struggled to keep up. He held a wooden shortsword, his swings wild and desperate as he tried to match the red-haired boy's skill.

Not far from the sparring match, two men observed.

The first was a man with long black hair streaked with white, his purple eyes sharp and calculating. He carried himself with the grace of a predator, his beauty as striking as a star-filled night sky.

The second man had a rugged appearance. His head was shaved except for short, dirty-blonde hair on top, and his piercing, almost otherworldly blue eyes seemed to reflect every secret Helheim had to offer. His posture was relaxed, but there was an undeniable intensity to him—a storm waiting to be unleashed.

The boys' duel continued, but it was clear who would emerge victorious. The red-haired boy was relentless, his movements fluid and precise, while the blonde struggled to keep up.

The black-haired man smirked. "He's improving, but not fast enough."

The rugged man grunted. "He has spirit. That counts for something."

"But not enough, Ragnar. That's not even half of the battle; it's only a part. The next parts are talent, experience, wisdom, and strength," said the other man, who was now absorbed in sketching something in a leather-bound book. Ragnar's sharp eyes caught sight of the drawing—an odd-looking box. The title read: Jack in the Box.

Jeanyx glanced up briefly before continuing, "Even if someone possesses all of those things, one act of foolishness could be their undoing."

Ragnar sighed, shaking his head as he watched his son Bjorn spar with Messmer. The boy was losing miserably, something Ragnar wasn't too pleased to admit. But he always had an excuse ready, one that had been ingrained in him over the years.

"Well, you're too harsh sometimes, Jeanyx. Life is about the journey, chasing your dreams—why worry about the end? Life becomes more exciting when you don't know how it all turns out," Ragnar mused, his voice a mix of amusement and nostalgia as he observed the brutal training session.

Jeanyx merely raised an eyebrow but said nothing, his attention mostly fixed on the sketch in his leather-bound book. Ragnar caught a glimpse of the drawing—a peculiar box with intricate engravings. The title read: Jack in the Box.

Ragnar turned his attention back to the sparring match, where Bjorn was being thoroughly overwhelmed by Messmer. The boy was taller, stronger—his every movement a testament to the power in his bloodline. Messmer fought with the ruthless efficiency of a warrior twice his age, his blows heavy and precise, forcing Bjorn onto the defensive.

"I don't understand why Messmer's strength so greatly surpasses Bjorn's," Ragnar muttered, a furrow forming between his brows. Though the words were spoken aloud, his mind quickly wandered to another thought—one that often haunted him in quieter moments.

Jeanyx, still engrossed in his book, responded coolly, "It's the bloodline. Messmer's mother, Yrsa Haraldson, carried the blood of giants. That's why he's different from your son, Ragnar. But your boy… he'll find his way. Maybe not today, but eventually."

Ragnar pressed his lips into a thin line, his gaze darkening as memories stirred. Haldric Haraldson—a name he had tried to forget. A death that had been pinned on the Dothraki, blamed on the chaos of a raid. But Ragnar knew the truth.

He had seen it with his own eyes.

That night, right after Haldric's son had died, Jeanyx had been the one to strike the fatal blow. The look in his eyes had been cold, almost detached, as the blade found its mark. The life drained from Haldric's face in a slow, agonizing moment, and then it was over. No words. No hesitation. Just quiet, calculated violence.

Jeanyx had never admitted to it, never explained himself. But Ragnar knew.

And though he had never spoken of it, never questioned Jeanyx directly, time had given him clarity. He understood now. Haldric had been a threat to Jeanyx's children. By law, he had every right to do with them as he pleased. Had he lived, they would never have been safe.

Ragnar let out a slow exhale, pushing the memory aside. There was no use lingering on ghosts.

Instead, he changed the subject.

"Speaking of your projects… how goes that contraption of yours? What did you call it again—a train?" Ragnar asked, glancing at Jeanyx with mild curiosity.

Before Jeanyx could answer, the sparring match reached its conclusion. As expected, Messmer emerged victorious. Bjorn, though valiant in his efforts, was no match for the sheer strength and endurance of his opponent.

Ragnar sighed, rubbing a hand over his beard. "Well, at least the boy is learning," he muttered.

Jeanyx smirked, finally closing his book. "Losing is a lesson too, Ragnar. Some just take longer to learn than others."

Ragnar huffed in amusement before turning his gaze to the boys, both still catching their breath from their sparring match. "Bjorn! Messmer!" he called out, his voice carrying over the clearing. "It's time. We leave for the manhood ceremony."

Bjorn, still nursing his pride after the match, straightened up and gave a determined nod. Messmer merely wiped the sweat from his brow, his expression unreadable as always.

Jeanyx shut his book with a quiet thud, tucking it under his arm. He studied Ragnar for a moment before smirking. "Going straight there?"

Ragnar shook his head. "No. There's someone I need to see first."

Jeanyx raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. He already knew.

Ragnar turned on his heel and began leading the group through the dense forest, his mind now set on his next destination. Floki.

The trickster shipwright, his old friend, and perhaps the only man as unpredictable as the gods themselves.

(Timeskip)

The group descended the rugged mountain path, their boots crunching over loose gravel and frost-kissed grass. The cold wind howled through the valley, but none of them paid it any mind. At Bjorn's side trotted a large dog—thick-furred and scarred, a beast he had found as a pup nearly a year ago. The creature had grown into a fierce hunter, its piercing eyes constantly scanning the wilderness for threats.

Bjorn adjusted the grip on his weapon, glancing up at his father with curiosity. "So, what exactly happens at the ceremony?" he asked.

It had always been a mystery to him. Every year, the manhood ceremony took place, yet he and the other boys were forbidden from witnessing it until their time came. He had long found the secrecy absurd, and so had Jeanyx and Ragnar.

Before Ragnar could answer, Jeanyx cut in with a scoff, his voice laced with disdain. "The Jarl will begin by passing judgment on criminals. Then, he'll set plans for the summer raids—most likely those barren lands near the Dothraki Sea." His fingers tapped idly against the leather cover of his ever-present book. "Last year's failure has made many of the warriors question his leadership, though they only whisper it in secret."

Bjorn frowned, confused. "Failure?"

Ragnar's jaw tightened slightly, but Jeanyx was never one to spare details. "The Jarl's information was wrong," he said, his tone sharpening like the edge of a blade. "We were led into a slaughter. Surrounded, outnumbered, and picked off like prey. By the end of it, only fifteen of us survived… out of four hundred."

Bjorn swallowed hard. That wasn't just failure—that was massacre.

Ragnar exhaled slowly, the memory darkening his features. "If not for Jeanyx…" He trailed off, but the meaning was clear.

Jeanyx's eyes flickered with something unreadable. "I had no choice but to call her."

Bjorn felt a chill—not from the mountain air, but from the weight in Jeanyx's voice. He had heard whispers of the beast before, though never from Jeanyx himself.

His ice dragon.

Unlike the legendary Valyrian dragons of old, whose scales shimmered in hues of crimson, gold, and emerald, hers were something unnatural. Midnight-black with streaks of deep purple, her form seemed to mimic the endless expanse of the night sky. And her breath—not the crystalline frost of ordinary ice dragons, but something far darker.

When she exhaled, her ice was as black as the void itself, swallowing light and leaving only deathly cold in its wake. She could shape the land with a single breath, erecting jagged mountains of obsidian ice or sending forth a wave of creeping frost that devoured everything in its path. And, when she willed it, her ice burned—burned like wildfire, yet colder than the very heart of the Land of Always Winter.

Bjorn shuddered at the thought.

The dog at his side let out a low growl, ears twitching as if sensing the tension in the air.

Jeanyx sighed and shook his head. "The Jarl refuses to admit his mistakes. That is why this year's raid will be crucial. If he fails again, he won't just lose warriors—he'll lose command."

Ragnar glanced at him, then looked ahead toward the path. "Which is why we see Floki first."

Bjorn raised an eyebrow but knew better than to ask. His father and Jeanyx always had plans running beneath the surface.

Ragnar glanced at Jeanyx, then shifted his gaze toward the winding path ahead. He opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated. Instead, he sighed. "We'll see Floki another time. The rain from last night slowed us down too much. If we push forward, we should reach the ceremony by first light tomorrow."

Bjorn suppressed a groan but didn't argue. The last thing he wanted was to be late for his own manhood ceremony, even if the journey had already taken longer than expected. He adjusted the strap of his pack, feeling the weight of the past few days pressing down on him.

The sky had darkened early that evening, the fading light casting long shadows over the mountainside. The air carried the scent of damp earth and pine, the remnants of the night's downpour still clinging to the leaves.

Jeanyx remained silent for a while before finally nodding. "Then we move fast," he said simply, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an unseen burden.

Bjorn's dog let out a low growl, sniffing the air before trotting ahead, its keen senses always alert. The beast had been with them for almost a year now, growing stronger with every hunt, its loyalty unquestionable.

As the group pressed onward, the distant howls of wolves echoed through the valley—a reminder that the wilds held dangers far beyond the reach of any Jarl's rule. But that didn't concern them. They had all faced worse.

(timeskip)

The group reached the main village of Katte just as dusk was settling over the rugged landscape. The winding dirt path led them to Ragnar's brother Rollo, who greeted them with a gruff nod at the gate of his modest, timbered home—a structure that bore the scars and stories of many hard-fought battles at sea.

Without much ceremony, Ragnar dismissed Bjorn with a curt shake of his head. "You've got other business," he said, sending the young warrior back on his errand. The weight of unspoken concerns hung in the air as the remaining men settled around a worn wooden table inside the hall.

Ragnar leaned forward, his eyes reflecting both resolve and weariness. "This summer raid," he began, "we're not aiming for the riches of the west. Instead, we'll be heading east—to that poor village near the Dothraki Sea. The Jarl won't risk another blunder like last year."

Rollo scoffed, his voice rough as he replied, "Those bastards are as poor as we are." His words were met with a brief silence, a collective knowing among the hardened warriors. It was then that Jeanyx cleared his throat, drawing a sharp glance from Rollo.

"Except, Jeanyx," Rollo continued with a wry smile, his tone laced with irony. Both he and Ragnar exchanged a glance that spoke volumes—they both knew the truth behind the whisperings. Rumor had it that Jinx had filched a sizable amount of gold from a wealthy merchant in Pentos, a betrayal that could cost them dearly if exposed.

The tension in the room thickened as the implications of that theft loomed large. In the dim light of Rollo's hall, plans for the summer raid were being forged amid a web of suspicion and half-spoken secrets. Each man understood that the stakes were higher than ever, and that the path ahead would test not only their strength in battle, but the bonds that held their brotherhood together.

Bjorn Hen reappeared from the shadows of the hall, balancing three cups of frothy ale with the steady assurance of a seasoned warrior. With a nod to each man, he passed the cups over before quietly slipping away into the night.

Ragnar leaned forward, his eyes glinting with an old, restless fire. "Tell me again," he said, his voice low and insistent, "about that wrecked boat. Five years ago, you and that old man Him found it adrift. They spoke of a land—far more west than Westeros—a place of new gods and untold riches. How much gold did they say was there?" His tone carried the weight of an obsession that had long festered in his heart.

Rollo scoffed dismissively, slamming his fist lightly on the wooden table. "Aye, Ragnar," he muttered, "those tales are naught but the fantasies of dreamers. Riches and undiscovered lands? That's the stuff of legend, not of our reality."

Before the tension could thicken further, Jeanyx interjected, his gaze unwavering. "There's more to it than mere legend, Rollo. I know there's something out there—beyond what our eyes can see."

Rollo arched an eyebrow, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Oh? And how could you possibly know that, Jeanyx?"

With a measured motion, Jeanyx reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, intricately wrought compass. Placing it carefully on the table, he flipped open its lid. Rollo snorted, his voice dripping with derision. "What can a broken trinket possibly show us? A land no one in all of history has discovered? You've got to be pulling my chain."

Even Ragnar's hardened expression betrayed a flicker of curiosity as he watched the compass intently. "Try it," Jeanyx urged, nodding toward Ragnar.

Reluctantly, Ragnar picked up the compass. Almost immediately, the needle quivered and swung to point steadfastly toward the west. Rollo's derision deepened. "That proves nothing," he said, shaking his head as if dismissing a trivial parlor trick.

Undeterred, Jeanyx gently removed the compass from Ragnar's hand and placed it into Rollo's. The needle shuddered, then pivoted, this time aligning itself precisely to the south. A hush fell over the table as Jeanyx spoke in a measured, almost reverent tone.

"This compass is no common trinket," he declared. "I made it myself a year ago. It does not point north like the ordinary ones i'm making; it points to what the holder desires most. But if you do not truly know what you want, then the compass has no answer to give."

For a long, charged moment, the three men regarded the mystical device. In that flickering torchlight, dreams of uncharted lands and hidden fortunes mingled with the bitter taste of ale and the warmth of kindled hope—a hope that perhaps, one day, the unknown might yield its secrets to those daring enough to seek them.

The air was thick with anticipation as the group made their way through the winding paths leading to the ceremonial grounds. The village of Katte had come alive with activity in preparation for the coming-of-age ceremony for Bjorn. The surrounding forests and mountains cast long, looming shadows as the last remnants of daylight faded, and the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread lingered in the evening air.

By the time they reached the gathering, the village was in full celebration. The villagers, dressed in their finest skins and furs, formed a wide circle around the central fire pit, where the flames leaped and crackled as if eager to witness the passing of another youth into manhood. Young women danced, their bright laughter ringing through the crisp air, while older men stood with arms crossed, their eyes gleaming with approval or silent judgment.

Bjorn felt the weight of tradition pressing down on him. The coming-of-age ceremony was more than just a rite—it was a marking of who he was, who he would become, and the legacy that would follow in his wake. The blood of the gods ran through his veins, and though he had yet to prove himself worthy of that legacy, tonight was the night.

Ragnar placed a hand on Bjorn's shoulder as they approached the fire, a proud smile tugging at his lips. "This is your moment," he said quietly, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Make it count."

Jeanyx, standing a little farther back, glanced up at the stars, his face unreadable. There was something in the air tonight—a sense of destiny, perhaps, or the whisper of something darker. The compass, with its strange pull to the unknown, gnawed at his mind. But for now, there were other matters at hand.

The high priest, a weathered old man draped in heavy wolf pelts, stepped forward, his arms raised in blessing. "Bjorn," he called, his voice booming through the crowd. "Son of Ragnar, son of the North, today you prove your worth before the gods."

Bjorn, standing tall and proud, stepped forward, his heart pounding in his chest. The firelight danced off his face, casting shadows over his features. His mother Lagertha stood nearby, her fierce eyes fixed on her son, her silent pride unmistakable. But it was Ragnar's presence that he sought, the approval of the man who had raised him, the man whose blood ran in his veins.

The priest raised a ceremonial axe, the blade glinting in the firelight. "Bjorn, son of Ragnar, will you take the oath of the North? Will you swear to protect this land, to honor its gods, and to carry its name with strength and honor?"

Bjorn's grip tightened on the sword at his side, his gaze unwavering. "I swear," he declared, his voice steady. "By the gods and the ancestors who have gone before me, I swear to honor this land and the people who dwell upon it. I will carry the name of Ragnar, and I will fight for the North."

A cheer rose from the crowd, the villagers clapping and shouting their approval. Rollo stood by Ragnar, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable, but even he could not hide the pride in his eyes.

Jeanyx watched from the edge of the crowd, his thoughts drifting between the ceremony and the mystery of the compass. What lay west? What awaited them beyond the seas, beyond the known world? The compass had been right, yet its answer remained elusive. He could feel the pull of adventure, the weight of fate, tugging at him in ways that Bjorn could not understand—yet.

As the ceremony reached its peak, Bjorn stood tall, now a man in the eyes of his people, ready to carve his path in the world. And though the night was filled with revelry and celebration, Jeanyx's mind remained on the horizon, on the mysteries still to be uncovered, and the gold-laden lands waiting to be claimed.

The future, it seemed, was wide open—both for Bjorn and for those who dared to chase the winds of fate.