The Stepstones, Throat-Cutting Isle
[Unknown error detected in Scenario Task Module...] [Reloading...] [Dimensional Magic Dragon Module: Activated.] [Staff-Caster Module: Activated.] [Elemental-Caster Module: Activated.] [Magic Item Permissions: Fully Unlocked.]
Among a cascade of synthesized electronic chimes, Jon slowly pried his eyes open, his mind still clouded by a lingering haze.
The moment he sat up, he frantically checked his body. Finding no trace of dragon scales, wings, or horns, he let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. His memory of entering the subterranean tunnels of the Dragonpit was fractured; he wasn't even certain if the Holy Stone task had been officially completed.
His obsession with checking for horns stemmed from a terrifyingly vivid fragment of memory: an image of himself transformed into a monstrous dragon within a bizarre, distorted space. The form had been identical to a certain game's final boss. The sensation had been so tactile that he could still recall the exact muscle memory required to beat those colossal wings, the searing pressure of preparing a Dragonfire breath, and the weight of those obsidian claws.
It felt far too visceral to be a mere dream.
Steeling his nerves, Jon summoned his System interface to verify his current status.
Name: Jon Snow (Aegon Targaryen) Class: Dragon Lord (LV 10) Equipped Weapon: Dark Sister Strength: 25 Skill: 15 Speed: 16 Defense: 13 Magic: 22 Weapon Mastery: LV 10 Items: Dragonstone, Sealing Stone, Magic Stone, Moonlight, Summoner's Badge... Soul Energy: 500,000 points
Jon stared at the screen, dumbstruck. His levels had spiked, and his core attributes had surged to heights he hadn't thought possible this early. It seemed the "dream" had been a very expensive reality.
"System? Hey, System!"
He called out, hoping for an explanation for the sudden overhaul, but the voice that usually initiated contact remained silent. The System had changed.
Previously, a simple mental command would bring up three distinct floating windows: Inventory, the System Mall, and the Status Panel. Now, a new, pulsating ring of light sat at the bottom of his attributes page. Intrigued, Jon tapped it.
A massive black vortex erupted in front of him, its gravitational pull so sudden and violent that he was sucked in before he could even let out a shout.
"Whoa—!"
Reality blurred into a kaleidoscopic streak. Space, stars, and fragments of time whipped past him like a film reel set to high speed. After an indeterminate period of sensory overload, Jon found himself standing in a strange, pitch-black void.
The area was as dark as spilled ink, saved only by a singular, distant light source to his left. Jon shook off the nausea, trying to find his bearings.
"Where am I?" he tried to ask.
"ROAR—!"
Instead of words, a deep, resonant draconic roar shook the void. Startled, Jon instinctively moved to cover his mouth, only to freeze. In place of a human hand, a massive, clawed talon—armored in shimmering scales—rose into his field of vision.
The shock lasted only a second. Strangely, a profound sense of familiarity settled over him. Within minutes, he found he could navigate this massive body with the grace of a natural-born predator. He felt overflowing with power, as if he could tear a hole in the fabric of reality itself just by lashing his tail.
He spent some time flying through the abyss, but found no boundaries, no walls, and no exits. The only landmark was the original point of light. Fearing he might wander into the infinite dark and lose his way, Jon circled back to the glow.
As he thrust his draconic head toward the light, a gargantuan sphere manifested before him. From his perspective, it appeared as a flat disc, yet the blurred edges hinted at a spherical contour—a visual paradox that reminded him of a Penrose Triangle.
Suddenly, a semi-transparent interface flickered into existence. It looked remarkably like a high-definition tactical map from a strategy game, yet far more advanced. It wasn't a drawing; it was a live, orbital view of the planet from outer space.
"Wait... is this the world map?"
Jon squinted at the details. Below him lay the unmistakable silhouettes of Westeros and Essos. The level of detail was staggering—he could see the individual peaks of mountains, the winding silver veins of rivers, and the dark expanse of ancient forests.
Two locations stood out as towering beacons of light: The Wall and the Hightower of Oldtown. Even from this celestial height, these "wonders of the world" were visible to the naked eye.
On this "game map," most locations were grayed out. Only The Wall, King's Landing, and the Stepstones glowed with a steady blue light. A miniature dragon icon hovered directly over the Stepstones—marking Jon's current location.
He shifted his gaze to the gray marker labeled Tyrosh, the closest of the Free Cities. A dialogue box instantly popped up.
[Spend 5,000 Soul Energy to perform a Dimensional Descent?]
With a newfound fortune of 500,000 points, the cost felt trivial. Jon was eager to test this "Dimensional Descent"—a fancy term for what clearly looked like global fast-travel or spatial teleportation.
Yes.
The dragon icon slid toward the Tyrosh marker. Jon felt his consciousness begin to twist and warp once more, as if being pulled through a narrow straw.
Tyrosh, The Purple Palace, The Garden of Whispers
After a bout of world-spinning vertigo, Jon slowly opened his eyes. The sight that met him was a world away from the gloom of the Dragonpit or the chill of the Stepstones.
He stood in a lush, magnificent garden. Flowers of every conceivable hue bloomed in riotous profusion, their intoxicating perfumes swirling in the air. It felt less like a city and more like a fever dream of paradise.
Jon looked down at himself. He was wearing loose, light sleepwear—the clothes he'd been wearing when he first woke up on the Stepstones. Judging by the position of the sun, he had only been in that "Dragon Void" for a few minutes.
He was barefoot. As he stepped onto a winding stone path, he felt the soft, cool dew of the grass against his soles. While the sensation was pleasant, he realized he was in a precarious situation. A man wandering a high-born garden in his pajamas was likely to be branded a madman—or a common pervert.
Based on the architecture—the opulent purple-painted walls and the extravagant landscaping—he was almost certain he had landed inside the Purple Palace, the seat of the Archon of Tyrosh.
"Ah—!"
A sharp, feminine gasp broke the silence.
Jon spun around. Standing near a cluster of vibrant blossoms was a young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old. She was striking, her hair a vivid, dyed green—a signature fashion of the Tyrosh elite—bound by a delicate silver circlet. A few loose curls framed a face that was both elegant and currently frozen in shock.
She stood alone, her violet eyes wide with a mix of terror and intense curiosity. Her white lace gown fluttered in the breeze, making her look like a spirit of the garden.
"Uh... good day, my lady," Jon started, raising his hands in a non-threatening gesture, suddenly very aware of his lack of footwear. "My apologies for startling you. I seem to have... lost my way. I assure you, I mean no harm."