Wolf King of Oblivion

Prologue: Chains of the Drowned God

(The Prolouge/Background Chapters will be short. Will mostly be used for the purpose of bridging the gap between Jon's time between Greyjoy Rebellion to the start of Game of Thrones. As well I can change some things from Elder Scrolls: Oblivion)

The storm raged above the churning sea, its winds howling like wolves in the night. Waves crashed against the hull of the Silence, Euron Greyjoy's dread ship, painted black as a shadow and silent as the grave. Below deck, Jon Snow lay shackled to the damp wood, the iron biting into his wrists, the salty air stinging his wounds.

Jon had lost count of the days. Each moment aboard this ship stretched like an eternity, an unending trial under the watchful eye of a monster. The Drowned God's chosen, they called him. A stormlord, some whispered. Euron Greyjoy was all that and more—a demon in human skin.

Above him, the deck creaked as Euron's laughter rang out. Somewhere, another soul screamed. Below, Jon sat in the suffocating dark, replaying Catelyn Stark's final words to him in Winterfell's great hall.

"You're nothing but proof of his shame," she had said, her voice cold as ice. "The sword hanging over my children's heads. Let you die here, or die on that ship—it makes no difference to me. What matters is that Winterfell survives."

She hadn't flinched when the Ironborn hauled him away. No tears, no whispered goodbyes. Only relief, and a lingering disdain that told him she had waited years for this moment.

The betrayal cut deeper than any blade. Not because it was unexpected—Jon had known from childhood that he didn't belong, that his very existence was a stain on Lady Stark's honor—but because it had been final. Winterfell, the home he had clung to despite the whispered insults and cold glares, was gone forever.

Above deck, the laughter turned to shouts. The storm surged, waves battering the Silence with a fury that felt almost deliberate. Jon strained his ears, trying to discern the chaos. Screams, curses, steel clashing. Then came the thud of a body hitting the deck, a sound too heavy to be anything but death.

The hatch creaked open, and torchlight spilled into the darkness. Euron Greyjoy descended, clad in black leather, his long, salt-crusted hair plastered to his face. His eye patch glinted in the dim light, the sapphire beneath it glowing with an unnatural sheen. He carried a flagon of wine, his grin stretched too wide, as if the storm above only fed his madness.

"Ah, the wolf pup," Euron purred, crouching before Jon. "How fares my gift from the Lady of Winterfell? Has the sea taught you humility yet?"

Jon didn't answer. He stared at Euron, his grey eyes cold and unyielding. The ironborn lord smirked, tilting his head in mock curiosity.

"Still silent. Good. I like my toys with some fire in them." Euron poured dark wine onto the floorboards, watching it pool near Jon's chained hands. "You think you're better than this, don't you? A Stark bastard—so noble, so brave. But you're nothing, boy. A dog they leashed to my ship and left to drown."

Jon clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He had learned to swallow his rage. The few times he had resisted, Euron had shown him the depths of his cruelty. Pain, humiliation—tools the pirate lord wielded with the precision of a master craftsman.

Euron stood, towering over Jon like a shadow, his grin fading into something darker. "Do you dream, Snow?" he asked suddenly. "The sea speaks in dreams. It shows truths hidden from the waking world. Power. Death. Glory. You've heard it, haven't you? The voice of the Drowned God."

Jon said nothing, but unease prickled at the edge of his thoughts. He had dreamed—visions of a burning city beneath twin moons, shadowed forests filled with haunting cries, and gates of fire that opened into endless night. He had seen dragons and demons alike, their roars echoing in his skull.

"Ah," Euron said, his grin returning. "You've heard it. The call of the deep. It's no coincidence, wolf pup. The sea chose you. Not for greatness, no. For something far greater." He leaned closer, the stench of wine and blood filling Jon's nostrils. "You will see it soon. The black depths, the endless void… Oblivion itself."

The name struck Jon like a thunderclap, reverberating through his very being. Oblivion. It felt foreign and yet familiar, like the whisper of the Old Gods in the weirwoods.

Euron straightened, turning to climb the stairs. Over his shoulder, he called, "Pray, Snow. Pray to your useless gods or the shadows of the forest. It won't matter. No one escapes the deep."

The hatch slammed shut, plunging Jon back into darkness. He let out a shaky breath, his chest heaving. He didn't pray. He had never prayed—not to the Old Gods, nor the Seven. Instead, he closed his eyes and gripped the iron chains that bound him.

But in the depths of his mind, something stirred. Not a prayer, but a whisper—ancient, unyielding, and filled with power.

Dovahkiin.