The Stepstones. Main Island of Cutthroat Isle.
Squelch—!Hummm—!
As the System's dark magic, Moonlight, reached its peak, the Twisted Devotee's bloated form didn't just die—it detonated. The collision of the dark vortex and the creature's internal bio-energy created a volatile sphere of purple and crimson light. It hung suspended for a heartbeat before a secondary shockwave tore through the plaza.
Whoosh—!
A gale-force wind laden with soot and ichor slammed into the ranks, forcing the Chainbreakers to shield their eyes. Torches were snuffed out by the dozens, plunging the expansion zone back into a flickering, treacherous gloom.
"Gle-gle-gle... It seems I underestimated you, Herald of the Alien God."
As the dust settled, a silhouette emerged from the epicenter of the explosion. Accompanying the figure was a laugh like silver bells—a sound laced with a hypnotic, melodic charm that sent a sudden, unnatural heat through the veins of every man who heard it.
Relying on his enhanced Dragon Lord physiology, Jon's vision pierced the haze. He saw a lithe, feminine figure nearly two meters tall. Her body was a masterpiece of biological horror; her skin was pale and perfect, yet coated in a fine layer of shimmering scales that seemed to writhe and pulse, as if they were independent parasites.
Gulp.
Jon swallowed hard, fighting back a surge of nausea at the sight.
"Who are you?" he demanded, raising a hand to signal his men to hold their fire.
"Gle-gle. In this wretched place, the cattle call me Mary. They whisper of a 'Bloodwitch,' though I loathe the title. I am a true scion of the Empress of Thunder Isle. My name is Garona. And one day, I shall return to my home to break the seals and release my Master."
The entity—Garona—took several slow, predatory steps toward Jon. However, she stopped abruptly, sensing the oppressive aura radiating from him. She stood at a distance, framed by the dying embers and the moonlight.
Jon finally saw her face. She looked like a woman in her early twenties, her features reminiscent of the nomadic tribes of the central Essosi plains. Her hair and eyes were a void-black, the pupils so large they seemed capable of swallowing light—and souls—whole. More of those shifting scales encrusted her brow and hairline, making her look like something that had been swallowed by a deep-sea predator and vomited back into the sun.
"By the Gods..." someone whispered. "Silence!" Garo barked.
As more torches were relit, the true nightmare was revealed. Coiled around Garona's slender waist were several thick, obsidian tentacles. They weren't clothes or accessories; they were fused into her very hips. She had human legs, yet she moved with a hitching, multi-limbed fluidity that suggested she didn't need them to walk.
"What is your purpose here?" Jon asked, his mind racing as the System confirmed this was indeed the "Twisted Devotee."
"Gle-gle. I heard whispers of a Dragon. I came to see if this 'Golden Dragon' Jon Snow was a god... or just another puppet."
"So the Shadow Assassin was your handiwork?"
Jon's voice dropped an octave, laced with a cold, lethal irritation. He did not take kindly to assassination attempts. If she couldn't justify the blood she had spilled, she wasn't leaving the plaza.
He realized then that his perception of this world as "Low Magic" had been a dangerous mistake. Garona was a reminder that beyond the known maps lay civilizations and horrors that made the petty squabbles of Westeros look like children playing with sticks. Some scholars on Earth had theorized that the world's magic was extraterrestrial in origin—ancient civilizations like Yi Ti and Valyria built on the ruins of "Gods" who fell from the stars. Looking at Garona, the theory felt like a warning.
"Jon, is it?" Garona's black eyes flickered with a flash of naked jealousy. "I thought you were like me—blessed by a true revelation. But what you possess... it is older. Deeper."
She sighed, a sound of mock-disappointment. "I only meant to test your mettle. I didn't expect you to be so... vigilant. Sending your little hounds to sniff me out in the dark."
She began to pace, her tentacles trailing in the dust. "We could be partners. My methods and your power... we could drown the Summer Sea in our glory. Once we have an army, you will help me reclaim Thunder Isle, and in return, I will give you everything in the East."
She spoke with a fanatical fervor, as if the mere thought of her conquest made it a reality.
"I don't negotiate with those who try to slit my throat in my sleep," Jon said flatly. "I have no interest in your 'Master.' I have only interest in your death."
While Garona was painting her grand vision, Jon had already quietly activated his Dark Scepter. A sphere of violent, violet-black energy manifested beside her.
"Moonlight!"
Garona's eyes widened with genuine fear. This was the energy that had already claimed half her mass earlier—power that could wound an "Undying" being. She threw herself backward, her lower tentacles lashing out to propel her through the air.
Hisss!
Her tentacles vibrated, emitting a high-frequency sonic wave that rippled the air around her like a physical barrier.
BOOM!
The Moonlight vortex detonated, but Jon had anticipated her escape. The "Moonlight" was a feint. The true killing blow came from Kapo.
"Blizzard!"
A localized storm of frost and ice-shards roared through the plaza. Huge pillars of ice erupted from the stones, seeking to impale the retreating witch. Garona shrieked, sacrificing one of her primary tentacles to intercept the jagged ice.
CRUNCH.
The tentacle was sheared off, falling to the ground where it continued to writhe and scream as if it possessed its own nervous system. The Chainbreakers watched, their skin crawling at the sight of the sentient limb.
"You think this is enough?" Garona spat, her body trembling with rage. "If your soldiers hadn't interrupted my feeding, I would be whole! I would be a god!"
She realized she couldn't win here. "Your power is wasted on you, boy. If you won't serve, I will take it from your corpse later!"
She turned to flee toward the sea, moving like a cephalopod through ink. But she had forgotten one thing: Jon wasn't alone.
A white blur, fast as a thunderbolt, intercepted her path.
"Aaaagh!"
CRACK. CRUNCH.
Ghost, now the size of a prime bison, slammed into her. His jaws, capable of crushing plate armor, locked onto Garona's neck. With a savage shake, the direwolf shattered her spine and throat.
Jon didn't give her a second to recover. He lunged forward, Dark Sister returning to its blade form in a flash of grey light. He drove the Valyrian steel through her heart, pinning the thrashing horror to the earth.
"Burn it," Jon commanded, his voice cold as the Wall. "All of it. Use the fire oil."
As the flames consumed the remains of the Bloodwitch, Jon watched the black smoke rise into the night sky, his face pale and unreadable.