1. The Ghost in the Shadows
Jon awoke under foreign stars.
He lay beside the smoldering ashes of last night's campfire, Wanda sleeping soundly across from him, her cloak curled around her slender frame. Snow clung to his skin, but the cold no longer bit the way it used to. Something inside him—some eerie flame that hadn't died with Daenerys—kept him warm when it shouldn't.
He breathed slowly, alert. Silence.
But something was off.
Then he heard it: footfalls. Too light for a patrol, too patient for beasts.
Jon pivoted, staying low. And then she appeared—her silhouette under moonlight.
**Black leather. Crimson curls. Sharp eyes scanning like a hunter.**
**Natasha Romanoff.** A blur of midnight muscle and methodical grace.
The witch must have led them here.
From the shadows of the tree line she stepped, twin batons crackling with voltage. But Jon had faced white walkers with only a dagger—this stranger was no ghost.
Neither backed down.
"You gonna try to kill me too?" he said darkly.
Natasha tilted her head, analyzing him with that assassin's poise. "Already read your bloodwork. You're not from this universe. Not meta, not mutant… definitely not human as we know it."
He grunted. "Not sure I ever was."
Wanda stirred, standing protectively beside him.
"Nat, back off. He's been through enough."
"And yet he overpowered six SHIELD agents using a language no one on this planet speaks," Natasha said without emotion.
Her gaze trailed down Jon's form—muscular, dirt-streaked, marked with Valyrian sigils and faint glowing veins near his ribs. That same fire. That old power.
Still, Natasha's eyebrow ticked up—not with fear. With fascination.
### 2. The Cage
They didn't fight.
Wanda negotiated his "turn-in" under the condition she retained custody. Jon agreed reluctantly, on the condition no chains were used. He'd had enough of chains, in King's Landing and Castle Black.
They flew to an off-grid SHIELD facility in Iceland—cold, clear skies above, black glass architecture beneath. Jon sat quietly in a reinforced glass room overlooking a frozen lake, hands clasped, eyes distant.
For hours he said nothing.
Until she came again.
Natasha. No uniform now. Just a thick grey coat, red scarf, and her predatory presence.
She entered alone.
"You're strangely calm for a prisoner," she said, arms crossed.
"I've been a prisoner before," Jon replied mildly. "This feels like a holiday in comparison."
Something flicked in her eyes—amusement, maybe. "You're not what I expected."
Jon looked at her with the same haunted strength that had unnerved kings. "Few people ever think I am."
She sat opposite him, crossing her leather-clad legs. "Where you're from... dragons, kings, war. You were some kind of leader?"
He didn't answer.
So she changed tactics. Leaning forward, voice velvet soft: "How'd it feel when you killed her?"
His chest tightened. The scar from his wound throbbed.
"Like dying with her," he whispered.
Natasha leaned back, studying him intently. This man had grief fused into his bones—and control over power no one understood. She could see echoes of trauma, but beneath that… there was calm, danger, dominance.
She smiled slowly. "You're either going to be a hero… or the greatest sex symbol this multiverse has ever seen."
Jon blinked. "What's a… sex symbol?"
She laughed darkly. "I'll show you later."
### 3. Power Recognition
Later, Stark arrived via hologram. His AI scanned Jon's biology—zero matches across ninety-three registered human variants. But what unsettled Tony wasn't the blood or the strength. It was the energy signature.
"The cosmic resonance in this guy is ridiculous," he told Wanda. "It's like someone shoved radioactive dragon DNA through a magical blender and added a pinch of Tesseract radiation."
Wanda touched Jon's shoulder. "And that means?"
"That means, sweetheart," Tony drawled, "he could punch a hole into the multiverse if he decides he's horny enough."
Wanda turned pink.
Jon blinked again. "What's pornography?"
Natasha leaned across the table, grinning. "Definitely showing you later."
### 4. The Harem Begins
That night, Jon stayed in a luxury suite at the compound—on Wanda's insistence.
She requested they stay together for "stability reasons." Her room was simple: spell-inscribed walls, soft red lighting, and runes to keep telepathy out.
Jon undressed unbothered, oblivious to her glances. His body was cut from war and wilderness, runes glowing faintly across old scars.
Wanda bit her lip. "In your world… did you ever love her?"
"Daenerys?" he asked. Then nodded. "More than anything." His eyes closed. "But it killed us both."
A pause.
Then Wanda stepped closer. "You're not alone now."
And for a moment, magic sparked between them—not chaos, not prophecy. Just two broken souls finding space to heal.
Their lips met. First soft, exploring… then urgent, like winter meeting wildfire.
Her top slipped, soft breasts pressing to his chest, her moans quiet and reverent as he kissed her neck, her collarbone, her soul.
"I need this," she whispered.
"So do I," he breathed.
They collapsed, entwined. Wanda shuddered under his touch, and Jon moved over her like waves over stone—strong, careful, reverent. He learned her body as he once learned swordplay: slowly, fully, intensely.
Long after their breaths calmed, Wanda curled into him like a shadow finding its light.
### 5. Red Widow's Game
Hours later, Natasha entered the room. She didn't knock.
Jon sat up naked beneath the sheets, Wanda curled asleep at his chest.
"So it's true," Natasha smirked. She stepped in, removed her coat, revealing just her black skinsuit. "Figured I'd need to catch up before the witch gets greedy."
Jon raised an eyebrow. "You don't seem jealous."
"Oh, I don't do jealousy." Her voice dropped as she straddled the edge of the bed beside him. "I do… experience."
Wanda stirred, gave a sleepy smile, and murmured, "He's insatiable."
Jon growled, unsure if women from this world were witches, warriors, or both.
Natasha pulled off the zipper, let her suit fall to her waist. Her skin was pale, but scarred, marked by violence and choice.
"You don't have to prove anything," Jon whispered.
"I'm not proving," she said, slowly lowering herself into his lap. "I'm claiming my share."
That night, there were no rules—just mouths, hands, limbs, and stifled gasps. Wanda kissed down his chest as Natasha rode him slow and confident, her nails in his shoulder, her lips a challenge.
By the end, Jon had mastered their rhythms—witchfire and shadow, heat and hunger.
### 6. Trouble Brews, and so Does Destiny
When morning came, so did the trouble.
Sif arrived from Asgard.
And with her, came prophecy.
"A dragon-blooded warrior has landed beyond Yggdrasil," she explained coldly to Thor, who now watched Jon spar on the cliffside of the SHIELD compound. "He carries Old Magic. Magic not born of this Universe."
Jon turned mid-swing, having overheard. "You're mistaken. I carry only blood and grief."
But Sif, war-queen of Asgard, drew her sword slowly. "Prove it."