98. Unfortunate Captain And Awkward Ron

Captain America awoke to find himself in a grand hall, adorned with rich tapestries and lit by the flickering light of countless torches. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and spiced wine, and the sound of laughter and celebration filled the space. Confused, Steve blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. This wasn't any place he recognized—no battlefield, no mission briefing room, but instead a place of luxury and excess.

As he moved, Steve realized something was wrong. His body felt different—lighter, weaker. He glanced down at his hands and saw pale, slender fingers, adorned with rings of gold. Panic surged through him as he looked around and caught sight of his reflection in a polished shield mounted on the wall. The face staring back at him wasn't his own; it was delicate, almost regal, with silver-blonde hair and violet eyes.

Steve was in the body of someone else—someone who didn't belong in a fight but rather in a throne room.

Before he could fully process the situation, a loud voice called out, "Viserys!" Steve turned instinctively, realizing that the name was now his to answer to. He saw a crowd of people gathered around a large, ornate chair—a throne—where a young woman with silver-blonde hair sat, wearing a crown and smiling graciously.

Daenerys. The name came to him unbidden, and with it, a flood of memories that weren't his own. This was a celebration of her ascension, a night meant to honor her new title as Khaleesi of the Dothraki. And he—no, Viserys—was supposed to be part of it.

But something was wrong. The Dothraki warriors around the hall, clad in leather and furs, didn't seem pleased. Their eyes bore into him with a mix of disdain and something far darker.

One of them, a massive figure with dark hair and a cruel smile—Khal Drogo—stepped forward. The room quieted as he approached, every eye now fixed on them. Steve's instincts screamed at him to prepare for a fight, but this body wasn't built for combat. His limbs felt frail, and his heart pounded in a way that was more fear than adrenaline.

Drogo stopped before him, towering over him like a predator sizing up its prey. "You want your crown, Viserys?" Drogo's voice was laced with contempt, echoing through the silent hall. "The crown of a king?"

Steve's confusion deepened. A crown? Before he could speak, Drogo turned and barked an order in Dothraki. Several of his men moved quickly, bringing forth a large, golden belt. The belt was placed into a cauldron over a roaring fire at the center of the hall, and as the metal began to melt, Steve realized with growing horror what was about to happen.

"No!" Steve shouted, trying to back away, but Drogo's hands were already on him, dragging him forward. The room was spinning, the faces of the Dothraki and his supposed sister blurred by the panic rising within him. He struggled, but this body was too weak, too untrained.

Drogo's men held him down as the Khal lifted the cauldron of molten gold. The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the bubbling of the gold. Steve tried to speak, to plead, but his voice failed him.

"This is the crown you deserve," Drogo said coldly, before tilting the cauldron.

The molten gold poured over Steve's head, and the pain was immediate and all-consuming. It seared through him, burning flesh and bone, locking his jaw in a scream that never fully formed. The last thing he saw before everything went dark was the look of indifference on Drogo's face, and the pity in Daenerys' eyes.

When Captain America woke up again, he was back in the familiar surroundings of the Alfa spaceship. He bolted upright, gasping for air, his heart pounding as he took in the familiar faces of Natasha and Madusa. "What... just happened?" he muttered, still reeling from the vivid nightmare. "And why do I feel like I've had the worst party of my life?"

Somewhere in the north,

Ron's awakening was a bit more complicated—and, well, kind of embarrassing. He groggily opened his eyes, his body feeling heavy and oddly cold. The first thing he noticed was the overwhelming chill in the air. He groaned, his breath coming out in visible puffs of mist. "Man, did someone leave the AC on max or what?"

He tried to move, but his limbs felt stiff, like he'd been lying in one position for too long. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his head, and when he finally managed to sit up, he froze—literally and figuratively. His hands were a ghostly pale blue, like he had dipped them in a vat of ice. "Okay, that's new."

Ron's eyes widened as he looked down at the rest of his body. He was covered in some kind of ancient, icy armor, and his skin had turned a freaky shade of blue. "Alright, who's the joker who thought it was funny to freeze me in carbonite?" He tried to laugh it off, but the sound that came out was more of a raspy growl. "Whoa, that sounded way cooler in my head."

He stood up, wobbly at first, and took a few awkward steps. His body didn't feel like his own—more like he was wearing a popsicle suit. As he walked, he heard an unsettling crunch under his feet. Looking down, he saw he was leaving icy footprints in the snow. "Okay, what the hell? Did I get some kind of weird frostbite superpower?"

Still clueless as to what was going on, Ron started to explore his surroundings. The landscape was bleak and barren, just endless white as far as he could see. "Why does this feel like I've wandered into the worst ski resort ever?" He stopped to think. "And why do I feel like I should be chasing someone?"

Ron tried to warm himself up with some energy blasts—only to remember, much to his dismay, that his powers were gone. "Oh, come on! No flames, no lightning—nothing? What am I supposed to do, start a snowball fight?"

Feeling thoroughly freaked out, Ron kept moving, his frustration growing with every step. But as he walked, he began to notice something else—a strange compulsion, an urge to head north. "North? What's north? Santa Claus? The North Pole? Ugh, this is the worst road trip ever."

Completely unaware that he had been reborn as a White Walker, Ron trudged on, muttering to himself and trying to shake off the creepy feeling of being trapped in a body that wasn't his. "If this is some kind of prank, I'm gonna find out who's responsible and make them pay. With snow cones. Really, really cold snow cones."