The Red Dragon
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15. The Heart of an Alpha
🕑 Added 2025-02-15 18:51:45 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow POV*
I sighed, turning my gaze out of the window as dusk crept over the snow-covered fields. The creeping darkness mirrored my own thoughts. In the chamber with me, Bran sat silently, watching me with that same blank stare, as if he were talking to some stranger.
After returning to Winterfell, I had eaten a modest meal before making my way here. Bran had been more than willing to tell me all he knew about the Seven Kingdoms, and as he spoke, my suspicions about this world were only further confirmed—it was a mix between the books and the show.
Some figures absent from the show existed here—Aurane Waters who after stealing the Crown’s fleet sailed to the Stepstones, while Willas Tyrell and Arianne Martell were active in their respective domains. Their presence had altered the timeline in ways I had yet to fully grasp. But for the most part, things followed the show’s events rather than the books'.
"Bran, can you warg into dragons?" I asked Bran the question that had been on my mind for some time. And Bran only looked at me with one bro raised as if to say I should know the answer.
"My bond with Caraxes is new, and I haven't tried to warg in him yet," I replied to his unasked question.
"It is not possible," Bran said. "A warg or skin-changer will never be able to skin-change into dragons. Even green-seers, who are more powerful than them, cannot do it. Dragons are created by the magic of the Valyrians, and they ensured that none could control their powerful weapons except themselves." That sounds like the Valyrians. "I think you might succeed in skin-changing into Caraxes with dragon blood in your veins. However, I can't say for certain, as Brynden, with all his experience in magic, couldn't fully understand the bond that exists between a dragon and its rider."
"I will certainly try," I said, resting a hand on Dark Sister, which lay across my lap. "Bran it was your dream to become a knight like Ser Barristan, no?" His eyes widened slightly in surprise, a flicker of old emotions passing across his otherwise impassive face. Sadness. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that eerie, knowing calm.
"Aye, I had that dream. But it seems the gods had another plan for me. They wanted me to fly and see far-off things, rather than walk and experience them," Bran said, looking down at his legs, which were covered in fur.
As he turned his gaze back to me, I mentioned the reason I had started this conversation. "I assume you have seen what I'm capable of now, after coming back, I mean." Bran nodded in response. "I could restore your legs to health again if that is something you desire. I know you wouldn’t be able to escape this three-eyed raven thing. But no one said you couldn't become a Ser while saving the world from darkness with your expertise." I smiled at him, waiting to hear his response.
Bran's expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of hope buried beneath the cold.
"You of all people should know that doing magic always comes with a price," Bran said. "Granted, those of us with certain bloodlines pay less than others. Nevertheless, after a certain point, I will no longer have dreams or emotions. The more I see, the more I merge with the Weirwood, and soon I will cease to be Bran Stark and instead become the three-eyed raven." Even as he spoke of this, his tone and expression remained devoid of emotion.
His words sent a shiver down my spine. "Why?" I demanded. "Why go so deep? We know the threats we face. We know how to stop them. You only need to warg into ravens, track their movements—that should be enough."
Bran furrowed his brow and looked at me with curiosity, which confused me. But what he said next came as a shock: "Did the gods not tell you that what you saw at Hardhome is only the beginning?" His question stirred many emotions within me, but I managed to maintain my composure. I laughed bitterly in my mind, realizing I had been a fool to think I would only have to deal with politics and White Necromancers in this world.
Before I could respond, Bran continued, "Our world holds many buried secrets, Daeron. The Long Night will be a time when these buried ghosts attempt to annihilate the living. As the three-eyed raven, I have the power to learn about their origins and weaknesses to help YOU defeat them or drive them back. These walkers, a threat created by the Children of the Forest, are nothing compared to what awaits us in the future."
I sighed; this was just what I needed to hear right now. "If it's any consolation, you might be relieved to know that we have a few years before this chain of events begins. And you won't be alone in carrying the burden of being a savior."
Before I could ask him what he meant by that, the chamber door creaked open.
Sansa and Rickon entered, wrapped in thick fur and leathers, the cold growing harsher by the day.
"Jon!" Rickon cried, dashing forward to hug me before plopping down in the chair beside me.
Sansa took her seat next to Bran, her keen eyes flickering between us. "What were you two talking about?" it was Rickon who asked, curious in his tone.
Rickon grinned, eager to hear whatever secrets his older brothers had been discussing. His recovery had been slow, but the constant presence of family had helped draw him out of the shell he had built around himself after Shaggydog’s death.
"Wouldn't you like to know? We were talking about Ghost. I have sent Ghost to Wolfswood to become the leader of a pack of wolves. Although these wolves won't grow as large as your departed companions, they will defend you from threats with the same ferocity as dire wolves." Hearing this, Sansa looked doubtful, but since she didn't voice any disapproval, I believe there is still a chance she might try to bond with one of them.
"You're the best brother ever, Jon," Rickon said happily, almost jumping out of his chair. "When will Ghost come back?" inquired Rickon, trying not to come out as being impatience, but his body language said otherwise.
Sansa and I laughed at his antics, and although it might not have been noticeable to outsiders, there was a small smile on Bran's face as he watched Rickon happy again. Rickon then began to share stories about his time with Shaggydog, describing how he experienced the world through Shaggydog's eyes. We all started to recount stories from the time we were separated, omitting the more difficult parts.
"Jon, the ravens bearing replies from the lords of the North have arrived while you were out," Sansa said, as Rickon had gone to the kitchen to satisfy his hunger. Now there were only three of us left in the chambers. "Almost all the houses have replied, except for House Ryswell and House Dustin. House Tallhart also hasn't sent any word, but there are rumors that some no-name Ironborn has taken control of Torrhen's Square."
Ryswell and Dustin's lack of response was somewhat expected due to the current Lady Dustin holding a grudge. This stemmed from either Lord Brandon Stark, my uncle, not marrying her, or Lord Eddard Stark not bringing back the body of her husband. As for Ryswell, it was her maiden house, and Lord Ryswell had been rejected in favor of House Tully. Man is too ambitious for me to let him remain in power. So their fate is almost decided both houses would be replaced by some loyal men. Regarding Torrhen's Square, it would only take one visit from me or a few men to deal with the Ironborn.
"They are not just rumors, Sansa. It is Dagmer Cleftjaw, the Master-at-Arms of House Greyjoy, who has taken control of Torrhen's Square. Additionally, the brother and daughter of the previous Lord Tallhart are still held captive in their own keep," Bran said. Sansa raised an eyebrow but nodded, storing away the information he had provided.
"Nevertheless, all the lords would be arriving in a few weeks. Therefore, I advise you to decide what to do with Last Hearth. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to oversee their accommodations, as some of them will be arriving next week." With that, she took her leave, reminding me once again about Last Hearth. I sighed and stood up, preparing to leave as I needed to get ready for the bloodline-enhancing ritual. That was also one of the reasons I had sent Ghost to take on a leadership role; I needed the heart of an alpha as part of the ingredients.
"We will discuss the threats you mentioned at a later date, just the two of us, with wine cups in hand." Those were the words I left Bran with before closing the door to his chambers.
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*Third-Person POV*
The Wolfswood was quiet, the night air thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. A bitter wind howled through the trees, yet Jon Snow barely felt it. He stood at the edge of a clearing, just beyond the yawning mouth of a great cave where Caraxes slumbered. The firelight from a small brazier flickered, sending shadows dancing across the snow. Beside it, the heart of the alpha wolf, still warm, lay among the other ritual ingredients.
Ghost prowled the clearing’s edge, his white fur a ghostly blur against the snow, his dark red eyes gleaming in the dim light. Then, he stopped. His ears pricked forward, his body tense. He stared into the treeline, sensing something Jon could not yet see.
The sound of rustling leaves followed.
Jon turned sharply, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. From the depths of the forest, a figure stepped forth—small, slight, and otherworldly. A Child of the Forest. Their skin was the color of earth, their golden eyes luminous in the dark. Their fingers, three and a thumb curled around a small wooden bowl. Inside, a thick liquid swirled—a red deeper than blood, richer, alive.
The Child tilted their head, studying him with an expression caught between curiosity and reverence.
“We sang to the earth,” they murmured, their voice a melody more than speech. “It listened. And gave us this.”
They lifted the bowl for Jon to see.
“It is old magic—of root and stone, of blood and time. Drink and your song will be heard clearer.”
Jon hesitated, but only for a breath. Then he stepped forward, taking the bowl with careful hands. The liquid within was warm despite the night’s chill, and its scent filled his senses—earth after rain, weirwood sap, something ancient and knowing.
And then, the ground trembled.
A heavy thud, then another. The deep shadows within the cave stirred as something vast moved within them. A low, rolling growl like distant thunder rumbled through the clearing.
Caraxes unfurled from the darkness, his massive wings stretching wide as he emerged, molten eyes locking onto the Child. His long, sinuous neck arched as he exhaled, sending a gust of heat into the freezing air, melting the frost at his feet. His growls were high-pitched, guttural, filled with something unreadable.
Yet the Child did not flinch. Instead, they placed a hand upon their chest and bowed their head in quiet acknowledgment.
Caraxes loomed over them, nostrils flaring as he took in their scent. A long moment stretched, thick with silent meaning. And then, to Jon’s astonishment, the great dragon lowered his head—not in submission, but in recognition.
The Child turned back to Jon, their golden eyes gleaming like embers in the night.
“Sing your song, Stark.” Their voice was like wind through leaves, like whispers in old stone. “The earth will listen. For yours is the Song of Ice and Fire. The song of the world.”
