The Red Dragon
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14. Dohaerās, Caraxes
🕑 Added 2025-02-13 17:54:17 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow POV*
"Are you an idiot?" Sansa snapped, her fury barely restrained. "What do you think the people who made you king will say when you abandon Winterfell the day after your coronation?"
I met her glare with the same indifferent stare I had learned from the Starks.
"Jon, they will think you’re irresponsible. That you’re unfit to be King in the North." She shook her head in clear disapproval before sinking back into her chair.
I placed a steady hand on the table, straightening my back as I spoke. "Do you think I don’t know that? And yet, here I am, asking you to handle things in my absence. What does that tell you, Sansa?"
She exhaled sharply, the fight in her gaze giving way to understanding. "It means that whatever business you have at Moat Cailin is more important to you than the trust of your supporters. I understand that, Jon. But can’t you at least tell me what’s so important about that ruined castle?"
My expression must have given her the answer she dreaded because she stood abruptly, gathering her skirts with a frustrated sigh. "Fine. But you had better be back in Winterfell within two days—not a moment more."
"I’ll return sooner than that. You have my word." I stood as well, my voice firm.
Sansa gave me a searching look before nodding. She turned toward the door, but I stopped her with a single word.
"Sansa."
She glanced back.
"Thank you."
She only smiled before leaving the chamber.
With a quiet breath, I crossed the room to the far corner and pulled out a long bundle wrapped in cloth. Carefully, I unwrapped it, revealing the dark, gleaming Valyrian steel of Dark Sister. My fingers traced the ancient blade, admiring its lethal beauty before fastening it to my belt.
I had no intention of hiding my identity forever. But the truth—who I truly was—needed to be spoken by a man whose word carried weight, not simply because Bran had seen it in his visions.
That was why I had sent a raven to Howland Reed. The original plan had been to gather the Northern lords and have him reveal the truth of my birth. But last night, everything changed.
Bran had spoken of the gift that was promised to me.
A dragon.
With Caraxes at my command, no one would doubt me not having Targaryen blood.
That was why I had called Sansa—to leave Winterfell in her hands for the next two days. Though I could reach Moat Cailin in a single day at the speed I could now travel, I would need rest before facing one of the fiercest dragons in history.
Before standing before Caraxes.
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The first light of dawn broke over the Neck, casting pale gold across the mist-choked swamps. The ruins of Moat Cailin loomed ahead, jagged stones thrusting from the earth like the bones of some long-dead giant. The air was thick with dampness, heavy with the stench of stagnant water and decaying wood. It was the kind of place where men vanished, swallowed by the land itself.
Jon Snow rode through the morning fog, his cloak damp with dew, his breath visible in the chill. He had taken brief stops to hunt and rest—there was no point rushing into a meeting with a dragon unprepared. The night before, he had hunted with Ghost’s help, taking down a stag and roasting the meat beneath the stars. Not that his mind had been at ease.
High Valyrian lessons had continued relentlessly in his head, courtesy of Aether.
"Naejot Māzīs Caraxes," Aether instructed in that ever-so-patient, ever-so-irritating tone.
Jon had scowled. “Come forth, Caraxes?”
["Correct! Now say it again."]
He had.
It sounded like he was trying to sneeze.
["Impressive. You have now declared yourself a very aggressive goose."]
Jon had sworn, thrown a bone into the fire, and given up for the night.
Now, with Moat Cailin ahead and Caraxes waiting somewhere beyond the mist, his amusement was long gone. His fingers tightened around Dark Sister’s hilt as he exhaled, steadying himself.
The blood of the dragon ran through him.
Now was the time to prove it.
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Jon felt it before he saw it.
He had been searching through the mist for the past hour, repeating what Aether had taught him, but with no success. Just as he was about to take a brief rest, he felt it.
A presence. Ancient. Immense.
Something vast lay ahead, slumbering beneath the mist. He moved forward cautiously, Ghost at his side, silent and alert.
Then the fog thinned, and the ruins revealed the beast.
Caraxes lay stretched across the ruins, his long, sinuous body draped over the broken towers like a serpent basking in the morning sun. Crimson scales shimmered as he shifted, wings rustling, his elongated neck curled lazily across the stones. His tail flicked once, shattering loose rock, before he settled again.
The dragon’s golden eyes flicked toward Jon.
And then—
Dismissal.
A slow exhale. A flicker of his tail. A shift of his massive form that spoke not of wariness, not of curiosity—merely disinterest.
Jon stepped closer. "dohaerās, Caraxes."
The dragon did not move.
Jon took another step, his boots crunching against the gravel.
Still nothing.
Ghost growled low, ears flattening. Jon understood the warning. The dragon’s indifference was not an invitation—it was a declaration.
Caraxes did not see a rider before him.
He saw a wolf that had wandered too close.
Jon exhaled sharply, fingers twitching over the pommel of Dark Sister. He had expected resistance, but this was something else entirely.
A deep rumble vibrated through Caraxes’s chest, low and thunderous, the kind that made bones shudder. A flicker of heat curled from his nostrils, an unspoken warning.
And still—Jon stepped forward.
But there was no movement from Caraxes, and Jon was no fool. He knew when he was being ignored.
His grip on Dark Sister tightened.
Something inside him snapped.
Jon surged forward, boots slamming against the stone. The sudden motion made Caraxes pause, one wing twitching, his gaze flicking back to him.
Jon lunged for the saddle rope wrapped around Caraxes’s wing.
Caraxes moved like lightning.
The dragon’s head shot up, his maw opening wide, and then—
Fire.
A roaring inferno, crimson and unrelenting, engulfed Jon in an instant. The force of it shook the ground, heat curling into the sky, turning the air into a shimmering haze.
Jon’s breath caught. The flames roared around him, but there was no pain. No burning.
The heat licked at his skin, but it did not consume him—just as it hadn’t the two times before.
He stood in the fire, unmoving.
And when the flames died—he still stood.
Now, naked.
Caraxes stared.
For the first time, the dragon hesitated.
Jon could feel it. He had his attention now.
Breathing hard, he started to move again. A growl rippled through Caraxes’s throat, and his wings flared. A beat of the wind sent dust and debris scattering.
"lykirī, Caraxes," Jon said.
The words had an effect. Caraxes calmed—if only for a moment—before his posture stiffened again.
Jon did not falter.
One step.
Two.
Then—
A moment.
A shift.
Something clicked between them, a thread snapping taut, binding something ancient and deep.
Caraxes stilled.
Jon saw it in his eyes—that flicker of recognition, of something changing.
A sound rumbled through the dragon’s chest.
Not anger.
Not irritation.
Acceptance.
The great beast lowered his head, his massive snout mere feet from Jon. Close enough to see the heat rising from his nostrils, close enough to feel the weight of his breath.
Jon did not move.
Slowly, he raised a hand, placing it against Caraxes’s scales. Warmth spread through him, comfort wrapping around his very being. He leaned toward Caraxes’s snout, letting the sensation wash over him.
If someone had asked Jon what he felt in that moment beyond warmth and comfort, his answer would have been simple:
Alive.
For the first time since coming into this world, Jon Snow- No not Jon Snoe but Daeron Targaryen felt truly alive.
He did not want to let go.
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*The Neck*
Caraxes’s wings sliced through the morning mist, his massive form casting a shadow over the land below. Jon held on tightly, the wind rushing past him as his muscles instinctively adjusted to the flight. After putting on the spare clothes he had brought with him, he quickly took to the sky with Caraxes.
And it felt right.
Like something he had always known. Like something that had been waiting for him to remember.
Far below, the Neck stretched into the horizon—swamps, rivers, and ruins fading into the distance.
And then—
A vast encampment.
Banners of the Vale flapped in the wind.
Jon’s grip tightened on the saddle-spine.
Caraxes rumbled beneath him, sensing his rider’s intent. "lykirī, Caraxes. Lykirī" Caraxes who was diving down with the intent to flame the men down below calmed down hearing Jon's command and Jon steered him toward North with a few other High Valyrian words learned from Aether.
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*Jon Snow POV*
It took Caraxes only a few hours to carry me from the Neck back to Winterfell. We soared over the Wolfswood, the wind roaring in my ears, the world below a blur of green and white. Once we neared Winterfell, I guided Caraxes toward a secluded cave, hidden deep within the forest—a temporary home for him, away from prying eyes.
As we landed, I dismounted from the saddle that had been strapped to his back for as long as I could remember which is half a day. The moment my boots hit the ground, I turned toward Caraxes, stepping closer to his massive snout. My hand brushed over the smooth crimson scales, a silent farewell.
Caraxes growled low as I turned to leave, his displeasure vibrating through the air like a distant roll of thunder.
"I’ll be back soon, Caraxes," I said—not in High Valyrian, since my grasp of the language wasn’t strong enough for that yet, but he understood all the same. His great serpentine neck dropped heavily onto the ground, golden eyes following me as I walked away.
I glanced back one last time before sprinting toward Winterfell.
I had landed in the Wolfswood rather than the castle itself for obvious reasons—revealing Caraxes’s presence now would cause chaos, and not because I was looking to make a grand entrance before every northern lord when they arrive. No, Ser, I’m not that vain.
So, where was I? Ah, yes—back at Winterfell, where the northern lords would soon arrive to swear fealty. But before that, I needed to get a better understanding of the current political situation in the Seven Kingdoms.
From what I’d observed so far, this world seemed to be a strange mix of the books and the show from my old world. The Vale army, for instance, should be marching north by now—not camping at Moat Cailin. And yet, I had seen their banners in the Neck.
Something wasn’t adding up.
And I knew exactly who would have the answers I needed.
Brandon Stark, here I come.
