The Red Dragon
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12. 'King in The North'
🕑 Added 2025-02-10 17:16:25 +0000 UTC*Third-Person POV*
Jon stood in the courtyard, his presence alone commanding silence. Blood clung to his body, a stark contrast against the snow, making him look less like a man and more like a wraith of vengeance. His gaze, cold and unyielding, swept over the gathered crowd. The weight of his fury pressed down on them like an unseen force, making even the bravest among them tense.
"Find the deserters," Jon ordered, his voice carrying like the edge of a blade. "Give them two choices—take the Black or join their cruel lord in whatever hell awaits him."
The men on horseback—Freefolk, Manderly soldiers, and Northmen alike—nodded without hesitation. They had fought beside Jon Snow. Some had even been fortunate—or unfortunate—enough to witness him in battle firsthand. One thought bound them all: they were grateful they had not stood against him.
Jon was no mere warrior. He was a force of nature. His sword cleaved through men as if they were made of parchment, and no matter how many fell before him, exhaustion never seemed to touch him. They had watched him leap high into the air and hurl a steel spear with inhuman precision—piercing through both rider and horse, embedding itself so deep into the frozen ground that even the dying beast couldn't move.
He did not yet realize it, but his name would be whispered across the North as a legend. The man blessed by the Old Gods with the strength of giants. A warrior whose rage rivaled the ancient Kings of Winter. Wun Wun breaking through Winterfell’s great doors—doors that would have taken twenty men with tree trunks to move—only cemented that belief.
Jon's gaze shifted to Ramsay Bolton’s unconscious form, his expression unreadable. "Take him to the cells. Ensure he's awake when I give him the punishment he deserves."
The men carrying Ramsay moved quickly, almost stumbling over themselves in their eagerness to be out of Jon’s presence. The air around him was heavy, suffocating, and charged with something unnatural. They didn’t understand it, but they felt it—a bloodthirsty aura that made their instincts scream at them to run.
Unbeknownst to Jon, the ancient magic coursing through his blood—the blood of Winter Kings and dragonlords—was stirring. Winterfell was his by right, and the Old Gods knew it. The very land seemed to recognize its true ruler. His dragon blood, however, sang for chaos, reveling in the carnage, making those around him feel like prey before an apex predator. Hearts pounded wildly in their chests. The only thought in their minds: Run.
Jon looked down at his hands, now dry with blood, and felt the echoes of something unfamiliar—joy.
He had relished the slaughter.
At first, he had told himself it was justice, but as the battle raged, something deeper, something primal had taken hold. The longer he fought, the clearer everything became. He knew where to strike, how to move as if some buried instinct had awakened within him. And with every life he took, the pleasure grew.
His stomach twisted at the realization.
He clenched his fists, pushing the thought aside. He had no answers, but he knew someone who might. First, though, he needed to cleanse himself of the stench of blood before it stirred something in him again.
"Tormund," he said, his voice rough.
The red-haired Wildling met his gaze, his jaw tightening. It took nearly all of Tormund’s willpower not to flinch. He had seen Jon covered in blood before, but never like this. There was something different about him now. Still, deep down, he knew Jon would never harm him. No matter what changes had taken root, the man he called brother was still in there.
"I’ll be in my old chambers. Sansa will know where to find me. Call me when every lord is ready for the meeting."
Tormund only nodded. Jon turned and walked toward the familiar halls of Winterfell.
Before leaving, he cast a final order. "Maester Wolkan, do everything in your power to save Wun Wun. If he dies because of your incompetence, you’ll suffer the same fate as Ramsay."
The aging maester, who had served the Boltons before the battle, paled. His head bobbed in quick, terrified nods, though his trembling hands betrayed him. Some nearby soldiers smelled the stench of piss and sweat, but no one commented on it.
Only when Jon disappeared into the halls did the tension finally ease.
The silence lingered before Torren finally spoke, his voice hushed. "What the fuck was that?"
Tormund exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Fuck me and the ice-cold arse of the Others if I know."
Without another word, he turned toward his Freefolk brothers, trying to shake off the lingering sense of dread that clung to his bones.
"Really?" Torren's question lingered in the air, lost to the silence, unheard and unanswered.
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*Jon Snow POV*
"What was that, Aether?" The words left my lips the moment I sank into the chair in my small chambers, the weight of the battle still pressing down on me.
[No, it is not what you're thinking. It is not the consequence of Blood Magic.] Aether’s voice echoed in my mind, firm and assured. [I’ve already told you—this world’s Blood Magic is different. It’s not entirely safe, but it leaves only minor traces on the caster. It would be a lie to say that your peculiar behavior on the battlefield was solely because of that. In truth, Blood Magic played such a small role that it’s not even worth mentioning.]
I frowned. "Then what was it?"
[The ritual you performed awakened the dormant magical blood within you. One of the bloodlines you carry is inherently prideful and prone to chaos—I don’t think I need to say which one. Awakening it alone wouldn’t have made you blood-hungry, but combined with the lingering remnants of the ritual, it triggered the behavior you exhibited. However, you need not worry—it was an isolated reaction. It won’t happen again.]
A breath of relief escaped me. Thank the Old Gods. The last thing I needed was to struggle with bloodlust every time I led a charge.
"And here I was thinking my next ritual would focus on bloodlines," I muttered, rubbing my temple. "It was meant to help me harness my inherited abilities more efficiently, but after what happened today, maybe I should choose another aspect to enhance."
[You need not hesitate.] Aether’s voice was unwavering. [In fact, I was about to suggest the very same ritual. Before gaining any new magical abilities, you must first master what already exists within you. Considering you possess two of the most powerful bloodlines in this world, enhancing them is the wisest course of action.]
I hesitated. "Are you certain? If I lose control again, it will be disastrous. My allies would fear me, my enemies would exploit it, and before long, they’d whisper that I am no different from my grandfather." The mere thought sent a shudder through me. "The Mad King’s shadow is not something I want looming over me."
[You can trust me, Master.] Aether reassured me. [However, I should warn you—awakening your bloodlines will heighten your emotions. Your temper, your passion—they will intensify to a level befitting a pure Targaryen. And do not forget, the Starks are known for their ‘wolf blood,’ which makes them wild in their own right. Once awakened, these traits will manifest in you as well. Their combined weight may be difficult to bear at first, but I do not believe it will drive you to madness.]
She paused before adding, [And remember—this world’s magic has one unbreakable rule: "Sacrifice is the key to power."]
I fell silent, considering her words.
The benefits outweighed the risks. The curiosity burned within me—what would happen if Stark and Targaryen blood were refined to their purest form? What abilities would I unlock? Could they even mutate, becoming something greater than either bloodline alone? To ignore that potential would be foolish.
"Fortune favors the bold."
After a few moments of contemplation, I made my decision. "Very well. We’ll proceed."
But before Aether could respond, another thought surfaced. "What about the teleportation ritual? Have you finished it?" I had tasked her with devising a way for me to teleport—a skill far too valuable to ignore.
[It is complete, Master.] Aether confirmed. [All we need are the stones from Melisandre. The ritual itself is simple. And the location you wish to teleport to—it’s safer to perform the ritual here in Winterfell rather than deep within the Wolfswood.]
She hesitated before continuing. [However, I advise you to reconsider your decision. I see merit in your plan, but if their guilt over creating that abomination is too great, they may reject your offer outright. And if that happens, we will have wasted extremely valuable stones—stones that could serve future rituals.]
I sighed. "I doubt they will refuse. If given a chance to flourish, they will take it. But if they do reject the offer, then we would just grab wight in their place. What are a few stones compared to the life of a dragon?"
I could feel Aether mentally shaking her head in disapproval. But I ignored it.
If there was even the slightest chance that I could save another ancient, powerful, and near-extinct race from vanishing forever—then I would take it. Without hesitation.
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*Jon Snow POV*
I sat at the high table, surveying the gathered lords—men who had pledged their support to restoring House Stark to its former glory. To my right sat Rickon, who looked utterly bored and frustrated, shifting in his seat as if this entire discussion was a tedious punishment. Further down, Sansa listened intently, her sharp eyes measuring every word spoken by the lords.
“With Winterfell back in our hands, it is time we send letters to every lord in the North, commanding them to come and swear fealty to their new king—King Rickon,” declared Lord Manderly, his tone warm as he offered a smile to the young boy. Rickon, however, merely returned an inquisitive stare, as if weighing the intent behind the words.
“But before that, we must name a regent,” Sansa interjected smoothly. “Rickon is not yet of age to rule, and it falls upon us to choose wisely.” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall.
“There is little need for debate,” said Lady Lyanna Mormont, her voice carrying the strength of a leader far beyond her years. “Jon Snow should serve as regent until Rickon comes of age. If we are to speak plainly, he should be king. He led the largest host in the battle to reclaim Winterfell, and he has ruled before—as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. His blood is Stark, just as much as Rickon’s. And I know, from my mother’s letters, that King Robb intended to name Jon his heir when Rickon was presumed dead.”
A tense silence followed her words. Lord Manderly’s face twisted into an unreadable expression—one of discontent, though he masked it well. Across the hall, Sansa’s face remained neutral, though I could sense the calculation behind her gaze.
“I second that,” said Lord Cley Cerwyn, nodding at me with respect.
“As do I,” added Lord Hornwood, unsurprisingly. He himself was a bastard, legitimized only because no other male heir of House Hornwood remained.
Lord Manderly cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully. “Let us not be so hasty as to challenge the laws of succession. Rickon Stark, son of Eddard Stark, still lives and stands before us. I do not dispute Lord Snow’s valor, nor his service to House Stark, but the North has long been the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. There are many keeps in need of strong, honorable lords. Whoever the regent may be, their first act should be to grant Jon Snow a lordship worthy of his deeds.”
A flicker of disapproval crossed Lyanna’s face, and I noted the dissatisfaction in the expressions of Lord Hornwood and Lord Cerwyn as well. Yet, I remained silent, leaning back in my chair. I wanted to see where this discussion would lead.
What followed was a back-and-forth—Manderly and Lyanna exchanging sharp words, Cerwyn and Hornwood interjecting with their support for me. I could feel the weight of the room shifting, a battle of politics as fierce as any fought with steel.
Then, Sansa spoke.
“I have no objection to Jon being King in the North.”
A stunned silence fell over the hall. Many turned to her with wide eyes, but she remained composed, her expression unreadable save for the small, polite smile she directed at me. But I had Jon’s memories, and I knew a false smile when I saw one.
“With winter upon us, and the dead marching with it, we need a strong leader—one who can lead us not only to war but to survival,” she continued. “My father, Lord Eddard Stark, would have wanted what is best for the North. And you, Lord Manderly, who knew him well, should recognize that as well. It is Jon who has proven himself worthy.”
Lord Manderly paled under the weight of every gaze fixed upon him. Beads of sweat formed at his brow as he struggled for a response—only to be interrupted by a young, clear voice.
“I think Jon should be king, not me,” said Rickon, a grin forming on his face. “If not for him, I wouldn’t be here.”
And just like that, Lord Manderly’s last defense crumbled. With a reluctant sigh, he inclined his head toward Lady Lyanna in concession.
“Jon Snow, King in the North.”
Lyanna Mormont was the first to kneel, her voice ringing with unshakable conviction. One by one, the other lords followed suit. The great hall echoed with their voices, their loyalty sworn.
Only Tormund and the other Free Folk chieftains remained standing. But I did not need them to bend the knee. Their nods of acknowledgment were enough. To ask more would be to ask them to break their very way of life.
