The Red Dragon
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9. The Lord o’ Fire and Ice
🕑 Added 2025-02-06 17:41:36 +0000 UTC*Third-Person POV*
They clawed at his mind, wailing in rage, despair, and agony. Ghosts of warriors were long gone, their spirits writhing in the flames that had devoured their flesh. Jon clenched his jaw, feeling their fury press against his soul.
[Do not falter. They are but echoes. Their rage will fuel your might, but only if you master them.]
Jon roared against the storm of voices, against the suffering that sought to claim him. The fire around him intensified, turning into a pillar of blood-red light that pierced the heavens. At that moment—the apex of the ritual—the camp awakened.
The Freefolk and Northerners stirred in their tents, gasping as waves of unbearable heat crashed over them. Even the most hardened warriors felt their skin prickle with an unnatural warmth as if the very air had turned to flame. Those nearest to the battlefield were forced to stagger backward, shielding their faces from the infernal heat.
Cries of alarm spread through the camp. Men rushed from their tents, eyes wide with horror and fear. The patrols who had been stationed at the perimeter turned, their hands gripping weapons, only to falter at the sight before them.
A firestorm raged at the battlefield’s edge.
And at its center stood Jon Snow, untouched by the flames.
His silhouette burned like a shadow against the infernal light, his form wreathed in blood-red fire. The snow had vanished, leaving nothing but scorched land stretching for a half-league in all directions. Steam rose in thick clouds, shrouding him like a living tempest.
The men watched in stunned silence.
Some fell to their knees, muttering prayers to the Old Gods, for surely they were witnessing something beyond mortal comprehension. Others clutched their weapons in uncertainty, torn between fear and reverence. To see their chosen king standing in the heart of an unholy inferno, unharmed, was nothing short of myth-given flesh.
One of the Freefolk, a grizzled warrior with battle scars and a lifetime of hardships, fell to his knees. His voice trembled. “The Lord o’ Fire and Ice…”
Tormund Giantsbane, always bold, took a step forward, his usual jesting demeanor absent. His breath came out in a shudder as he whispered, “By the gods… Jon Snow, what in all the hells have you become?”
[Master… you have done it.]
Jon opened his eyes within the fire. They glowed with the light of embers, power thrumming beneath his skin.
He was no longer just an ordinary man. He was something more.
Melisandre, the priestess of the Lord of Light, stood at the camp’s edge, her eyes alight with reverence as she watched the spectacle unfold. The flames that engulfed Jon Snow stirred something deep within her—a mixture of awe and trepidation that could unnerve even the bravest soul. She wondered why her Lord had kept such a moment hidden from her visions; his fiery prophecies had not foretold of such a display. Yet, in that inferno, she sensed the unmistakable mark of destiny—perhaps the greatest sign of all, pointing unmistakably to the identity of the promised prince.
Determined, Melisandre vowed then and there to serve the champion of light with every ounce of her strength. Failure was not an option; she would not disappoint her Lord, nor the one she now believed to be the True Champion. With her heart aflame with purpose, she resolved to send a message. She would compose a letter to the Temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis, informing her brethren that she had found the True Champion.
Unbeknownst to her, every priest and priestess in the temple was already watching Jon Snow’s ritual through the flickering tongues of flame. Each saw something different in the dancing fire—a vision, a sign, a promise of transformation. How they interpreted these omens was a mystery yet to be unraveled, and only time would reveal the true depth of the divine portent.
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*Jon Snow POV*
[The sudden increase in your height and body is meant to accommodate your enhanced strength, agility, and other abilities,] Aether explained, responding to the question that many have been asking me repeatedly from dawn to dusk. I lay on the hard stone of the watchtower, eyes closed, reflecting on the past day since the ritual. The benefits were undeniable, even if the rumors that would follow might bring me more problems down the road. Already, two thousand people were boasting about witnessing the most wondrous spectacle of their lives.
It wouldn't be long before we met Ramsay Snow to negotiate a peaceful resolution—if such a thing were possible. I longed for peace but not even I dared to make peace with Ramsay of all people, but the other lords following me insisted on seeing if Ramsay might surrender Winterfell. The irony of it all was maddening.
My thoughts soon drifted back to the ritual's benefits. Aether had predicted a mere one percent chance that I would transcend from normal human to superhuman, yet I dared to hope. It seemed that my body had reached its peak human potential after the ritual. Still, I discovered new marvels when I tested my gains in a secluded spot away from prying eyes.
My heightened senses were one of the benefits I had quickly learned to control, almost instinctively, after emerging from the fire. Watching those old Superman movies had helped; I learned how to focus on what I wanted to hear, smell, and feel. Then came the hunger—a ravenous need that only a feast could satisfy. After stuffing my seemingly bottomless stomach, I closed my eyes and slept soundly until the sun rose.
When I awoke, I answered some questions about the spectacle from last night, then mounted my horse and set out for a private training ground. I pushed my limits, testing my strength, speed, and stamina with every exercise I could recall. I even sprinted to a small pond where we had rested with the horses the day before. I suspect I can now outrun a full-gallop horse; unlike them, I tire little, even after a long run. Though exhausted, I was far from incapacitated—capable of defeating any foe in hand-to-hand combat.
[You’re nearly at the level of Captain America from those Marvel Comics you used to read,] Aether remarked. [Almost. But unlike his serum, magic does not immediately tune your body. Give it time, and I advise you to master your strength now, lest you inadvertently injure an ally.] I took her words to heart and spent the day honing my swordsmanship and control over my newfound might.
Then there was my warg ability, which had also received a boost. Now, I could warg into both Ghost and Luna simultaneously, although the experience was short-lived. Experiencing both land and sky with each eye taught me that attempting to warg into a land animal and one in the sky at the same time gave me a headache that lingered for half an hour after my first attempt. Yet, the potential was there, and I decided it was time to add another creature to my growing circle of animal companions.
Now, back in the present, we awaited the arrival of Sansa and Davos, who were to come with Lord Manderly and his army. They had convinced Lord Manderly with promises of revenge and even betrothal between House Stark and Manderly in the future—a fair deal if it meant gaining fifteen hundred strong men and more benefits when we reclaimed Winterfell. The new army had camped a league away from Castle Cerwyn, as Lord Cerwyn had decided to be on the winning side and prepared to exact his long-awaited vengeance against the murderer of his father and brother.
I had even instructed Luna to intercept any raven bound for or departing from Winterfell, ensuring all messages passed through our hands. It seems Ramsay has also ordered his scouts and patrols to not venture out during scouting more than the outskirts of Winterfell, fearful of losing more men after our latest triumph.
Tomorrow, we would gather once more before heading into battle. I sighed, pushing such heavy thoughts aside as I sought sleep. A few minutes later, I drifted into the realm of dreams, ready to face whatever destiny had in store.
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I sat in a chair, Longclaw resting at my side, my eyes fixed on the wooden table before me. The hut—or rather, the makeshift war council chamber—had served its purpose for some time now. Tormund sat beside me, his usual restless energy contained only by the anticipation of our visitors. We were waiting for my sister, Davos, and Lyanna, who were due to arrive at any moment.
The wooden door creaked open, and a gust of cold wind rushed in, carrying with it the three people we had been expecting. As they stepped inside, I rose from my seat to greet them. The moment Sansa and Davos laid eyes on me, their faces twisted with shock.
"How...?" Sansa's voice wavered.
"What in the name of the Seven?" Davos muttered, his brow furrowed.
I sighed, already weary of explaining my sudden growth yet again. Before I could even open my mouth, Tormund’s voice rang out with the kind of absurdity only he could muster.
"He suckled at the tit of a giant," he declared with absolute confidence.
Sansa and Davos turned to me with identical expressions of disbelief—and, to my horror, acceptance.
They actually believed him.
"Stop spreading lies, Tormund," I said, rubbing my temple. "And for the last time, there are no female giants left—"
I cut myself off the moment I saw the wicked gleam in his eyes. A foreboding feeling crept over me. I should have known better than to leave any openings for Tormund Giantsbane.
"Ah!" he said, grinning. "Who said anything about female giants? When I said ‘giant,’ I meant Wun Wun. I bet his milk would have been real sweet for you, eh, King Crow?"
He roared with laughter at his own joke. Davos pressed his lips together, clearly trying—and failing—not to join in. Meanwhile, both Sansa and Lyanna looked thoroughly mortified, as if regretting every life choice that had led them to this moment.
I shot Tormund a pointed glare, silencing him before he laughed himself to death. Once the hut had settled, I finally began my explanation.
Of course, I didn’t tell them about the ritual. Instead, I spun the same tale I had told before—of the gods bestowing me with strength to fight the dead. It was a convenient lie and one that people were willing to believe. I was just grateful Melisandre wasn’t here. If she were, she would undoubtedly press me again about whether I had met the Lord of Light. And I had no desire to answer that question.
After that, Davos and Sansa recounted their efforts to secure Lord Manderly’s support, detailing how they convinced him to join our cause. He had traveled with them but had excused himself to wash away the stench of sweat before joining us.
We had moved on to other matters when the door swung open once more. Lord Manderly entered, greeting everyone at the table before settling into a chair that his men had brought in with some difficulty.
“We are going to meet Ramsay Snow before resorting to bloodshed, aren’t we?” Manderly asked, his gaze sweeping across the room.
Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added, “By the way, I met King Rickon outside. He didn’t say much, but seeing him alive and well was enough to make me feel no regret in throwing my support behind the Starks.” He chuckled, but I didn’t miss the weight behind his words. I kept my expression neutral, not letting him see the thoughts running through my mind.
Sansa exhaled sharply, clearly exasperated. “We have already discussed this, Lord Manderly. It would be the height of folly to ask Ramsay, of all people in Westeros, to surrender Winterfell peacefully.”
By the look on her face, she had tried and failed to convince him that negotiations with Ramsay were a waste of time.
“Lady Sansa,” Manderly replied, his tone firm but patient, “it is both my duty and yours to seek a peaceful resolution before turning to war. As King Rickon is still a child, it falls upon us to speak with Ramsay Snow. And who knows? Perhaps seeing an army greater than his—thanks to your half-brother—will make him reconsider. Fear is a powerful motivator, after all. The forefathers of House Bolton once bent the knee to the Starks; perhaps Ramsay will do the same.”
He leaned forward, his expression serious. “If it were Roose Bolton we were dealing with, I would have no such hope. But Ramsay? He is a bastard, untrained in the true art of war. I have heard it was only his cruelty and inborn skill with a bow that made Roose choose him as his heir in desperation.” His conviction was clear, the certainty in his voice leaving no room for doubt that he truly believed what he was saying.
Lyanna Mormont shook her head, disappointment is evident on her face. Sansa and Davos exchanged glances before turning to me, their expressions practically shouting, What are we supposed to do with this fool of a man?
At first, I could only chuckle. But as I looked at their faces and replayed Manderly’s words in my head, the chuckle turned into full-blown laughter.
