The Red Dragon
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8. The whispers of the dead
🕑 Added 2025-02-03 16:34:40 +0000 UTC*Third-Person POV*
The battlefield at the Crofter’s Village was a frozen graveyard. The Bolton forces had marched straight into Jon’s trap, the weakened ice beneath their feet giving way in great, splintering cracks. Hundreds plunged into the freezing abyss, their armor dragging them under, but as expected, not all perished. Scores of men clawed their way out, drenched and shivering, driven by sheer survival instinct. Others, lucky enough to have avoided the treacherous ice, gathered in the clearing—cold, disorganized, and surrounded.
Jon watched from a slight elevation as the remnants of the enemy force, now barely half the number as they were, huddled together like cornered beasts. His own forces, nearly three times their number, tightened their ranks in a near-perfect encirclement.
"Loose!" Jon commanded.
Arrows darkened the sky once more, descending like a storm of death upon the exposed Bolton men. The second volley struck true, puncturing flesh and shattering bone with merciless precision. Agonized screams tore through the frigid air as men crumpled, their bodies littering the snow like broken dolls. Armor did little to stop the relentless barrage, and panic rippled through their ranks. By the time the fourth volley fell, nearly a third of them lay dead or writhing in the bloodstained frost.
Desperation set in. The survivors scrambled for cover, some raising their shields in a feeble attempt at defense, while others, stripped of better options, dragged the bodies of their fallen comrades to shield themselves from the next inevitable onslaught. Terror clashed with the primal urge to survive, turning disarray into frantic, disorganized resistance.
Jon signaled the archers to halt. It was time to finish this.
The ground forces which are waiting like wolves moved in.
The Freefolk, seasoned in brutal, close-quarters combat, formed the vanguard. They surged forward, axes and spears thrusting through gaps in armor, hacking down men before they could mount a proper defense. Karstarks and Umbers, driven by their own long-lasting grudges, followed in disciplined ranks, striking with precision. There was no reckless charge—every motion was measured, every attack calculated.
Jon, wielding Longclaw, wove through the battlefield with deadly efficiency. A Bolton soldier barely recovered from the ice, swung clumsily at him. Jon sidestepped, slashed through the man’s exposed thigh, and let another cut end him as he fell. Nearby, Tormund and his Freefolk cut down foes like butchers at work—one swift blow per man, no wasted movement.
The Bolton men, exhausted, freezing, and leaderless, began to break. Some tried to surrender, but Jon had no intention of letting them walk away. "No mercy," he had told his men before the battle. The Boltons will receive none.
Within minutes, it was over. Bodies littered the blood-stained snow, and the last of the Bolton men had been cut down with brutal efficiency. Jon turned to his men. Their losses were minimal—perhaps a handful wounded, fewer dead. This was a victory, not just in battle but in strategy.
The North remembers. And starting tonight, beneath the cold gaze of the old gods, the name of Bolton will not merely fade—it will be ripped from the annals of history, step by bloody step, until not even a whisper of their legacy remains.
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*Jon Snow POV*
I sat at the base of the watchtower in Crofter’s Village, wiping my sword clean with a cloth as the Free Folk rummaged through the corpses, taking weapons and armor that suited them.
"What’s with you and all this brooding, even after dying once and returning to the living without blue eyes?"
Tormund’s voice cut through my thoughts. I glanced up as he approached, a wineskin in hand, no doubt filled with whatever ale he’d scrounged up from the raided supplies.
I rolled my eyes. "I’m not brooding. Just cleaning the blood off my sword."
"Aye, and I’m a maiden in white silks." He let out a chuckle before taking a deep gulp of ale. Then, his eyes narrowed slightly. "What’s in your head?"
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around Longclaw’s hilt. For a moment, I debated whether to tell him or not. Then, with a sigh, I spoke.
"The killing we've done here… and the killing still to come when we march against the Boltons—" I exhaled through my nose, watching the Free Folk loot the dead. "So many men lost. Men who could have fought against the true threat. The one coming from the North."
I turned to gauge his reaction, but Tormund only stared at me with those sharp, knowing eyes. He saw through me, as he always did. And I knew he wasn't fooled.
I sighed again, running a hand through my hair. "And… I don’t enjoy having their blood on my hands."
Tormund let out a deep breath, then shook his head with something close to amusement. "And here I thought the Crow I knew had changed after waking up."
He took another swig of ale, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You’re thinking too much about it. You told me yourself—there’s been war after war south of the Wall. You think the lords of those lands lost sleep over every man who died for them?"
I said nothing.
Tormund smirked and continued, "Even among the Free Folk, the clan leaders fought and killed long before Mance brought us together. Do you think they sat around, brooding over the dead? A man once asked Mance the same thing—‘What if all Free Folk died trying to cross the Wall? Wouldn’t all their blood be on his hands?’"
Tormund straightened, puffing out his chest in a crude imitation of Mance. "And you know what he said? He laughed and told the man: ‘Do you have another way to save us from the dead? I spent years searching for one, and this is the only path I see. A cause worth leading my people to die for, because if we succeed, those who survive—and their children—will live without constantly worrying about hunger and cold looming over their heads like swords that could kill them at any time. So no, I do not grieve for those who fall. I will lead the charge myself because the cause is all that matters.’"
I listened in silence, watching as Tormund’s words settled into my mind. He wasn’t the wisest man I knew, but at this moment, he had said exactly what I needed to hear.
He stood up, pulled out another wineskin, and tossed it to me. I caught it before it hit the ground.
"Find the cause you’d die leading the charge for. And once you do, believe in it. Steadfast." His grin widened, sharp and knowing. "The men who follow you—they’re smart enough to decide for themselves if it’s worth dying for."
Then, with a final nod, he turned and strode off toward his men, flashing me a grin full of teeth.
I found myself smiling back.
I took a deep gulp of ale, feeling the burn as the cold liquid traveled down my throat and settled in my belly. Tormund’s words echoed in my mind—find the cause you’d lead men to die for.
To be honest, like any other man, I wanted to be more than just a king of the Seven Kingdoms or even the North. I wanted the world. A grand conquest, like the ancestors of this body, once led when they took Westeros. Some might call it selfish, but in the end, wouldn't it lead to a better life for the smallfolk? With Aether’s guidance, I could confidently say that under my rule, my empire would become the most prosperous ever recorded in the annals of history.
I stood up, a new determination burning in my chest like fire. The Long Night was my first war, but it wouldn’t be my last. When the dead were dealt with, I would raise my banners for conquest. But this wouldn’t be just about me—it couldn’t be. I promised myself that when the dust settled, my reign wouldn’t be built solely on selfish desires.
And yet, even rulers needed a queen. A partner. A woman worthy of standing at my side.
My thoughts drifted, and there was only one name that fit—Daenerys Targaryen.
Beautiful. Powerful. A ruler in her own right. The last part might have been an exaggeration—her experience was limited—but compared to anyone else, she was unmatched.
[Be honest with yourself, Master. You’ve been into Daenerys since your previous world…]
"Stop right there." I cut Aether off, my voice sharp. "Yes, I liked Daenerys back in my world, but that’s not the only reason I’m considering her," I said it with iron certainty, daring her to challenge me.
[That may be true, and objectively, she is the best choice for now. But why hide behind excuses? If she’s what you want, own it.]
I sighed, shaking my head. "Aye, aye. I’ll keep that in mind. I just don’t want to see myself as some fool simping for her. That’s why I tried justifying my choice." Then, after a pause, I smirked. "Besides… if I’m being honest, I wouldn’t mind a harem in this world."
A rush of excitement filled me as I imagined myself surrounded by the most beautiful women of Westeros and beyond. A dreamy smile spread across my face—probably visible to anyone looking.
[That level of honesty was unnecessary.]
Aether’s dry remark shattered my daydream, and I let out a chuckle.
"Fair enough," I replied, shaking off the fantasy. "But back to business—Aether, I think it’s time to perform the ritual to enhance my physique."
Aether had already devised the ritual, but we had been short on the necessary ingredients. Now, we had everything we needed.
It was time to push my body beyond what any ordinary man could hope to achieve.
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*Thrid-Person POV*
The Hour of the Wolf had cast its shadow upon the world, draping the land in a deathly silence. The Freefolk and Northerners lay in their tents, their breath steaming in the frozen air. Only the distant howls of wolves and the shifting patrols broke the stillness. Beyond the camp, at the edge of the battlefield where thousands had perished, Jon Snow stood alone before the pyre of the dead.
[Master, the ritual is prepared. The weirwood components form the stabilizing core at the heart of the pyre. The bodies have been stacked, their still-warm flesh holding remnants of battle’s essence. And the lake’s blood-soaked waters will serve as the final catalyst. Are you ready?] Aether’s voice resonated in Jon’s mind, heard only by him.
Jon exhaled slowly, his breath a pale mist in the frigid night. “Aye,” he muttered, his voice firm with resolve. He glanced at the towering mass of corpses before him. Their lifeless forms would fuel his ascension. The price of power was never cheap. Today, with his goals as clear as ice, he would not waver. He was prepared to face any trial, and endure any ordeal if it meant rising stronger than before.
He walked forward, cutting his palm with Valyrian steel. Dark red blood dripped onto the weirwood branches, soaking into the sacred wood.
[ Now ignite the pyre with your flames. Let the dragon within you rejoice in flames.]
Jon raised his bloodied hand and spoke the incantation that Aether had provided. The words burned his throat like liquid fire.
“Āeksi naejot ñuhoso hen pryjatagon.” (Rise to my will and burn.)
And rise it did to command of Dragon-lord as it is right of Dragon-lords to command fire be it through magic or their mounts. The pyre erupted into an inferno. The flames were no ordinary orange or yellow—they were blood-red, twisting and writhing as if alive. The heat exploded outward, melting the snow in a quarter of a league radius, turning frost to mist in an instant. The ground hissed as ice turned to steam, revealing blackened earth beneath.
Jon stepped forward, his eyes locked on the roaring blaze.
[Enter the flames, Master. The dead will test your will. Endure, and you shall be reborn again.]
With a steady breath, Jon walked into the inferno.
The fire welcomed him like an old friend.
Where ordinary men would have been reduced to nothing more than ash, Jon felt only a burning embrace. The flames licked at his skin, coiling around him like hungry serpents, but they did not consume him. Instead, they sank into his flesh, filling him with raw, unbridled power. His veins ignited with the same inferno that he saw outside, his muscles thrummed with newfound strength.
The voices came next.
The whispers of the dead.
