Year 300 AC
Castle Black
Phantom pains chased Jon Snow into waking, their icy fingers trailing across his skin as he lurched upright, gasping. The stone beneath him leeched the warmth from his body, ancient and unyielding. He blinked, the fog of unconsciousness slowly receding, revealing the solemn face of Lyanna Stark, his aunt, looming above him.
The crypts, he realized, his mind sluggish, grasping for the tattered threads of memory. The last he recalled was the courtyard, the bite of cold air, the glint of steel in the night. And then...nothing. He pressed a hand to his chest, expecting to find the slick heat of blood, but his fingers met only torn fabric and skin, rough with scars he couldn't remember earning.
Jon's gaze drifted, taking in the familiar stone walls and flickering torches of the crypts beneath Winterfell. His eyes widened as they settled on the statue of his father, Eddard Stark, standing tall and proud beside Lyanna. The likeness was uncanny, stern yet loving, as if the stone had captured the very essence of the man he had called father for so long.
But it was Lyanna's statue that commanded his attention, drawing him in like a moth to a flame. Tears streamed down her carved cheeks, her eyes filled with a grief that seemed to transcend the boundaries of life and death. She looked at him with a tenderness that caught him off guard, as if even in stone, she would care for a bastard nephew.
Jon pushed himself to his feet, wincing as his body protested the movement. Each step towards the statues felt like a journey in itself, his legs heavy and uncooperative. As he drew closer, he could see the intricate details etched into the stone - the folds of Lyanna's dress, the wisps of hair escaping her braid, the way her hand rested over her heart as if to contain the sorrow that spilled from her eyes.
A whisper threaded through the musty air, unlike the rough voices that usually taunted him in his dreams of the crypts, sneering, "You don't belong here". Instead, a soft voice, emanating from the statue of his aunt Lyanna, beckoned him, "Go deeper, seek the truth that lies beneath my sweet Prince". Something within him stirred, a yearning to trust this voice, to follow her gentle summons into the shadows where secrets lay buried. It felt as if Lyanna herself reached out from beyond, offering solace and guidance, and for the first time, he believed that perhaps he did belong.
Driven by an inexplicable compulsion, Jon snatched a torch from its sconce, the flame sputtering to life as he ventured into the warren of tunnels, footsteps echoing in the silence. With each step he went went deeper into the darkness and the passage seemed to shed its human trappings, stone walls roughening, the damp chill of the earth rising to embrace him.
The tombs of the Starks fell away, their granite faces dissolving into shadow as the tunnel narrowed, twisting like a serpent's belly. Jon's heart thudded against his ribs, his skin prickling with a growing sense of unease. The flame of his torch flickered, casting distorted shadows that danced across the rock, spectral and alive.
Abruptly, the tunnel yawned wide, opening into a cavern vast enough to swallow the great hall of Winterfell whole. And there, in the center of it all, lay a behemoth of midnight scales and leathery wings, its form dominating the space like a mountain given flesh. To Jon's astonishment, the dragon possessed not only its massive wings but also four powerful limbs beneath them, a striking deviation from the tales he had learned of House Targaryen's dragons, which were said to have only two limbs with their wings acting as arms. Its eyes, a red as the comet that had split the sky, fixed upon Jon.
Fear rooted him in place, his breath turning to frost in his lungs. I am dead, he realized, the thought settling over him like a shroud of snow, heavy and smothering. What more can it do to me?
As if in answer, the dragon shifted, its scales rasping against stone. It regarded him, inscrutable, its gaze seeming to pierce the very core of his being. And deep within, Jon felt an answering call, a tug of recognition that defied reason.
Drawn by the inexorable pull, he stepped forward, one hand outstretched, fingers splayed. The heat of the beast washed over him, a furnace against his palm as he laid it upon the obsidian scales. Power surged through him, raw and ancient, searing his veins with liquid fire.
Pain lanced through Jon, a searing agony that threatened to unmake him. It was a pain that transcended the physical, a torment that reached into the depths of his soul. Even in death, it seemed, there was no escape from the suffering that had defined his life.
He wanted to let go, to surrender to the oblivion that beckoned, but something held him fast. A purpose, a destiny, a fate that refused to release its grip. He was Jon Snow, the bastard of Winterfell, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. He was the shield that guarded the realms of men, the sword in the darkness, the fire that burned against the cold.
And now, as he stood before the dragon, he felt the weight of that destiny pressing down upon him. The beast's eyes bore into him, ancient and knowing, as if it could see the truth of who he was, the secret that had been hidden from him for so long.
The prince who was promised, a voice whispered in his mind, a voice that sounded like Melisandre, the red priestess who had brought him back from the brink of death. The one who will bring the dawn.
Jon shook his head, trying to clear the fog that clouded his thoughts. He had never put much stock in prophecies and visions, preferring the cold hard truth of steel and blood. But now, faced with the impossible, he found himself grasping at straws, searching for meaning in the madness.
The dragon's scales were hot beneath his palm, pulsing with a life force that seemed to mirror his own. He could feel the creature's heartbeat, strong and steady, a rhythm that echoed the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
And then, in a flash of blinding clarity, he saw it. The comet, streaking across the sky, its tail a banner of crimson fire. The bleeding star, heralding the coming of the change.
Jon felt the weight of that destiny settling upon his shoulders, a mantle of fire and blood. He knew, with a certainty that defied reason, that he was the one. The prince who was promised, the last hero, the sword in the darkness.
And as he stood there, hand pressed against the dragon's scales, he felt the pain recede, replaced by a sense of purpose, a clarity of vision that he had never known before. He would fight, he would bleed, he would die if he must. But he would not let go, not until the dawn had come, and the world was saved.
For a single, crystalline moment, the dragon's eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between them. In that moment, they were one mind and all Jon felt was the need to be free and take to the skies. Then, as quickly as it had come, the connection shattered, and the world fell away, plunging Jon into a sea of endless flames.
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A hue of red washed over the world as Eddison Tollett stood in stunned silence, his eyes wide with awe. The comet above radiated an eerie ambience, casting an otherworldly glow across the snow-covered landscape.
Edd's reverie was shattered by an earth-shattering sound that echoed from the Wall, its icy surface trembling beneath his feet. He turned, his heart pounding, and froze at the sight before him.
Jon Snow's lifeless body had become an inferno, flames engulfing his still form. The fire roared, melting the snow around him in a widening circle of destruction.
"Seven hells," Edd breathed, his voice barely audible over the crackling flames.
Beside him, Melisandre stared at the conflagration, her red eyes reflecting the dancing flames. Edd grabbed her arm, pulling her back as the heat intensified, scorching their faces.
"We need to get away from here," he shouted over the roar of the fire.
Melisandre nodded, allowing Edd to guide her through the panicked crowd that had gathered. Men of the Night's Watch scattered in all directions, their faces etched with fear and confusion.
As the flames consumed Jon Snow's body, Edd turned to Melisandre, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and disbelief.
"What in the seven hells happened to him?" Edd demanded, his voice shaking.
Melisandre stared at the inferno, her brow furrowed in confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She shook her head slowly, her red eyes reflecting the dancing flames.
"I... I don't know," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the fire. "I've never seen anything like this before."
Edd grabbed her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You're supposed to be the one with all the answers," he shouted, his voice rising with each word. "What did you do to him?"
Melisandre pulled away from Edd's grasp, her eyes never leaving the flames. "I did my duty," she said, her voice distant. "But this, this is beyond my understanding."
The fire continued to rage, the heat intensifying with each passing moment. The men of the Night's Watch and the Free Folk stood in stunned silence, their faces illuminated by the eerie red glow. No one spoke, no one moved. They simply watched as the flames consumed their fallen Lord Commander.
Edd felt a sense of helplessness wash over him. He had seen death before, had watched men fall in battle and succumb to the cold. But this was different. This was something he couldn't explain, something that defied all logic and reason.
He turned to Melisandre once more, his eyes pleading for answers. But she had none to give. She simply stared at the flames, her face a mask of confusion and fear yet awe still prevalent.
The flames grew, consuming everything in their path. A firestorm raged, its intensity building with each passing moment. Edd shielded his eyes against the blinding light, his skin prickling from the searing heat.
Questions raced through his mind as he stumbled backwards, half-dragging Melisandre with him. What had caused this? Was it the red woman's doing? And what did it mean for Jon, for the Night's Watch, for all of them?
But there was no time for answers. The inferno raged on, and all they could do was run. The firestorm grew in intensity, its flames reaching ever higher, licking at the icy surface of the Wall. The blaze seemed to challenge the very height of the colossal fortification, as if seeking to melt and consume the ancient barrier that had stood for millennia. The night sky glowed an eerie orange, the heat and light a terrifying spectacle that threatened to engulf everything in its path.
Edd and Melisandre raced through the chaos, their hearts pounding in their chests. The men of the Night's Watch scattered around them, their faces etched with fear and confusion.
Suddenly, a terrifying roar erupted from the heart of the firestorm, causing Edd to stumble and fall to his knees. He looked back, his eyes wide with horror, as others around him froze in fear.
Through the raging flames, a pair of massive red eyes glowed menacingly, piercing the smoke and ash. The eyes seemed to be looking directly at them, filled with an otherworldly intelligence that sent shivers down Edd's spine.
Melisandre stood transfixed, her mouth agape as she stared into the inferno. The heat washed over them in waves, but she seemed oblivious to it all, her gaze locked on the eyes within the flames.
As quickly as it had begun, the firestorm began to dissipate, the flames dying down to reveal a sight that left them all speechless. In the sky above the scorched earth hovered a dragon of immense size, its scales a deep, obsidian black that seemed to absorb the light around it. The creature's eyes glowed a fierce red, like burning coals in the darkness.
The dragon roared again, its voice shaking the very foundations of the Wall. The sound was deafening, a primal cry that echoed across the frozen landscape.