Year 300 AC
Jon Snow
Castle Black
Jon blinked, his vision swimming into focus. The world looked... wrong. Everything appeared smaller, sharper, as though he viewed it through some queer Myrish glass that altered both distance and color.
Confusion and terror gripped Jon's heart as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. His senses were heightened, almost overwhelmingly so. He could hear the faintest whispers of the wind, the distant crackle of fires, and the beating hearts of those around him. His vision was sharper, clearer. Colors he had never known existed highlighting everything his eyes can see, more vivid than ever before, allowing him to see details he had never noticed.
Ghost stood before him, uncharacteristically hesitant. The direwolf's red eyes met his own, familiar yet strange from this new vantage. Jon attempted to reach for his companion, only to watch in horror as a massive black-scaled limb moved instead of his arm.
Seven hells, he thought, is this what it feels like to drink too much of Tormund's fermented goat's milk? He'd seen the wildling stumble about, claiming the ground kept shifting beneath him. Perhaps death was much the same.
The cold realization struck him then. He remembered the knives in the dark, the muttered words, "For the Watch." He remembered dying.
Yet here he stood—if standing was what one called this—looming over the Night's Watch courtyard like some monstrous shadow. He tried to speak Ghost's name and produced a sound that sent several brothers scrambling for cover.
Well, that's one way to call a meeting to order, he thought grimly. More effective than Bowen Marsh clearing his throat for half an hour.
Jon's thoughts raced as he tried to make sense of it all. The crypts of Winterfell, the kings of old looking upon him with pity, the great black dragon with eyes like burning coals. Had it all been a dream? Or was this the dream, a fevered hallucination brought on by the shock of his death?
Jon examined himself as best he could. Black scales gleamed like polished obsidian where pale Northern skin had once been. Wings—actual wings—folded against his sides. A tail. Gods be good, he had a tail.
Gods, what am I? What has happened to me? One moment dying in the snow, betrayed by my own brothers... the next, this. This cannot be real. This cannot be happening.
A dragon. I'm a bloody dragon. Like the Targaryens of old. Like the beasts that conquered the Seven Kingdoms. Is this some jest of the gods? Some cruel trick played upon a bastard who reached too high?
The realization hit Jon like a bolt of lightning. He was no longer a man, but a beast of fire and fury.
He gazed down at Ghost, searching for some form of stability amid this whirlwind of bewilderment. The direwolf returned his stare, crimson eyes unwavering, and Jon experienced a rush of solace. Ghost existed. Ghost remained present. Regardless of what else had transpired, he could cling to that certainty.
Jon's jaw opened, and he tried to speak, to call out to his faithful companion.
"Ghost," he whispered, hoping the direwolf would have the answers he so desperately needed.
The sound is monstrous, alien. I see the men of the Night's Watch emerging from their quarters, staring up in horror and disbelief. Some draw weapons. Others fall to their knees. I recognize Edd among them, his face pale with shock.
My brothers. My killers. All looking at me with the same fear. I should hate them. I should burn them where they stand for what they did to me. For the knives in the dark.
The fire builds within me, a pressure unlike anything I've ever known. It demands release. I feel my control slipping, my thoughts becoming clouded with rage and the primal instincts of the dragon.
Jon's pulse quickened as he struggled to accept his transformed existence. Unfamiliar sensations coursed through his body, surpassing anything he felt before. He sensed the warmth of flames inside him, the strength that pulsed through his blood. The feeling was simultaneously thrilling and frightening, a surge of power that seemed ready to overwhelm him.
Is this what it means to be a dragon? Jon wondered, marveling at the strange new reality he found himself in, Is this how the Targeryns felt? He had always been different, set apart from his siblings by his status as a bastard, but this was something else entirely. He was no longer just Jon Snow, the boy who had dreamed of joining the Night's Watch and proving his worth. But the urge came back, the urge to burn and destroy and somehow it felt...right..
Ghost padded closer, his red eyes fixed on Jon's face. The direwolf seemed unafraid, even in the presence of such a massive and imposing creature. Jon felt a surge of affection for his loyal friend, a reminder that no matter what else changed, their bond would always remain strong.
No. I am still Jon Snow. I am still the son of Winterfell. I made a vow to guard the realms of men. Even now, even like this.
At that moment, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and give Ghost a scratch behind the ears, to feel the warmth of his fur and the loyalty of his presence.
But even as he clung to that thought, Jon couldn't ignore the urge any longer. He had to leave as he could feel the scales rippling along his back, the heat of the fire burning in his belly, begging to be released on the unsuspecting world. He flexed his claws experimentally, marveling at their size and strength. It was all so strange, so alien, and yet somehow it felt...right.
As Jon grappled with the shocking realization of his transformation, his keen dragon eyes noticed a few tiny figures cautiously approaching his massive form. They moved slowly, their steps hesitant and uncertain, as if they were unsure whether they should come closer to the imposing creature before them. All except one.
Amidst the group, a single figure strode forward with confidence, her red robes billowing in the wind. It was Melisandre, the Red Priestess of R'hllor. She moved with purpose, her eyes fixed on Jon's draconic visage, seemingly unafraid of the terrifying beast he had become.
As Jon watched them get closer, he questioned, Why not just burn them?
No he had to leave. He had to leave now.
"I will return!" he declared.
The words came out as a thunderous roar, causing the other figures to stumble back in fear. But Melisandre remained steadfast, her gaze locked with Jon's own. She showed no sign of fear or hesitation, only a calm determination that sent a chill down Jon's spine.
As the Wall shrank beneath him and the true North stretched endlessly ahead, Jon felt a queer lightness that had nothing to do with flight. For the first time since he could remember, no one expected anything of him. No one was disappointed in him. No one was looking to him for answers.
Freedom, he thought, feels suspiciously like exile.
And somewhere, deep in the part of him that remained Jon Snow, he wondered if dragons could laugh.
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Melisandre
Castle Black
Melisandre gazed up at the colossal dragon, its black scales gleaming in the moonlight. The creature's eyes, a familiar shade of blood red, bore into her with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. In that moment, she knew beyond a doubt that this was no ordinary dragon—it had to be a manifestation of R'hllor's power, a sign of the prophecies coming to fruition as nothing else made sense.
In the background, she could hear Eddison Tollett's desperate attempts to calm the panicked black brothers and wildlings. Their shouts and cries filled the air, a cacophony of fear and confusion though Melisandre wouldn't dare to turn he head away from the magnificence before her eye.
Amidst the chaos, another sound caught her attention—the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Without turning around, Melisandre knew who had approached. It was Tormund Giantsbane, the wildling leader, his presence as unmistakable as his fiery red beard.
She closed her eyes, whispering a fervent prayer of thanks to the Lord of Light. "Fire made flesh," she murmured, her voice trembling with reverence. "A gift from the one true god."
The dragon's head swiveled towards Ghost, and Melisandre's eyes widened as a single word rumbled from its throat: "Ghost."
Confusion shattered her devotion. Did the dragon just speak? She stepped closer, ignoring Eddison Tollett's panicked shouts behind her. As she neared the beast, she noticed the scars etched across the left side of its face—scars that mirrored those Jon Snow had received from the eagle attack.
Realization dawned upon her like a bolt of lightning. This dragon was no mere creature; it was Jon Snow himself, that could only be transformed by the power of "R'hllor". Her feet started walking by themselves and with renewed purpose, Melisandre strode towards the dragon, her red robes billowing in the wind.
The dragon's head swiveled to face her way, its eyes narrowing dangerously. "I will return!" it roared, a terrifying voice emanating from its maw.
Melisandre steadied herself, her heart pounding in her chest as she faced the enormous dragon.
With those parting words, The dragon— Jon Snow took a step back on its hind legs, its massive wings unfurling to their full span. The gust of wind generated by the movement was so powerful that it nearly knocked Melisandre off her feet. She watched in amazement as Jon Snow's dragon form launched itself into the sky, soaring away from Castle Black with incredible speed and grace.
Melisandre's mind raced, connecting the dots between Jon's transformation and the ancient prophecies she had studied for years. The sight of a dragon, especially one linked to Jon Snow, only strengthened her conviction in R'hllor.
Tormund stood speechless, his usually boisterous demeanor replaced by a stunned silence. Melisandre could sense the overwhelming emotions radiating from him—a combination of shock, reverence, and a touch of fear.
"Is that Lord Snow?" Tormund asked, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"Yes," Melisandre replied, her red eyes gleaming with certainty. "That is Jon Snow, transformed by the power of R'hllor himself."
As the dragon's silhouette grew smaller against the horizon, Melisandre felt a renewed sense of purpose coursing through her veins. She knew that Jon Snow's transformation was just the beginning of a greater destiny, one that would shape the fate of the entire realm. The Lord of Light had chosen him for a reason, and she was determined to guide him on the path towards fulfilling the ancient prophecies.
"The Lord of Light has chosen you, Jon Snow" she whispered, "to be our champion against the darkness that threatens to engulf us all".
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Eddison Tollett
Castle Black
Edd clung to the floor, his knuckles white as the dragon's wings beat a tempest around him. The ground shook and the air roared, but he held fast, watching in awe as the behemoth took flight. It soared over the Wall, a shadow against the ice, leaving devastation in its wake.
As the winds calmed, Edd stumbled to his feet. He rushed to Melisandre and Tormund, helping them up with shaking hands. "What in the seven hells just happened?" he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Did that thing just...speak?"
Melisandre's eyes shone with a fervor Edd had never seen nor did he enjoy seeing. "The Lord of Light has sent us a savior," she declared, her red hair whipping about her face. "The dragon is the embodiment of His will."
Tormund shook his head, his face pale beneath his beard. "That ain't no ordinary dragon," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "The wolf stopped the great beast and he had the same scars over the left eye as Lord Snow."
"What do you mean, it's Jon?" Edd asked, his voice shaking. "How is that possible?"
Melisandre placed a hand on his shoulder, her grip firm. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," she said. "We must have faith."
Edd's heart raced. It couldn't be. Jon was dead, his body consumed by flames. But the dragon's eyes...those scars on the dragons face... and it's eyes so reminiscent of Ghost. He remembered the dragon's words, echoing in his mind: I will return!"
Edd looked to the sky, where the dragon had disappeared into the clouds. Faith, he thought. In this world of ice and fire, where the dead walked and dragons spoke, what choice did they have?
As Edd stood there, gobsmacked, he felt something brush past his leg. He glanced down just as the others' gazes all shifted to Ghost. The direwolf sauntered by, his casual demeanor a stark contrast to the pandemonium that had erupted mere moments ago. Ghost's tail waved idly as he ventured further into the castle grounds, his paw prints forming a winding path in the fresh powder blanketing the earth.
"Is it just me," Edd muttered, "or does that wolf look...happy?" He shook his head, trying to reconcile the absurdity of it all. Jon Snow, their Lord Commander, had burst into flames and emerged as a dragon—an actual bloody dragon—and now his faithful companion was trotting off like it was just another night at the Wall.
Tormund let out a bark of laughter, though it sounded strained. "Happy? That beast looks like he's just nabbed the fattest elk north o' the Wall."
Melisandre's eyes remained fixed on the spot where Jon had transformed, her expression one of rapture. "The Lord of Light has blessed us with a sign," she intoned, her voice ringing with conviction. "The dragon and the wolf are one, united in purpose."
Edd snorted. "United in purpose? What purpose? Flying off and leaving us to clean up this mess?" He gestured to the smoldering remains of the stables, the scorched earth where Jon had stood.
Yet even as he said it, a flicker of hope stirred in his chest. If anyone could make sense of this madness, it was Jon. Dragon or not, he was still their leader—the man who had brought the Wildlings—Free Folks and the Night's Watch together, who had faced down the White Walkers and lived to tell the tale.
"We need to find him," Edd said, his voice growing steadier. "We need to understand what's happened here today."
Edd stared at the scorched earth where Jon had stood, his mind reeling. The Lord Commander, a dragon? It defied belief. Yet he couldn't deny what he'd seen with his own eyes—the flames, the wings, the obsidian scales.
Tormund's voice cut through his thoughts. "We ain't findin' him quick," the wildling growled, brow furrowed. "The North's too bloody big, and a dragon flies faster than any raven."
Edd opened his mouth to argue, but Melisandre spoke first. "He will be back," she said, her voice ringing with certainty. "The Lord of Light has a plan for him, and for all of us."
Tormund snorted. "Who'd stop Jon Snow if he wanted to come back?" he asked, a glint of humor in his eyes. "Man's stubborn as a bloody mammoth."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Edd felt a smile tug at his lips. Tormund had a point. Jon had always been one to face his problems head-on, to charge into battle with a fierce determination that inspired those around him.
"Aye," Edd said, nodding. "He'll be back. And when he is, we'll be ready."
He looked around at the gathered faces—the Free Folk, the Night's Watch, even the red priestess—and saw a flicker of hope in their eyes. They had faced the impossible before, had stood together against the darkness. They would do so again, no matter what form that darkness took.
Tormund nodded grimly, hand on his sword hilt. "Aye, we will. But first, we gotta make sure Castle Black's safe. Don't need another bunch of crows turnin' on us."
Edd took a deep breath, surveying the chaos that had erupted in the wake of Jon's transformation. Men were shouting, swords were drawn, and the air was thick with panic. He knew he had to act fast, or the fragile peace they'd worked so hard to maintain would shatter like ice.
"Enough!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the din. "Lower your weapons, all of you!"
Tormund stepped forward, his massive frame looming. "You heard him," he growled, eyes flashin'. "The dragon's a friend, not a foe. Anyone says different, they'll answer to me—and I ain't gentle."
Slowly, reluctantly, the Free Folk began to stand down. Edd could see the fear in their eyes, but also the trust they placed in Tormund. If he said the dragon was a friend, they would believe him.
The Night's Watch, however, were another matter. Edd saw Bowen Marsh and his loyalists huddled together, their faces twisted with rage and terror. They had killed Jon, and now they feared retribution from the beast he had become.
"Restrain them," Edd ordered, pointing to Marsh and his men. "Lock them in the ice cells until we can sort this out."
Edd's orders were met with defiance from one of Stannis's men, who sneered, "We don't answer to you."
Edd fixed the man with a steely glare, his patience wearing thin. "You will have to answer to the Lord Commander soon enough," he retorted, his voice low and dangerous.
The man's eyes widened at the implication, the color draining from his face as he realized the dragon might very well eat him if he didn't comply. He swallowed hard, his bravado evaporating like mist in the sun.
"Aye," he muttered, his gaze dropping to the ground. "As you say."
Edd watched as the man slunk away, his shoulders hunched in defeat. He turned to Tormund, who was watching the exchange with a mixture of amusement and respect.
The Free Folk and Stannis' men moved quickly, surrounding the mutineers and disarming them with practiced efficiency. Edd felt a grim satisfaction as he watched them being led away, their heads bowed in defeat.
"You got a way with words, crow," the wildling said, grinnin'. "Might be you ain't as useless as you look."
Edd snorted. "High praise, coming from you," he said, but there was no bite to his words. In truth, he was grateful for Tormund's support. The Wildling had a way of commanding respect, even from the most stubborn of men.
He looked to the sky, where the dragon had disappeared into the clouds. "Come back to us, Jon" he murmured, his breath misting in the cold air. "We need you now more than ever."
Melisandre stepped forward, her red robes swirling around her. "The Lord of Light will guide him," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Have faith, Eddison Tollett. The true battle is yet to come."
Edd met her gaze, searching for the truth in her words. He had never been a man of faith, but in this moment, he found himself wanting to believe. To believe that there was a purpose to all of this, a reason for the chaos and the pain.
He nodded, squaring his shoulders. "Aye," he said, his voice ringing with determination.
"What now?" Tormund asked, his voice low. "The dragon—Jon—he'll be back. And when he is, there will be hell to pay."
Edd nodded, his mind racing. "We need to be ready," he said. "Gather the leaders—the Free Folk, the Night's Watch, even Stannis's men. We'll meet in the great hall and figure out our next move."
Tormund grunted his assent, and Edd felt a surge of gratitude for the Wildling's unwavering loyalty. He knew that, together, they could weather this storm. They had to, for the sake of the realms of men.
As the courtyard began to clear, Edd took one last look at the spot where Jon had stood, his heart heavy with the weight of what had transpired. The world had changed today, in ways he could scarcely comprehend. But one thing was certain—they would face this new reality as they always had, with courage, determination, and the strength of their brotherhood.