Chapter Text
Mellisandra of Asshai
Castle Black
“Lord of Light, accept this blood sacrifice of kings. Let it empower your chosen hero, Azor Ahai, to be reborn amidst salt and smoke. Let him wake dragons from stone!” She cried out, her voice reverberating with fervor, as she ignited the pyre soaked with the blood of Jon Snow, the ancient Stark King, and the King’s own daughter, Shireen Baratheon.
She watched intently as the flames began to consume Jon Snow’s lifeless body, his blood hissing and groaning as it met the searing heat. Shireen’s anguished screams echoed through the cold night, her pleas to her parents falling on deaf ears as the ritual progressed.
The eyes of the gathered crowd reflected the blazing pyre as it devoured the Princess, the fallen Lord Commander, and two dragon eggs, relics unearthed from the old maester’s chambers after his true lineage was uncovered. The maester, a hidden scion of the dragonblooded kings, had died before he could be offered to the flames. Though her royal blood was meager, Shireen was deemed a fitting sacrifice to R’hllor, enough to awaken dragons from stone. The petrified dragon eggs would prove that.
The flames roared higher, their intensity driving many onlookers back. The heat was unbearable, far beyond what anyone had anticipated. Even the chosen hero stepped back, his face a mask of stoic determination, though inwardly shattered. ‘He will be rewarded soon,’ she thought, her heart racing with anticipation. ‘The prince that was promised will lead us into the dawn.’
A thunderous roar split the sky. She looked up, eyes wide with wonder and terror. Two dragons soared above, one as black as coal with flecks of green, the other smaller, shimmering with silver scales and wings as pale blue as the Wall.
“Blessed be the Lord of Light! The dragons have come for his chosen!” she exclaimed, her voice rising above the crackling inferno.
Crack! The sound echoed twice from the pyre. She turned, shivering in awe and fear at what she saw.
The pyre had given birth to something more.
Jon/Orys Snow
Castle Black
He coughed, opened his eyes, and was surrounded by flame. Yet he wasn’t alone. Shireen Baratheon was kneeling beside him, her arms around herself, and her big eyes blue as the sky, filled with fear and terror.
A weight shifted on his shoulder, and he glanced over to see a small dragon, gold with green wings, clinging to him. He sat up, not recalling the motion, only feeling the ash beneath him and the pleasant heat of the fire. “Princess,” he rasped, his voice hoarse.
“How are you? How are we alive.” her voice trembling with relief as she threw her arms around him. ‘Was he seen burned alive, or had they been both dead like he was?’ He wondered as the girl trembled against him, and he felt protective of her. ‘Why? Why does this feel normal.’ He thought.
“It will be alright,” he tried to reassure her. ‘This is madness. I’m alive, surrounded by flames, with Shireen Baratheon clinging to me,’ he thought as he looked around, seeing nothing but fire.
PANG! A connection flared, something akin to what he felt with Ghost when he warged into his direwolf. This connection burned with fiery rage, unlike the cold fury he knew with Ghost. Yet it was similar to his own; he noticed his anger could be a cold blizzard or firey inferno.
“My companion, I think?” he replied, though he didn’t know how he knew. Another shriek echoed beside him, and he saw another dragon climb onto Shireen’s shoulder. This one was purple with streaks of silver, just as beautiful as the first.
“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you,” he said after they broke their embrace. “Come, it’s time to give the people who did this to us the scare of their lives.” As if in response, another roar echoed his words.
She nodded, and he saw it then—her greyscale was gone. Only a light red spot remained on her cheek. “Your face,” he said in awe. “The greyscale is gone.”
Her hand touched her face gently, her eyes widening as the realization dawned on her. “How?” she asked, her voice a whisper. He glanced down at his hand, seeing it unscarred.
“What?” he murmured, his eyes widening in disbelief. The burn scar on his hand was gone. He looked at his chest. He was trying to avoid looking at Shireen. She was just as naked as him, their clothing all burned away in the fire. He might had come back form the dead, still a princess like her still needed some respect. Yes the scars from his murder were still there. “Shireen, is the scar on my face still there?” he asked.
“No,” she replied, her fingers grazing his cheek. Her touch was strangely comforting.
“Stand behind me; we don’t know what is coming out of these flames.” It was true; the flames were bright, red, orange, and yellow. Yet he could see nothing, only flames. ‘He didn’t mind dying once again, but hell, he wouldn’t let that happen to a sweet girl like Shireen Baratheon, a girl who was nothing but kind.’ He thought as he took her hand.
He put his hand in the flames. Nothing, just pleasant heat. He walked through it, leading Shireen with him. He then heard the chanting of Mellisandra, and he felt Shireen hand tighten around his. ‘Please, no? Please tell me they didn’t burn her alive. Try to hatch those dragon eggs.’ He thought in despair. There was a rage building up inside, and a roar flowed.
Then he was outside the flames. The cold hit him, but the fire warmed his blood, that of the dragon and the wolves, and then he felt two big rumbles around him and Shireen. He looked to his sides, two enormous shapes, one of black as coal, yet a clint of purple in its eyes. ‘Aegon? Was that what they meant? Had part been combined with the dragon? ’ The dragon looked at him with recognition, yet unfamiliar. It was the black one from which he felt the rage.
“See, my King, the lord of light has granted you these beasts of his. Fire made flesh. For willing sacrifice.” He raged at Witch’s words. He was now sure. Stannis had burned his daughter.
“Enough!” he roared, and the black dragon echoed his cry. The assembled crowd fell silent, eyes wide with fear and awe.
He stepped forward, Shireen beside him, and looked toward the other dragon. This one was slender, silver with pale blue wings, and stunningly beautiful. Its focus was not on him but on Shireen. ‘Muched be her dragon’s blood on her great grandmother’s side.
Not long after, he felt a familiar bond. Ghost came bounding through the crowd, which parted to let the direwolf through.
As he stepped forward, the crowd parted like a wave, making way for the white direwolf bounding toward him. Ghost’s red eyes locked onto him, a low whine escaping the beast’s throat.
“Ghost,” he murmured. The direwolf skidded to a halt before him. Ghost pressed his massive head into his chest, the familiar warmth and solidity of the wolf grounding him in the reality of this surreal moment.
For a moment, he buried his fingers in Ghost’s thick fur, feeling the connection, the unspoken bond that had always existed between them. “I’ve missed you, old friend,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.
Ghost licked his face, a rare display of affection from the usually stoic direwolf. He chuckled softly, the sound almost foreign after all the chaos. “I’m alright. We’re alright,” he reassured, more to himself than to anyone else.
He then looked toward the gathered crowd and saw a king kneeling in despair.
