Jon sat quietly beside the dying fire, his deep purple eyes studying the beautiful woman in red.
He saw her clearly.
Beneath that graceful, serene mask lived a religious fanatic who would burn the entire continent to ash if he gave the order as her god.
He had no doubt that if he spoke as the divine, she would slit her own throat without blinking and call it glory.
Through their bond he could feel Korakshu’s rage.
The dragon hated these intruders on its territory and was one breath away from turning them all to cinders.
Jon spoke softly in High Valyrian.
“(Easy, brother. We’ll fly tonight.)”
The ancient words cooled the dragon’s fury like a cold wind.
Korakshu gave the red-robed figures one last contemptuous glare, then turned and stalked back into the cave, its massive tail lashing the ground before the darkness swallowed it.
“I have to admit,” Jon said as he crouched to rebuild the fire, “you people have impressive nerve. Marching straight into the heart of the North while the realm is under martial law and at war? That’s close to suicide.”
The red god’s faith ruled much of Essos, but in Westeros—especially the North—it was seen as savage heresy.
Blood magic and human sacrifice made them monsters in northern eyes.
Even the southern followers of the Seven looked down on the Old Gods; they would have no patience for foreign priests who burned people alive.
That this group had crossed half the continent without being slaughtered said something about their skill and desperation.
“Please allow me to help, Your Grace.”
Kinvara raised one pale hand and gave a graceful flick.
The damp wood burst into bright, steady flame.
She settled gracefully beside him, red skirts arranged perfectly, and watched him with a polite, reverent smile.
Jon did not react to the small miracle.
He simply studied her for a moment, then asked in a flat, emotionless voice,
“What exactly do you want from me, red priestess?”
“We want only what you want, my lord.”
“Oh?” Jon’s tone turned colder.
“If I ordered you to cut your own throat right now with that dagger, would you do it?”
Without hesitation, Kinvara drew a sharp steel blade from her sleeve and pressed it against her own neck.
The edge bit into skin.
A single drop of bright blood welled up and slid down the pale column of her throat.
Jon watched the blood bead, then smiled—genuine and satisfied.
“Your loyalty is impressive, Kinvara. But don’t die on me yet. I’m going to need you and your followers for a very long time. Centuries, in fact.”
The red priestess’s face lit with pure, childlike joy.
Centuries of service to her living god.
Jon regarded her with quiet interest.
On the surface she was a stunning woman.
In truth she was probably hundreds of years old, kept alive by the very blood magic she served.
Religious fanaticism was a terrifying force, but he had no intention of turning away such a useful weapon.
He would use the red faith as a blade against the Faith of the Seven.
He would rip that corrupt, hypocritical institution out by the roots.
First, though, he would have to reform the red priests—strip away the worst of the human sacrifice so they could be accepted in Westeros instead of feared as mad killers.
“You came too early,” Jon said, eyes on the crackling fire.
“My war won’t begin until 296 AC.”
He wasn’t lying.
That was the year Foresight Vision had shown him as the perfect moment to strike.
When it came, he would not hide in the shadows.
He would rise openly, crush Robert Baratheon with overwhelming force, and drag every great house into the storm.
It would be an epic war that history would never forget.
Kinvara drew a sharp breath.
The boy spoke with the cold certainty of a king who had already won.
Six years old and already planning the conquest of a continent.
She dropped to her knees before him.
“Great Light’s chosen, from this day the entire red faith is your blade. Our swords, our magic, our flesh, and our souls belong to you without reservation.”
Behind her, every Hand of the Sacred Fire and every red priest knelt as one.
The clearing fell silent except for the fire and the sound of their breathing.
Jon rose and looked down at them.
“I accept your oaths,” he said, voice low and commanding.
“In return I swear to rule with absolute justice and wisdom. When the endless dark comes to swallow the world, I will need your faith and your willingness to die.”
The followers rose with burning eyes.
They would have marched on King’s Landing that moment if he pointed south and named Robert Baratheon as the enemy.
Kinvara gestured.
A burly Hand stepped forward carrying a long bundle wrapped in layers of fine red silk.
She took it with both hands and offered it to Jon.
Jon accepted it without ceremony and pulled away the silk.
The sword was beautiful in a way that defied words.
A meter-long blade, narrow and perfectly balanced, made of pale, almost translucent stone that caught the morning light and threw back a faint golden halo.
The crossguard was pure silver, etched with intricate vines and set with two large rubies.
The hilt was wrapped in silver, and the pommel held a single pigeon-egg-sized ruby that glowed like living flame.
It was not just a weapon.
It was a statement of kingship.
Jon recognized the material at once.
This was the same star-fallen steel used to forge Dawn, the ancestral sword of House Dayne.
Meteor iron—rarer than Valyrian steel and, in some ways, its equal or better.
Kinvara spoke reverently.
“The metal fell from the sky the very night you were born, a blazing star across the heavens of Essos. We recovered it at great cost. Our finest smiths worked day and night for four years to forge it into a blade worthy of you.”
Jon ran his fingers lightly along the cold, pale edge.
The moment he touched it, a strange warmth bloomed through the metal and into his blood, as if the sword recognized him.
He spoke the name so softly only he could hear it.
“Lady Lyanna.”
His mother’s name.
He smiled at the thought of how Ned Stark’s face would twist the first time he heard this sword called by that name.
“Tell your people I am grateful,” Jon said, still looking at the blade.
Then he raised his voice so every kneeling follower could hear.
“I swear this sword will one day run red with the blood of those who would destroy mankind. It will pierce the Night King’s frozen heart and end the Long Night that threatens to last forever.”
The words were deliberate—epic, self-mythologizing, designed to feed the fire already burning in their eyes.
Jon knew exactly what he was doing.
Every great conqueror had used divine destiny as a tool.
He would do the same, and he would do it better.
The followers stared at him with something beyond zeal.
They looked ready to die on the spot if he asked it.
They would have stormed the Red Keep and butchered Robert Baratheon without a single question if Jon had given the order.
He understood them perfectly.
For true fanatics, truth was irrelevant.
Give them the prophecy they wanted to hear, and they would burn the world for you.