Even though she was trembling from head to toe, the red-haired Stark girl forced herself to stay quiet. She fought the urge to look at Jon, directing her gaze instead to Ghost, who was growling low in his throat nearby. She seemed to draw a sliver of comfort from the massive white wolf.
On the other side, the Rose of Highgarden, gagged and bound just like Sansa, displayed a calmness that was almost unnerving.
Margaery Tyrell watched the young man from the North quietly, as if she were still at a picnic rather than a hostage situation. Her amber eyes scrutinized his every move, lingering on the blood-dripping sword in his hand and the snarling beast at his side.
Unlike Sansa, Margaery had never faced a life-or-death threat alongside Jon before. Yet, her expression was serene. Even when the bandit's dagger nicked the skin of her neck, she only frowned slightly—seemingly more concerned that the scar might mar her beauty than fearful of the blade itself.
This poise was the fruit of House Tyrell's ambition. From birth, Margaery had been groomed for a crown. She had been trained to embody the perfect queen: graceful, charming, and above all, unflappable.
When Jon's gaze swept over her, he couldn't help but nod slightly in approval. The little Rose had steel in her spine.
But the silence was shattered by a raspy voice.
"We can negotiate," the voice croaked. "Kill that monster wolf, drop your weapons, and we'll let one of them go."
The speaker, who had been hiding behind the others, finally leaned out, revealing a figure shrouded in a heavy cloak.
Jon didn't know what possessed these men to kidnap highborn ladies so brazenly. But one thing was certain: they were dead men walking.
In Westeros, common crimes might earn you a trip to the Wall. But attacking nobility? That only had one ending: a head on a spike.
These were desperate men. Jon had to be careful.
Testing their resolve, Jon took a subtle half-step forward.
The bandits reacted instantly. Their knuckles whitened on the hilts of their daggers, pressing the blades deeper. Sansa let out a muffled whimper.
Seeing no opening, Jon stopped. He let the masked man continue his threats while the standoff dragged on.
It was a stalemate. If the bandits moved, Ghost would tear out their throats from behind. If Jon moved, the girls would bleed.
Jon knew these men would lose patience soon. He had to act.
He gave a sharp whistle and jerked his chin at Ghost. Go.
Ghost, seemingly understanding his master's intent perfectly, turned and vanished silently into the dense forest.
The bandits relaxed slightly as the terrifying beast disappeared. Seizing that split-second lapse in their focus, Jon launched himself forward, leaping into the air with his sword raised, aiming straight for the bandit holding Sansa.
The bandits had expected this. The departure of the wolf had given them a false sense of security, emboldening them to fight back.
The cloaked figure moved with surprising speed, winding up his arm and hurling something at Jon.
Seeing the spherical object flying toward him, Jon swung his arm to deflect it, thrusting his sword forward simultaneously. He was ready to trade a wound for a kill.
SMASH.
The object shattered against Jon's forearm. Instantly, a burst of emerald-green fire erupted, eating through his leather bracer in a heartbeat.
Wildfire.
Searing heat engulfed him. Jon fell from the air, crashing to the ground. He rolled frantically in the dirt, trying to smother the cursed flames.
But Wildfire does not extinguish.
Instead of going out, the green fire crawled up his clothes like a living thing, spreading rapidly until it swallowed him whole.
As the Baron stopped moving, the cloaked figure let out a maniacal, wheezing laugh.
"Heh heh heh! Behold! The beauty of Wildfire! Even the blood of the Wolf cannot resist its embrace."
With the threat seemingly neutralized, the three bandits hoisted the sobbing, struggling girls onto their shoulders and turned to leave.
But as they turned their backs, the burning corpse... stood up.
Like a torch in the darkness, Jon Snow rose silently.
The emerald flames still wreathed his body, roaring and dancing. They had consumed his clothes, his armor, his boots—everything was ash. Everything, that is, except his skin, his flesh, and his hair.
Jon gritted his teeth. It hurt—gods, it hurt like the Seven Hells—but he wasn't burning.
Through the agony, he felt a strange sensation. The pain was... feeding him. He looked at his hand, engulfed in green fire, and saw a holographic interface pop up in his vision.
> [Trait Activated: Blood of the Dragon (Targaryen Ancestry)]
> [Absorbing Exotic Wildfire Energy...]
> [Strength +0.1... Constitution +0.1... Spirit +0.1...]
His stats, stagnant for so long, were climbing.
Jon clenched his jaw and took a step forward. Then another.
Naked but for the fire and the Valyrian steel sword in his hand, he looked like a demon crawled out of the Doom of Valyria.
The eerie light of the human torch cast long, dancing shadows on the trees. Sensing the light, the bandits turned around.
Their eyes widened in horror.
Before the two henchmen could even scream, a sword made of dark smoke and green fire swept through the air.
Snick. Snick.
Two heads rolled. The cauterized stumps didn't even bleed.
The cloaked figure stood frozen, staring at Jon with wide, obsessed eyes. He didn't run. He didn't fight. He just stared at the burning man as if witnessing a miracle.
Slowly, shakily, the man dropped to his knees. He lowered his hood, revealing a pale, gaunt face, and let out a moan of sick, fanatical adoration.
"Ah! Perfection! Absolute perfection!" he babbled. "This... this is power beyond the gods! Ahhh! Please! Let this humble servant serve you! Grant me this power, Master!"
As the man prostrated himself on the ground, a heavy clink echoed. A chain made of various metals, black and heavy, dangled from his neck and hit the dirt.
A Maester's chain.
Jon stepped closer, the fire illuminating the man's face. He recognized him.