It was a slow, intellectual kind of blasphemy—a pure, concentrated malice stripped of all humanity.
The figure huddled beneath the black robes was bent and emaciated, as if held together only by the shroud itself.
A smell wafted from him as he kowtowed—a mixture of mold, bitter herbs, old rusty blood, and the stinging scent of preservatives.
The skin on the back of his hands was the grey of a waxen corpse. His knuckles protruded like bird claws, and his long, sickly yellow fingernails were worn at the edges, the spaces beneath them packed with dark, unidentifiable grime.
When he lifted his head, the face beneath the hood was like a bleached skull, devoid of life or color.
His sunken eyes lacked any spark belonging to a living creature. There was no anger, no joy, no sorrow—not even the common indifference of a jaded man.
There was only an absolute sense of the inhuman.
When those eyes focused on Jon, it didn't feel like being looked at. It felt like being dissected, layer by layer, with a cold scalpel.
A sense of forbidden, twisted "order" coalesced in those murky depths, sparking a tiny flame of fanaticism. It wasn't excitement in the human sense, but pure, unadulterated madness.
Even as he begged for forgiveness, his voice remained dry and rasping, like rusted metal scraping against rough stone.
"Ah! Please forgive Qyburn," the creature croaked. "I could be counted as a Maester, after a fashion, though not one of those quails hiding in their high towers, fleeing from reality."
Hearing the name Qyburn, Jon's pupils contracted.
In the world of Game of Thrones, miracles were hard to come by. But a genius monster like Qyburn was rarer than the gods themselves.
Looking at this figure, whose very aura screamed unnatural, Jon realized Anguy hadn't been lying. The archer had been forced. No one willingly followed a creature like this unless poison or some other dark threat was involved.
Qyburn represented a unique path to power: the collision of a mad scientist's intellect with forbidden knowledge, a mortal trying to steal the fire of the gods through biology and necromancy.
Whether Qyburn's submission was genuine or just a survival tactic didn't matter to the Baron.
Loyalty was fleeting. Jon didn't need it to last forever. As long as Qyburn wanted something from him—something Jon could provide or withhold—he could be controlled.
Having made up his mind, Jon finally turned his gaze to the two girls.
Though bound and gagged, their eyes spoke volumes. Fear, relief, confusion—a complex storm of human emotion.
But mostly, they were staring at him.
In their eyes, Jon saw his reflection: a figure still wreath in emerald flames, like a green Lord of Light or a demon descended upon the world.
Only then did Jon realize he was still burning.
But the fire no longer hurt. The agonizing heat had faded, replaced by a gentle, thrumming warmth. The cacophony of System notifications had ceased.
Jon raised a hand, marveling at the flames dancing on his skin. He touched his own arm.
Under his touch, the fire began to recede. It wasn't fading out; it was sinking in. His body had absorbed every last drop of the Wildfire's energy.
When the last flicker vanished, the silent forest was left with only the moonlight reflecting off Jon's pale, naked form. He stood like a statue of a god carved from marble, flawless and unscathed.
---
### The Return
As dawn approached, the commotion in the camp slowly settled into a heavy silence.
No one could tell if it was the silence of despair or resignation.
The Gold Cloaks who had been sent back with the wounded were already exchanging glances, whispering about which mountains would be best to hide in as bandits.
They could try to explain that the Baron had ordered them to leave him, but in the army, that excuse was worthless. Abandoning a noble commander? That was a crime. Unless they had powerful families to back them up—which they didn't—they were doomed.
The Captain of the Gold Cloaks, upon hearing the report, had thrown the "deserters" into chains. But with the Baron missing and presumed dead, his only option was to order the camp to pack up and prepare for a grim return to King's Landing.
Just as the order was given, a commotion erupted at the edge of the camp.
Cheers and shouts rolled in from the perimeter like a wave.
"He's back! The Baron is back!"
Curiosity overcame fear. Even the exhausted nobles crawled out of their tents to see what was happening.
When word spread that Baron Jon Snow had single-handedly chased down the bandits and rescued both his sister and the Rose of Highgarden, the entire camp surged forward to meet them.
The young noblemen were the most eager, though their concern was less about Jon's safety and more about the... condition... of the ladies.
As the crowd parted, their worries vanished.
Though Sansa and Margaery looked shaken and disheveled, their dresses were intact. There were no signs of violation.
Jon, on the other hand, looked like he had been dragged through the seven hells. He was wearing a mismatched collection of rags—clearly clothes stripped from dead bandits.
Behind him walked two strangers.
One was a skeletal figure wearing a Maester's chain—Qyburn.
The other was a man with distinct Dornish features—Anguy.
And then there was Ghost. The white wolf trotted proudly beside Jon, his fur matted with blood, a string of severed bandit heads dangling macabrely from his neck like a trophy necklace.
It was a grotesque, bizarre procession.
But the crowd ignored the strangeness. Their attention was fixed on the returning hero and the two highborn beauties.
After a brief handover and a quick explanation (omitting the magical details), Jon retreated to his tent to change into proper clothes.
Emerging shortly after, looking every bit the commander again, Jon issued his order:
"Break camp! We continue to Tampa!"