43 42-Fire and Death

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction based on the Harry Potter and A Song of Ice and Fire universes. All recognisable characters, plots, and settings are the exclusive property of Joanne K. Rowling and George R.R. Martin, respectively. I make no claim to ownership.

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Acknowledgements: This chapter was edited by Void Uzumaki. I also want to thank my beta reader Bub3loka, for helping me bounce ideas around.

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If you're feeling generous and want to support me, you can find me on P*T*E*N under the same name for up to read three chapters ahead of discord.

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Tyrion Lannister

"COME OUT!"

The thunderous shout that could probably be heard all the way from the Golden Tooth made his ears ring like the bells of King's Landing, and his head pulsed painfully. By the time Tyrion managed to fight off the dizziness, a big chunk of the camp was converging towards the dragon, and his Lyseni companion had already left him without a single care in the world.

He scowled inwardly and began to waddle towards the middle through the muddy snow. Tyrion hated many things, but none as much as his short, stubby legs. Oh, if only he had been born with long limbs and half as pretty as his siblings. But he shook his head and banished the thought. People rarely got what they wanted, and the gods loved to laugh at the plans and dreams of men. Tyrion had dwelled more than enough on what could have been in the past few moons; now, there were more urgent things. Like that dragon that had landed in the middle of the camp. That dragon was the size of Drogon, yet with completely different colouring.

As he made his way towards the commotion as fast as his stunted legs allowed him, he wondered if there was yet a third person that had somehow managed to hatch a dragon. In his childhood, the dragons were long gone, being the stuff of myth and legend, but now they seemed almost as common as cabbages on a farmer's stall in a market.

A few minutes later, he finally arrived. Panting, he lamented that dwarves were not made to run.

In the middle of the clearing stood a huge dark blue dragon, wicked rows of spikes adorning the length of its spine all the way to the neck and the horns. Instead of a normal tip, the tail ended with rounded bone covered in even more spikes, similar to a morning star. But the most eye-catching thing was the rider nestled on a throne-like saddle between the spikes at the base of the neck. Pitch black armour, adorned with a single white direwolf head on the breastplate, made his blood chill.

This could only be Jon Stark, who looked utterly unperturbed by the surrounding army. And by the gods, Tyrion could see fear and uncertainty filling the surrounding faces.

Wasn't Stark's dragon half the size of Drogon at best?

Was Daenerys' memory or eyes faulty, mayhaps?

But no, Ser Barristan was there also, and he was trustworthy. Tyrion couldn't help but feel anger and jealousy burn within him furiously. Years ago, he knew Ned Stark's bastard. A sullen, foolish boy with a desire to freeze his balls on the Wall for the rest of his life. He had tried to dissuade him, but the bastard remained stubborn as a mule and swore his life away.

Tyrion had considered the boy far below him then. Now, he was the one with nothing, and the bastard boy was a king and a dragonlord. Oh, how he wanted a dragon of his own! People would finally be forced to respect him once he became a dragonrider. Yet both Viserion and Rhaegal shared people's distaste of dwarves and growled in his direction as soon as he approached. And Tyrion was too craven to risk it. He did not like the thought of ending up roasted like Quentyn Martell. He had observed the dornish boy's last moments, slowly dying for a sennight in utter agony.

Once again, he shook his head and focused on the present.

This changed everything. Not only was Stark's dragon as large as Drogon, but he was in the middle of Aegon's camp, clad in full plate and ready for war. Only for some reason, he was not attacking them just yet. Tyrion shuddered at the thought; the dragon could probably devastate the whole army, and they, unlike his brother in the Golden Tooth, had no scorpions or high walls to hide behind. Things were looking grim, and with Viserion wounded and smaller, the best they could do was stall for time until Daenerys returned.

Apparently, Aegon had a similar idea. The king slowly walked into the clearing, flanked by five of his kingsguard. His face was impassive, but Tyrion could see his thoughts racing through his purple eyes.

"Aegon Targaryen, self-proclaimed king of the Seven Kingdoms and the First Men," Stark's voice was cold and crisp and cut the tenuous silence like a knife would cut butter. "You've asked for my fealty twice now, yet the North does not bend easily, and neither do I. And we do not take well to threats from you or your wife. If you want to rule over the North, you must prove yourself; I challenge you to single combat!"

Everything grew completely silent for a moment, and Tyrion could only hear his laboured breath. Threats? It seemed that Daenerys' visit to Winterfell had gone a bit differently than she had recounted. He shouldn't have been surprised; the dragon queen was never one for the subtler aspects of negotiation. At that moment, a roar sounded, and the dark-blue dragon turned his head towards the noise. Viserion flew over and landed right next to Aegon and crouched defensively towards Jon Stark's dragon. It was a bit comical, as Aegon's drake was scarcely half the size of its opponent.

"We've done nothing to wrong you, King Snow," Connington's grating voice sent chills down his spine. Was it wise to provoke the Northern King, especially when Daenerys and Drogon weren't here? At that moment, Tyrion wanted to tear off his hair. Would it kill the grouchy Stormlander to call the goddamned boy a Stark?!

"Nothing?!" Stark scoffed loudly, and a low rumble was heard from the maw of the dark-blue dragon, making everyone tense. "Your Queen came to my home uninvited only to threaten me, my family, and my people with fire and blood if we did not bend the knee. Do you think that you can walk over House Stark as you wish?! Come now; you wanted my fealty, fight for it! Or are you too craven and would rather send thousands of men to their deaths instead? Or if you wish, we can fight in the sky, like the dragonlords of old!"

It looked like Jon Stark was backing them into a corner. Tyrion could detect a hint of amusement in that last statement, but he couldn't be sure as the Northerner's face was hidden between a black greathelm. Or, more accurately, backing Aegon into a corner. The king could decline, but he would lose the respect of the men and lords by refusing. Not to mention the unsaid threat of the savage dragon that looked ready to burn down everything in the surrounding area. He highly doubted that a healthy Viserion could match up to the dark-blue monster in front of them, let alone a wounded one.

"I need some time to think it over," Aegon wisely tried to stall for time. Daenerys had been gone for less than two hours; she would probably be back soon.

"You have ten minutes," Jon Stark agreed impassively.

The Northerner took off his helmet, and Tyrion did a double take- the youthful face from his memory had lost all traces of softness and was instead sharp and harsh and covered by a short stubble that made him look even more imposing. That was not the only change though - his eyes had changed from steely grey to dark amethyst. He would think it was not the same person, but the rest of the face and the hair were unmistakable. He shook his head, chasing the errant thoughts away; after all, there were more important things right now.

Tyrion quickly went towards Aegon, who had gathered the other members of his council nearly sixty yards away from the Northern dragon.

"Where in the seven hells is Daenerys?!" Connington furiously whispered.

"Still out flying, I believe," Tyrion supplied helpfully. "She seemed quite frustrated after the failed assault on the Golden Tooth."

Aegon let out a tired breath and rubbed his brow.

"Ser Barristan, did my wife truly threaten the Northerners in their own home?"

"Yes, Your Grace, but only after he stubbornly refused to bend the knee and insulted the Queen," the former kingsguard recounted quietly.

The king closed his eyes, sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Tyrion couldn't find it in himself to be surprised - Barristan had poor and rigid skills in negotiation, and Daenerys was nothing without her dragons.

"What a farce." Manfery Martell coughed heavily. The old Dornishman seemed not to handle the cold very well. "Is the Northern boy truly arrogant enough to think he can resolve everything with a sword in hand?"

"Do we know anything of Jon Stark's skill with a blade?" Aegon turned to Varys, who was looking particularly pale.

"Only rumours, Your Grace," the eunuch gulped heavily. "It is said that in the Battle for Winterfell, Jon Stark killed a thousand men single-handedly, painting the snow crimson and turning the tide of battle. I've heard him being called "The Demon of Winterfell" more than once."

"There's no way for a single man to kill so many, no matter how good or strong," Tyrion couldn't help but scoff. "Far more likely that his dragons turned the tide of that battle. But I still wouldn't discount his skill with a sword. His father did beat Arthur Dayne at around his age."

Selmy barely covered over his snort with a cough. It seemed that the former kingsguard did not have a high opinion of the Northerners.

"I don't think I can best Jon Stark on dragonback even if Viserion wasn't wounded. We have no scorpions. So unless my wife returns at the last moment, we have no choice but to accept and stall for time."

"What if we accept the duel and simply overwhelm him with numbers while he's away from his dragon?" Varys proposed cautiously.

"And who will deal with the angry dragon that would be causing untold devastation in the middle of our army when Jon Stark dies?" Tyrion asked blithely.

"I never said we would kill him. We could overwhelm and subdue him. Once he's our prisoner, would the dragon risk his master's life?" The eunuch countered. "At some point, the Queen will return and help us deal with the beast."

He couldn't help but raise his eyebrow in surprise at the statement.

The Lannister didn't expect such an insidious trick from Varys, but he approved. Why bother fighting fairly when you could just cheat to win? Thankfully, as Tyrion looked around, he saw that the rest of the council were seriously contemplating Varys' proposal, but only the king had a grimace on his face.

"If I pull such a cheap mummer's trick, my word would mean far less in the future," Aegon said with a sigh and ran his hand through his damp silver locks.

"Would it truly matter, Your Grace? Without Jon Stark and his dragon, the North would only have two helpless widows, whom the Northern lords wouldn't truly follow," Varys tittered. "There has never been a woman to rule Winterfell in eight thousand years, and I doubt that would change now."

Tyrion sighed inwardly; it seemed he had underestimated the outwardly amicable eunuch.

"The king must preserve his honour and reputation at all costs," Connington said sharply. "But mayhaps your plan is the best we have. I will give the orders and take full responsibility for this."

"Jon-"

"No, Your Grace," the Gryffin Lord interrupted as he stiffly rubbed his gloved hand. "This is a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Tyrion could see hesitation, anger, and acceptance battle their way on the king's weary face.

"Time's up!" Jon Stark's shout interrupted them, and they turned to face the Northern dragonlord, who had not moved from his place for a single second. However, Tyrion could swear that his lips twitched in amusement for a short moment. "Your decision?"

"I accept your challenge," Aegon declared through gritted teeth. "Grance Morrigen of the Kingsguard shall be my champion."

"I see you send another to fight in your stead," Stark snorted. "So be it."

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Tyrion listened with half an ear how Connington was quietly instructing the kingsguard to draw the Northern king towards their side of the clearing. Surely, Ned Stark's son wouldn't be so foolish?

He couldn't help but imagine it and snorted quietly. It would make a pitiful ending for House Stark. Rickard Stark was burned in a trial by combat, and Brandon Stark choked to death on a Tyroshi strangling device. Eddard Stark, executed for trying to do the honourable and right thing. Robb Stark, killed at his uncle's wedding under guest right. And now, Jon Stark would probably lose his life to another ruse. Tyrion wondered what the Northern king was thinking. He could have swept over and burned them all to death, with none to oppose him. By the time Daenerys returned, she would have found nought but ash and charred corpses. Did Jon Stark expect things to go his way after his four predecessors were killed without any regard for reason or honour?

Mayhaps he'd never know. The Northern King nimbly jumped off his dragon with practised ease and effortlessly landed on the muddy clearing. His black armour was the direct opposite of the enamelled white plate of the kingsguard that Morrigen wore.

The clearing was surrounded on every side by men sworn to Aegon. The enemy's dragon was given a large berth, but on their side, the boundary of the impromptu fighting ground was surrounded by a sea of steel-clad men.

Jon Stark openly snorted at Aegon again before donning the fierce greathelm once more.

Tyrion watched with envy as Aegon tensely sat on a chair provided by his Velaryon squire. He missed Podrick, and wondered what had happened to his former squire. The boy was dutiful and was left in the Red Keep to fend for himself after Tyrion's trial. A pity, especially since nobody else wanted to serve a 'half-man kinslayer'.

The two fighters were nearly forty yards apart. How would they even start without someone to officiate the fight?

The Northern king picked up a stone from the mud.

"We begin when the rock lands," his voice thundered, and the stone flew in the air. Three heartbeats later, it landed softly in the snow, yet neither of the combatants moved from their position.

Tyrion tensed. Was their ruse uncovered? But no, there is no way Stark would have heard from so far away.

He shivered from the cold wind as the fighters stood still like two statues. The dragon behind the Northerner looked utterly disinterested in everything aside from Viserion. It gazed at Aegon's dragon, and Tyrion could swear intelligence flashed in its eyes.

A sigh of relief tore from his lips as the Northern king slowly but confidently began walking towards Ser Grance Morrigen. He unhurriedly unsheathed his sword, and Tyrion couldn't help but stare at the blade. It shimmered like bronze in the scarce sunlight, and dark veins ominously spread along the sword's length.

At that moment, a shred of suspicion appeared in his mind as the Northern king neared. Tyrion had spoken plenty with Jon Snow about five years ago. The boy was sullen and prickly yet smart and observant. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, he made peace with Wildlings for the first time in written history, so he knew how to negotiate. Yet, this was clearly a trap, and he had not given conditions upon his victory. Who would come to fight without any expectations to win? Or maybe there was a bigger plot…!

Tyrion frowned; things simply didn't add up. But that moment, Jon Stark had come far closer to their men than he was to his dragon, yet Connington did not give the order.

As soon as the Northerner was less than a stone's throw away, the Lord Hand gave the sharp sign, the men-at-arms rushed over, and the sea of steel swelled like a violent tide intending to devour Jon Stark.

"TREACHERY!" The shout echoed like a clap of thunder, and Tyrion's ears rang again, and he could even feel his joints ache painfully.

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Jaime Lannister, outer walls of the Golden Tooth

"TREACHERY!"

Jaime could hear the furious shout all the way here. That Northern boy might be lacking in wits, but he sure had lungs. And by the gods, what a surprise it had been. Jon Snow, because this could only be Ned Stark's bastard that would wear a white direwolf for a coat of arms, had a fucking dragon. And even more surprising was that his dragon rivalled Daenerys' black monster in size, and it had somehow remained hidden until now!

He squinted through his Myrish far-eye. It was the finest gold could buy and provided a good view of what was happening in the enemy camp.

At that moment, the Northern drake reared up, its maw opened widely, and a torrent of fire spewed forth onto the surging men.

Everyone and everything began scrambling.

A good chunk of the men ran away, unwilling to face the dragon. A few braver souls with vain dreams of becoming dragonslayers attempted to get near, only to be struck by the spiked tail with enough force to throw them back, broken and bleeding, if not outright dead. Or they were simply cooked in their armour by the blue flames heavily streaked with black. Some even grabbed their bows, and a few arrows were loosened in the direction of the blue dragon, but those archers quickly met a fiery end.

The cream-coloured, smaller drake began to hiss and wisely began to back away from the commotion and the angry blue dragon.

His treacherous little brother was sitting there, dazed by the loud sound. The gods seemed to watch over Tyrion for once, as he wasn't trampled to death. He spat on the ground. Whoever said that the kinslayers were cursed was lying through their teeth.

He could see Connington desperately shouting at his men, and part of them persistently drove towards the Northern King, who looked to be buried by a sea of steel on the outside. Connington himself charged forward to join their attempts.

But the truth was, Jon Stark seemed to be having the time of his life. He moved faster than they could react, and his sword sliced through wood, bone, and steel like a hot knife through butter. Unbothered by armour and numbers, he danced between his enemies while his sword sang a macabre tune with the lives of his foes. Every heartbeat, more and more lives fell to his wicked bronze blade, and soon the men refused to go forth to their deaths. But they had little choice, as those behind them were blindly pushing forward on the orders of the Hand.

He placed the Myrish far-eye down for a moment, rubbed his eyes, and looked again, only to see the same thing. Jon Stark cut through scores of enemies with inhuman speed and no effort whatsoever. Seven hells, no wonder the boy dared to accept that challenge. Even the few swords that reached his black plate bounced off harmlessly, not slowing down Jon Stark's rampage in the slightest.

Jaime grudgingly admitted to himself that even at his prime, with both hands and a Valyrian steel sword, he would scarcely be his match.

He shook his head, and his gaze settled on the Targaryen King. Just as Aegon was about to stand up from his chair and retreat, its wooden leg broke, his boots slipped into the muddy ground, and his head fell towards an inconspicuous rock amidst the muddy snow. The kingsguard near him tried to help their king up, but all they could do was turn Aegon face up. Joy filled Jaime's heart at Aegon's unresponsive eyes and bleeding temple. The Seven were truly with him this day. If Daenerys was dead as well, the only problem remaining would be this rampant Northern monster that was culling men as if they were pigs in a slaughterhouse.

At that moment, the smaller drake roared and angrily spewed flame in the crowd towards one of what Jaime thought to be the king's inconspicuous' squires.

Meanwhile, most of the men-at-arms were neither brave nor foolish and simply wanted to live, so they ran and ran. In the panic, many were trampled to death in the cold slush below.

Jaime saw how the Spider tried to skulk away in the crowds, yet a streak of blue fire roasted him in seconds. The dragon quickly came over and took a large bite of the former eunuch. Not even three heartbeats later, there weren't even any bones left of Lyseni spymaster. Jaime couldn't help but wonder what was so appealing in the eunuch to make the dragon eat him specifically.

He snorted in amusement, but at that moment, a storm of purple flames rapidly spread out in the whole field. Under his disbelieving eyes, the fires consumed the entire Targaryen camp and soon afterwards, a gust of wind carried the scent of charred meat, making bile rise in his throat.

"Seven hells!" Near him, the surprised gasps and exclamations of the men-at-arms and Addam echoed, but he paid them no heed.

This was not the work of any of the dragons. They could scarcely cause this, and their flames were the wrong colour. The Northern one was blue streaked with black, and the cream-coloured drake had golden flames. With a shudder, his mind thought of wildfire, but the green piss was… green. Mayhaps the alchemists could concoct a flame of a different colour, yet that would be hard when all of them were little more than ash in the ruins of King's Landing.

This… this could only be sorcery of some kind. Jaime might not have cared about books and histories, but he remembered some from his painful childhood lessons. Such a feat of magic was not seen ever since the Doom!

He watched with morbid fascination as the fiery inferno danced in the field below, and his eye wandered around. Not a single man could be seen; the fire had devoured the enemy camp. Many men had fled into the snowy hills, but their ability to survive the cold winter was dubious at best. The Northern dragon, however, was unbothered by the flame, but the Targaryen one was writhing in pain.

Forty thousand men, gone, just like that. The thought made Jaime gulp heavily.

*

Tyrion Lannister

Fear, unbridled fear in front of the fiery storm of fire and death. He felt so small, so insignificant, and helpless like never before. But for some reason, the flames completely avoided him. Oh, Tyrion still felt the blistering heat and the rancid smell of charred meat and burned leather that made him empty the contents of his stomach more than once. He felt a warmth run down his left leg and realised that his bladder had just decided to betray him too.

The purple flames suddenly began to die out. Within two heartbeats, only smoke and steam remained. The searing heat could still be felt in the surrounding air, and even the cold winds of winter couldn't dispel it. He cautiously looked around, only to see the glassed ground covered in fractures and littered with deformed, half-melted armaments and charred bones covered by soot and ash. Not a single trace of the camp containing forty thousand men remained. Nearly fifty yards away, Viserion was writhing pitifully on the ground, eking out low, painful rumbles from his throat. His scales were charred, and his wings were gone. No, not gone, but nothing remained of the bat-like membranes. Aegon's mount pitifully flapped his skeletal wings but to no avail. At that moment, the other dragon, completely untouched by the flame, flew over and tore into the neck of Daenerys' smallest drake, making it go limp.

Tyrion heard soft footsteps and turned his soot-covered face towards the sound.

Completely unharmed by the fire, Jon Stark was slowly walking towards a pile of ash. Spots of rust covered his black armour and sword. Dried-up blood, Tyrion morbidly realised. Yet his face was completely clean, and the helmet was tied to his belt.

The king reached over and pulled up a corpse covered by mud and ash from the pile. Tyrion noticed that the place in question was relatively untouched by the fire, because the ground was only caked instead of glassed. With a single swing, the head was cleanly severed from the body and tied up with dirty silver hair on his belt like a grim trophy. A golden crown rested atop its brow, making him realise that this was Aegon's head.

The Northerner then looked towards Tyrion, and the dwarf felt a chill crawl up his spine. The cold realisation that most of those rumours from the North were probably true made him tremble. This sorcery had to be Jon Stark's doing; it had to be. But why was he left alive?!

"Do you know what happened to Widow's Wail?" The Northerner had come over and was now looming above him. While not as tall as either of the Clegane brothers, he was only a little shorter than Robert and many times more intimidating than any of them.

"What?" A hoarse sound tore out of his dry throat.

"The second half of my family's ancestral sword, Ice. You know, the ancestral sword of House Stark that your family stole and your father shamelessly ordered to be melted into two."

He furiously tried to wrack his muddled mind. He had no desire to lie or displease a man who had just roasted tens of thousands of men with nary an effort.

"Last I saw the sword, it was gifted to Joffrey at his wedding," he answered honestly.

"So you have no idea," Stark summarised with a heavy frown. "Where is Daenerys' third dragon?"

"It started roosting in one of Harrenhal's towers," Tyrion replied.

Suddenly, the Northern King spun around and looked to the side, blade in hand.

Tyrion traced his gaze, only to see a naked, tall beauty walk their way by the ashes. He gasped at the sight of the red hair and eyes. The only thing on her body was the glowing ruby choker, which was untouched by the flames, just like her. Ash did not cling to her pale skin, and he found his gaze moving towards her bare breasts.

"Melisandre, fancy seeing you here," Jon greeted impassively, completely unaffected by her naked form.

Tyrion, however, found that he simply couldn't tear his eyes off the alluring curves of the naked priestess.

"My Prince," the woman kneeled. "You must go back North; the Night's Watch is under attack!"

"Have you seen something in the flames again?"

"Yes, My Prince." Tyrion couldn't help but admire her shapely behind as she crawled over and kissed Jon Stark's steel boots. "A storm of ice and death assaults the Wall constantly, and the only thing holding it back is a small, purple flame."

The king's expression turned stormy, and the air became oppressively heavy. Tyrion felt his legs tremble and gulped heavily. He felt another warm stream run down his leg and cursed his traitorous bladder. Stark's face then shifted into an icy mask that felt just as dangerous, but at least Tyrion could now breathe.

"Get up. I have no need for people to crawl and kiss my arse or boots," the king snorted and lifted her, "Thank you, Melisandre of Asshai. If what you speak of proves true, I will be in your debt as long as it does not harm the North."

"There is no need for repayment," Tyrion could see fanatical devotion in her ruby eyes as she gazed at the Northern king. She attempted to prostrate herself on the ground again, but the king's arms held her up. "I live to serve Azor Ahai!"

Stark rubbed his brow tiredly and let out an exasperated sigh.

Tyrion couldn't help but wish for a woman so beautiful to be so fervently devoted to him. He would bed her every day and every night until he grew tired. But even he wouldn't dare to sleep with a shadow-binder like Melisandre, especially if someone as monstrous as Jon Stark was treating her so cautiously.

"We'll speak of this later, should we meet again," Stark said with a sigh.

At that moment, the blue dragon came over and landed heavily, raising ash everywhere in the air. Tyrion closed his eyes, coughed heavily, and covered his face with his dirty cloak.

When the cloud of ash dispersed, he could see the dragon looming over him, and blood ominously dripped from its crimson-stained mouth.

Jon Stark held up a large leather bag that gave Tyrion chills once again. The dragon spat a huge piece of bloody meat inside, and when Tyrion blinked, the bag was already gone, and Stark was rubbing the bloody snout of his dragon, eliciting a low, rumbling purr from the ferocious beast. He would have thought the scene somewhat endearing if not for the amount of blood and the fresh memory of the dragon spewing torrents of flame and killing scores of men each second.

Yet he couldn't help but wonder what the limits of this sorcery were.

A few moments later, Jon Stark took out a piece of parchment from somewhere, quickly scribbled down a couple of lines, and tied it to a peculiar arrow made out of almost pitch-black wood. Only Ebony and Ironwood were so dark, and both were extremely resilient. The arrow tip was made out of the same queer bronze-like metal as his sword. A Weirwood longbow appeared in his hands. In less than a dozen heartbeats, the longbow was strung up. Tyrion watched with trepidation as Jon Stark turned towards the Golden Tooth, nocked the arrow, pulled, and aimed.