After Daenerys's death, Drogon flies east with her body. Jon is imprisoned, but before his sentence is carried out, he is visited in the night — not by man, but by a white-scaled dragon who speaks with Bran's voice.
This dragon — Velrion — offers Jon a chance to enter a world where dragons rule, but they are dying from a strange curse: they can no longer breathe fire unless they kill a living soul.
Jon is brought to this realm to solve one riddle:
"Would you kill to preserve peace, or die to let it thrive?"
The dragons of this world were once divine rulers who vowed never to destroy mortal life again after a great war. Now, the magic that sustained them fades — and the only way to restore their fire is to burn the innocent.
Jon is given authority to choose:
Reignite the dragons — and lose what remains of their purity.
Let the dragons die — and usher in a fragile mortal world without their wisdom or power.
But there's a catch:
If Jon allows even one dragon to feed on fire through blood, all will follow.
"Do you miss her?" the dragon asked.
Jon did not answer. The beast's scales glowed pale in the moonlight, its wings tucked like a cathedral behind it.
"She burned cities. You ended it. But now you are asked again: will you save us by killing one soul?"
"We do not need your sword, Jon Snow. We need your choice."
Jon Snow woke to silence.
The kind of silence that felt like the world itself was holding its breath
He lay beneath a sky braided with stars, unfamiliar yet hauntingly beautiful — as if the heavens had been painted with the faint glow of dying embers.
Cold bit into his skin, but it wasn't the cruel winter chill of the North. This cold was something else — thinner, sharper, like the edge of a blade pressed gently against his soul.
He tried to move but found his limbs heavy, as if bound by unseen chains. His eyes flickered open, revealing a horizon unlike any he'd seen in life or death.
Rolling hills spread before him, draped in silver grasses that shimmered under a pale moon. The air was still, save for the occasional flicker of a distant flame — not warm, but ghostly blue and fading fast.
And then he saw it.
A figure, massive and still, standing at the edge of a vast clearing.
The dragon.
Its scales were pale, almost translucent, like frost etched in bone. It did not roar or snap fire into the sky. Instead, it watched Jon with eyes heavy with sorrow — ancient, knowing, and full of a quiet despair.
"You are the one they call the King in the North," the dragon said, its voice soft as a breeze but weighted with ancient power.
Jon's lips parted, breath shallow. "Where am I?"
"In the realm where dragons no longer burn," the creature answered. "A place where fire is fading, and only sacrifice can rekindle it."
Jon blinked, trying to grasp the meaning behind the words.
"Sacrifice?" he repeated. "What sacrifice?"
The dragon's great head lowered, wings folding like a shroud around its body. "To breathe flame once more, a dragon must consume life — a soul's fire. But once the fire burns, there is no turning back."
A cold shudder coursed through Jon's veins. He had faced death many times, but to take innocent life — to become the bringer of destruction — was a burden heavier than any sword.
"Why bring me here?" he asked.
"Because the last ember remains," the dragon said, "and the fate of dragons and mortals alike rests in your hands. Will you save us by burning the innocent... or let the fire die and watch all fall to shadow?"
Jon's gaze dropped to his hands. They felt strange — warm in a way that contradicted the cold air around him, as if something within was stirring.
A silence stretched between them, cold as the frost that once blanketed Winterfell.
Jon clenched his fists. This was no ordinary war. This was a war of mercy, power, and impossible choices.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
"Then show me this fire," he said quietly. "And I will decide."
The dragon turned and began to walk, each step heavy enough to shake the earth beneath them.
Jon followed, the cold wind tugging at his cloak like whispered warnings.
They passed through forests where trees shimmered with silvery leaves and rivers flowed with water clear as crystal. Strange birds with feathers like sparks flitted overhead, their songs haunting and melancholic.
At last, they came to a village nestled in a valley ringed by jagged mountains.
Smoke curled thin and gray from the chimneys, but the people moved like shadows — cautious, wary, and burdened by grief.
Jon felt the weight of their gazes.
Among the villagers was a woman, standing taller than most, with dark hair streaked with silver. Her eyes burned with fierce determination despite the weariness etched in her face.
She stepped forward, her voice ringing clear across the hush.
"I am Queen Maelya of Embryn," she said. "We are the last mortal clans bound to the dragons, and we live by a fragile peace."
Jon nodded slowly. "Why do you wait? Why not fight to restore the fire?"
Maelya's lips pressed into a thin line. "Because fighting means sacrifice. Sacrifice means blood — innocent blood. And we have none left to give."
Jon's chest tightened. "Then what do you want from me?"
"A choice," Maelya said. "The fire can be rekindled, but only if one soul offers itself to the flame. You carry the strength to make that choice, Jon Snow. You alone."
Jon's mind spun. The weight of her words settled over him like a heavy fog.
He looked to the dragon, which lowered its head as if to remind him of the cost.
"Do you ask me to be that sacrifice?" Jon asked, voice barely a whisper.
"No," Maelya said. "But you must choose who will be. The mercy and burden belong to you."
That night, Jon walked alone beneath the starlit sky.
His breath formed clouds that drifted upward like forgotten prayers.
He thought of his past — the battles, the betrayals, the friends lost to war and winter.
Here, in this strange land between life and death, a new war loomed — one of mercy and impossible choices.
Could he bear to decide who would live, and who would burn?
The dragon's words echoed in his mind.
To breathe flame again, a dragon must consume life — a soul's fire. Once the fire burns, there is no turning back.
Jon stared into the darkness, feeling the cold claw of doubt gnaw at his heart.
As dawn broke, he found himself at the edge of a stone circle where the villagers had gathered.
Queen Maelya stood before them, flanked by leaders of the clans.
They spoke of the curse — a terrible magic born of the dragons' own oath never to burn the innocent again after the Great War.
Without fire, the dragons weakened. Without dragons, the realm would fall into shadow.
Jon listened as the elder spoke of sacrifice, of pain, of blood spilled in the name of survival.
But there was fear — fear of losing the last fragments of humanity in a fire born of cruelty.
The dragon Velrion, massive and somber, lowered its great head beside Jon.
"The curse is in the heart of those who refuse to choose," Velrion said.
Jon felt the burden deepen.
Here was a choice no sword could solve — between mercy and death, power and compassion.
He looked across the faces of those who depended on him — families, children, warriors.
The flame within him stirred, not with warmth, but with icy dread.
The night pressed down on Jon like a suffocating shroud. The village slept, but his mind was ablaze with questions and ghosts.
He paced the stone circle again and again, the cold biting through his cloak, but the chill outside was nothing compared to the frost gripping his heart.
Sacrifice... mercy... The words twisted like thorns around his thoughts.
He remembered the faces of those he had lost—Robb, the Starks, the brothers of the Night's Watch. So many had fallen in battles fought with sword and honor. But this was different.
This choice was not about killing an enemy in war. It was about deciding who among the innocent must die, who must be offered to a flame that promised salvation at a horrific cost.
Could he bear to be the arbiter of such mercy?
His fingers tightened into fists. I have taken lives before, he told himself. I have killed in battle, in defense of the North, for the greater good.
But those deaths came from necessity, from the clash of armies and the defense of his people.
Here, he was asked to choose sacrifice with no battlefield, no enemy to face.
Just a cruel calculus: burn the innocent to save many, or let the flame die and condemn all to darkness.
Jon's breath hitched. The weight of it threatened to crush him.
He knelt and touched the cold stone beneath him, feeling the rough edges bite into his palms.
What kind of king would I be if I let this fire die? he wondered.
Would he be remembered as the one who saved the realm from shadow?
Or the one who sacrificed too much, too soon?
He thought of the dragon, Velrion. Silent, patient, ancient.
Could the beast understand human mercy?
Or was it bound only to the harsh truths of fire and survival?
Jon's mind turned to his own past, to the scars that shaped him.
He had lived with betrayal, with loss, with the gnawing knowledge that sometimes, the price of leadership was steep.
Yet, no burden felt as heavy as this.
If I choose to light the fire, he thought, I become both savior and executioner.
The night deepened, but Jon's restless heart kept vigil.
He whispered into the cold air, "I do not know if I can carry this mercy. But I will not turn away."
As the first pale light of dawn stretched across the valley, Jon rose, resolve tempered but not unbroken.
The path ahead was shrouded in shadow and flame.
And he would have to walk it alone.
The morning sun filtered weakly through drifting mist as Jon stood in the village's central square.
Queen Maelya faced him, eyes blazing with fierce resolve. Beside her, Velrion's immense form loomed, scales glinting dully in the pale light.
"Jon Snow," Maelya began, her voice steady but edged with urgency, "you have wrestled with the burden of mercy through the night. But know this: the fire will not wait forever."
Jon met her gaze evenly. "I understand what's at stake. But how do you expect me to choose who must burn?"
Maelya's jaw tightened. "The clans have already lost too many to this curse. Our people cannot survive without the flame rekindled. Some will be sacrificed, yes. But it is the only way."
Velrion's voice rumbled, deep and ancient. "This is no mere battle of steel and blood. It is the test of hearts. The fire demands balance — between destruction and mercy."
Jon's fists clenched at his sides. "And what of the innocent? Must they be the price?"
Maelya's eyes flickered with pain. "Innocence is a flame we all carry. Some must offer it, willingly or not, so others may live."
Jon's voice was low but fierce. "I swore to protect the innocent, not condemn them."
Velrion stepped forward, his gaze piercing. "And yet, your very presence here means you carry the flame's burden now. The dragons and mortals alike look to you."
Jon's breath hitched. The crushing weight of their words pressed down like a stone.
"Tell me, Maelya," Jon said slowly, "if you had to choose — if your own child stood among those who might burn — what would you do?"
The queen's eyes glistened with unshed tears. "I would pray they find mercy in the flame, and that their sacrifice saves what remains."
Jon swallowed hard. The cruel truth lay bare.
"To save many, some must suffer. But who chooses them?"
Maelya's voice softened. "You do."
The square fell silent, the question echoing louder than any roar.
Jon looked to the dragon, whose ancient eyes held no judgment, only truth.
The choice was his — the last mercy, and the last flame.