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With a year of relentless training behind him, Jon had not merely learned the ways of fire—he had become fire. His days in the Flame Hall, his endless meditation, drills, rituals, and practical exercises, had culminated in something extraordinary: he had ascended to the rank of full-fledged Red Apostle.
The fastest rise in living memory. Even the Flame Scions, children of the Old Blood whose potent lineage usually guaranteed preeminence, could not rival him. The instructors themselves whispered in awe and unease at the natural mastery he wielded.
And with this new rank came access to true spells, the first mark of real power for a practitioner of the Red Faith. These were not the simple controlled sparks or minor ignition exercises of his early days; these were living, breathing manifestations of flame, shaped and guided by will alone. They were the kind of spells that could turn a fight, reshape a ritual, or awe the faithful beyond measure.
The main cantrip he fell in love with when he trained in the hall was a little interesting one he picked up from the library, hidden among the older alchemical texts. It was called Green-flame Sword. This spell had its origins in the experiments of an old Red Priest who was inspired by the wildfire prized by the alchemists in kinglands. It was a piece of home he carried around.
With a thought, Jon could imbue a weapon with crackling green fire. It was unpredictable and savage, almost alive writhing along the blade like it had its own hunger. Each strike scorched flesh, charred armor, and left trails of lingering flame. The fire leapt unpredictably, capable of igniting nearby enemies or objects, creating chaos in a controlled, artful way.
It was more than a weapon enhancement. The Green-flame Sword was a statement of mastery over living fire, a bond between the wielder and the elemental chaos of flame itself. Jon had spent weeks perfecting it, learning how to guide it as it was like a serpent in his hands. Even experienced Flame Hall instructors admitted that few had ever wielded it with the precision Jon commanded.
With the restricted sections of the Flame Hall now open to him, Jon explored the deeper, more dangerous spells of the Red Faith in the flame hall library. There were plenty of options to choose from for a good brand new tier 1 spell he could go with each a doorway to mastery over flame.
He saw flame stride, letting him move quickly and leaving a trail of flames behind. Scorching ray which was a bright burning beam that could cut nearly anything. Immolation which let him burn a person or object alive from the inside. Flame jet which was a close cousin to flame stride that let him jump high into the sky and propelled by flames. And many more spells but the one he went with was a staple in any young pyromancer's arsenal, Fireball.
This was a very devastating spell which wrought great damage and destruction. Settling down to the practice it as the instructor decided his faith in what to do with him since he finished his training in a blink of an eye.
As a Red Apostle now Jon had no need to stay in the flame hall anymore. Its walls had served their purpose; shaping raw talent into mastery of the fundamentals, training children and novices in the ways of fire but Jon had outgrown it. Now, the world itself awaited him, a canvas for his powers, a testing ground for the mastery he had honed
He had a couple options in front of him, a web of possibilities, each a path into a different aspect of the Red Faith. He could begin his duties in the order, taking up different esteemed roles in the Red Faith since he was a bonafide true magic user.
He could be a flamekeeper, the guardians of the sacred fires in the temples stationed in one of the many temples of the faith which dotted the world. He could be a Fire Champion, the more martially inclined fire users who were a terror on the battlefield and guarded important personal or places. There were the temples own Fire Seers who studied omens in the flames, guided the faithful, and advised leaders.
Another role was the Fire Wardens, these were the secret enforcers of the faith which kept the other practitioners in line and hunting down those that turned from the faith. Their work was clandestine, often harsh, and their methods were whispered about in fear and awe among the faithful.
Another were the Scholars of the flame, the main researchers and innovators of the faith devoted to studying fire magic, making discoveries, and preserving knowledge in the faith. worked quietly in libraries, laboratories, and ritual halls ensuring that the Red Faith's power was never stagnant.
There were the Pilgrims of the fire, who were traveling apostles that spread the faith in new places. They mostly converted, healed and performed rituals for others. Then there were the Flame crafters who made the sacred implements and tools of the faith. They were in charge of forging weapons, armor, devices for the warriors and mages.
However that was the path of apostles who the instructors had no hope or the talent really to reach further. Jon's skill, his instinctive command over flame, marked him as something different.
Another path he could take which did not have to do with him was studying abroad in the shadowlands. The Red Faith had connections to those sorcerers and warlocks in those dark lands who they had their own exchange program with. The Red faith were well known for their fire magic which they taught the students of those sorcerers-kings and queens while they sent their students who had talent for blood or shadow magic there. The shadowlands also had necromancers running about but those folk were not pleasant to anyone.
The path that Jon was most likely going to take was to apprentice under a teacher. Someone who could refine, specialize, and expand his natural gifts. The Faith had dozens of magic users in the adept rank who took students under their wings. Each Red Priest or Priestess had their own specialty which they taught in more detail to their students.
There were of course the four teachers here in the hall which he could apprentice under. The four of them specialized in divination, healing, combat, and illusion fire magic. That was why most of these apostles were here, they had their own hours with the Red priests and priestess to learn under them in the fields they specialize in.
There were more Red Priest or Priestess in the order he could learn under. Some were good with defensive, ritual, spiritual, infernal, alchemical, sacred and more. However Jon did not expect what happened next.
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Several weeks after Jon had been declared a full-fledged Red Apostle, life at the Flame Hall felt different. The fires themselves seemed to recognize him, flickering with a sharper intensity when he entered a room, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
It was under the quiet dawn light, as the Heart Pyre roared with its first living flames, that Azula arrived at the Flame Hall. She appeared without fanfare, as always, her crimson robes whispering against the polished stone floors. Her presence was magnetic, her gaze sharp as steel, and even the apprentices paused mid-motion, sensing something extraordinary in the air.
Jon was in the courtyard, practicing controlled ignition exercises, guiding tiny green and crimson tendrils of fire to coil and spiral around a ring of stones without letting them touch or falter. The flames hissed and leapt, dancing obediently under his command. He barely noticed her approach until her voice broke the morning silence.
"Jon Snow," she said, her tone carrying the weight of the Flame itself, "you have advance high. Many in the faith are interested in your progress."
Jon straightened, feeling the heat of the fire reflected in her eyes. "Azula, how do you do."
Shaking her head, "you have no idea how many people are breathing down my neck each wanting a piece of the new exceptionally rare talent that I found."
"Sorry to cause you trouble," Jon said, feeling bad for her.
"No, you have no idea what you did for my career. Even I cannot claim to have seen a prodigy like you in my lifetime. I reached the rank of Red Apostle in three and a half years, the fastest in the order before you came of course."
Jon's eyes narrow, curious of her talent. It could only mean one thing, she was a flame scion. Those were the people he saw here who were very talented. That really made him wonder who his mother could be.
"Anyways you have been given a rare opportunity. A path few are allowed to walk."
Her words hung in the air, charged with gravity. Jon's pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"
"You have the skill to learn not just from your instructors here or other Red Priests or Priestsess like me. You will be given access to the Faith's highest-ranking ones, the masters. You will study under the High Priests and Priestesses themselves. There are only three who hold these positions across all the Red Faith."
Jon's eyes widened, the enormity of the moment settling over him. He had trained relentlessly, pushing beyond limits no other initiate could have endured, yet he had never imagined the Faith itself would recognize him at this level.
Azula continued, her voice steady, almost ceremonial. "There is Moqorro, the Black Flame. He spends most of his days researching and experimenting in his labs pushing the boundaries of fire magic."
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Her tone shifted slightly as she named the next. "Then there is Benerro, the leader of the Faith, closest to the Lord of Light, whose word carries the weight of R'hllor's will. He is a bit fanatical, but one whose fervor inspires thousands to unwavering devotion."
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Finally her gaze softened, "And finally, Kinvara, the one who taught me. She maintains order across the Faith, overseeing its operations, rituals, and the daily workings of every temple, academy, and pyre under our dominion."
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She paused, letting her words hang in the air, as if the flames themselves had paused to listen. "These three," she concluded, her voice lower, almost reverent, "are the pillars of the Red Faith, each embodying a different aspect of R'hllor's will: knowledge, zeal, and order. And together, they shape the destiny of all who walk the path of fire."
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Several days after Azula's revelation, Jon made his choice. He did not hesitate long.
Benerro's path was one of faith and leading the masses, of standing before thousands and setting hearts ablaze with zeal. Kinvara's was command and orchestration in the shadows, the careful weaving of a vast religious machine that stretched across the continent. Both were powerful in their own right. Both would shape him into something formidable.
But Jon had never craved applause. Nor did he hunger for authority over temples and cities. He wanted understanding. He wanted to learn the flames and master it. He also wanted to know why, sometimes, when he stared deep into the coals, he felt something ancient staring back.
So he chose Moqorro. The Black Flame. The Wise Man of the Faith. And, as some whispered behind closed doors, the Madman Researcher. His mastery and understanding of fire was legendary in the faith.
The journey southeast towards where the Black Flame was stationed took them many days. Azula accompanied him personally, which in itself spoke volumes. The Faith did not casually assign a Red Priestess of her stature to escort a single apostle. But Jon was no ordinary apostle.
He was the man to fastest in the history of the order to ever reach apostle rank in just one year. He was a budding talent that needed to be cultivated.
They traveled first by road through the fertile countryside surrounding Volantis, where fields of grain bent under the humid breeze and distant village chimes spewed smoke. There were small red shrines which they stopped at for the night but they were quickly on their way the next day.
The surrounding countryside near the city proper was firmly under the careful watch of nobles and merchants as they were what fed the beast. From time to time he even saw watchtowers with guards stationed as there were no sellswords around to run amok.
The countryside slowly gave way to harsher terrain; rocky uplands, steaming vents where heat bled from beneath the earth, and stretches of blackened soil where fire magic had once scorched the land. The air grew warmer, heavier with a strange energy that prickled the skin and stirred the blood. He and Azula moved steadily forward, the noise of civilization fading behind them, replaced by the low hum of geothermal vents and the distant cry of unseen creatures.
Finally, they reached a small seaside village port where a ship awaited them. The vessel was modest but sturdy, its hull blackened by salt and fire. The crew, mostly locals and a few initiates from nearby temples, greeted them with quiet respect. The boat was their passage to the island.
While they journeyed Azula spoke of his new teacher!
"You chose an interesting teacher, Jon," she said, her voice low but steady, "One I think might fit you perfectly. Moqorro is unlike any teacher you will find in the faith. He is the Black Flame not only because of his power but because of his past... and because of his madness."
Jon frowned, intrigued. "What do you mean?"
Azula's eyes turned distant, her gaze tracing the fiery horizon as if seeing memories flickering in the smoke. "He was not always the man of the faith, not always the scholar of flame that you will come to know. Once, he was something very different. Born far from here, on the Summer Islands, a prince of one of the smaller islands."
Jon's curiosity grew. The Summer Islands were known for their fierce warriors and intricate traditions, their connection to the sun and life ran deep. "A prince?" Jon asked. "Then why did he leave that life?"
"I could ask you the same," Azula gave a wry smile. "Nonetheless, it was because he lost their ritual duels to a rival prince and that ended his rulership of his island."
Jon listened closely as the waves whispered against the hull. "What happened after?"
"He became a pirate. Turned to crime like all men do when they run out of options. He was well known for a time in the Summer Sea. His cunning and ferocity earned him many followers, but also powerful enemies."
Their ship rocked gently as the sea breeze carried the scent of salt and sulfur. "And then?"
"One day, his reign of terror came to an end when he got captured by Volantis' navy. He and his crew sold into slavery. But even in chains, Moqorro's mind was sharp. A great noble saw something in him and purchased him putting him to work managing his estates in the countryside."
Jon was starting to feel some familiarity with the man. His life also had its up and downs.
"Eventually, the noble died. The estates were left without an heir, and Moqorro took control. His rise from captive to landholder surprised many. However that was the not the end of his tale as an older man he did the unexpected when he grew his wealth and lands after many years of hard work taking up the faith."
Jon paused, "He gave up everything then?"
She nodded. "His titles, his lands, he devoted himself entirely to the faith."
Jon wondered how old the man had to be since he was now a master but he left the story there for now.
The sea journey was brief but uneventful, cutting across the sheltered bay guarded by the trio of volcanic islands: Sorrowflame to the west nearest the metropolis, Emberfall at the center nearest the coast, and Ashenwake to the east, closest to the jagged Valyrian ruins.
These three islands had distinct roles for the city, Sorrowflame was a jagged silhouette against the horizon. Its black volcanic cliffs jutted sharply from the sea like the ribs of some ancient beast. Sparse and hardy trees clung to the slopes, their leaves curled and ash-grey, and the air was heavy with the acrid scent of brimstone. Atop the highest peak, a solitary fortress stood, its walls blackened and rough-hewn, guarded by vigilant soldiers of Volantis, acting as gatekeepers for the great city.
East was Emberfall, its crescent-shaped form enclosing a natural harbor. A thick mist perpetually shrouded the island, curling through the gnarled branches like ghostly fingers. At the heart of Emberfall, sprawling shipyards throbbed with activity, spewing out countless different ships which sailed the seas to trade and pillage.
The main island which was the biggest that they were heading to was Ashenwake. The island's cliffs shimmered faintly in the sunlight, veins of red crystal and glass glinting like embers trapped in stone. Occasional flickers of red-orange light pulsed beneath the surface of the cracked earth, as if the island itself still breathed with a molten heartbeat. It was cloaked in dense, twisted forests of ash-black trees whose resin burned with an otherworldly blue flame when set alight.
Ashenwake was said to be a vacation spot for some of the Old Bloods, those nobles who dared to seek refuge near the haunted lands of Valyria while pursuing arcane knowledge. The island's black volcanic jungle was dense and wild, with trees gnarled by heat and ash. The air shimmered faintly, a constant reminder of the latent power simmering beneath the surface.
Across the narrow, treacherous stretch of sea lay the smoking ruins of Valyria where twisted spires of black stone clawed at the sky and the ground still burned with lingering fire. To step foot in those ruins was to court death, for the land itself remained cursed, riddled with ashstorms, toxic fumes, and restless spirits bound by ancient sorcery. Yet despite the peril, all who hungered for true mastery of magic sought to glean whatever secrets they could from the shadows cast by that lost empire.
From Ashenwake, scholars, mages, and aristocrats alike watched the distant ruins with a mix of reverence and obsession. The island acted as a fragile bridge both physical and mystical between the living world and the deadly legacy of Valyria.
Here many gathered to study fragments of knowledge salvaged from explorers, decipher cryptic texts brought back from forbidden expeditions, and conduct experiments seeking to replicate the awe-inspiring magic once wielded by the Valyrian dragonlords.
But knowledge came at a price. With the island so close to the ruins whispers told of those who delved too deeply, minds scorched by truths they could not bear, bodies twisted by curses that seemed born of the very magic they sought to command. The island's eerie beauty was a double-edged sword: it inspired brilliance but invited madness, and the shadows that danced in the mist were rumored to be the lingering echoes of those who had lost themselves to the ruins' dark embrace.
When Jon set foot on Ashenwake, the difference was immediate. The soil underfoot was warm and dry, a stark contrast to the dampness of the mainland. The faint smell of sulfur lingered, mingled with the sharp tang of salt and ash.
Azula led the way deeper into the island's heart. They navigated narrow paths carved centuries ago by unknown hands, flanked by glowing fungi and strange red blossoms that pulsed softly in the dim light. The jungle seemed alive, whispering in languages long lost, as if the island itself was a guardian of ancient mysteries.
It took them three days before they reached the foot of a towering black cliff face, where a great stone staircase wound upward through fissures glowing faintly with molten veins. The sound of crackling fire and the low hum of magic grew stronger with every step.
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At the summit, nestled against the volcanic rock, was Moqorro's compound, a sprawling complex of domed structures and angular outbuildings fashioned from black basalt and gleaming metal. The architecture was both alien and ancient, its lines sharp and clean yet softened by centuries of ash and flame.
The air here was thick with the scent of burning resin and strange herbs, mingling with the ever-present heat that radiated from the earth. Braziers lined the walkways, their flames burning in colors Jon had never seen before; deep violet, electric blue, and flickering gold. The walls bore intricate carvings of dragons, serpents of flame, and arcane symbols that pulsed faintly as if alive.
The Black Flame awaited them inside the largest dome, students and aid ran about the place doing countless tasks. Taking in the great hall filled with shelves of ancient tomes, jars of glowing substances, and instruments that hummed with latent power.
Jon's eyes locked onto the man who ruled this place. Moqorro was a striking figure, tall and well built, with eyes like smoldering coals and hair the color of ash. His hands were stained with soot, and his robes bore the marks of countless experiments.
He regarded Jon with a mixture of curiosity and solemness. "Ah, the prodigy," Moqorro said, voice low and rumbling like distant thunder. "I have heard much."
Azula bowed her head in respect. "He has already shown signs of power beyond most apostles, Master Moqorro. My mistress believes it is time he learns what lies beneath the fire's surface."
Moqorro's eyes flickered with an unreadable emotion. "Thank Kinvara for me child, I will see if his potential is true and unlock it fully."
As Moqorro spoke, Jon felt a surge of something deep and ancient stir within him, as if the flame he had always commanded was now awakening to a vast and terrible destiny. This man could truly take him places, could truly let his talent shine.
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Author Notes: You guys are in for a treat. Jon just meet his best fire teacher for life, Moqorro of the Black Flame!