i

Blood gushes from the wound and the white of the bone shines through. Jon's wrist pulses painfully and the weight of the shield grown less and less manageable by the moment. And there truly is no need for him to.

He calls out for Viserion and wonders where the beast is. Through the endless stream of falling snow he can barely see a thing. And the frail lights all around him are slowly going out.

The one he is protecting lets out a weak gasp.

Jon glances down at this boy, barely older than himself. He thinks that in another life, thy might have grown as brothers.

It makes him sad, and sick to the stomach to think that it should end like this.

ii

Viserion lets out an angered roar and a stream of flame pours out from his mouth, drowning the sea of decaying bodies that have gathered all around with the fall of darkness.

"We have to move," Jon says, forcing Aegon to his feet.

"Leave me," the other says, in what he must think is an act of heroism.

But Jon is not leaving anyone else to fend off danger on their own. He has left so many people he could have helped.

"Say no more," he snaps, dragging the other's weight along. This is not the brother he grew up with. But he is the only brother Jon has left.

"We'll both die," Aegon protests. "Save yourself."

"I'll save you as well."

iii

"You are not sane," his brother declares as the wound is splintered and bound tightly. "How is it right in your mind that three should die instead of one?" There is anger there. Mayhap because Aegon is still so very much like him. They both put so much less value on what other say they should value.

Without speaking, the younger of the two lays down his sword and looks at the young maester. Sam Tarly clears his throat. "Better that he saved you, Your Grace. We need all the men we can get."

The truth of it rings through Jon's head. He leaves Aegon to his rest and wonders without into the white storm.

Death is in the air. He can feel its sweet, deceptively comforting breath.

iv

The aunt returns atop her black dragon. But she is not alone. Jon does not find it surprising. Daenerys Targaryen is rarely ever alone, not since the red witch shadows her steps. What is strange is that he has brought with her two faces Jon never though to see again.

Jaime Lannister is visibly trying to protect a bundle of woollen dresses that emits strange little sounds, much like weeping. It has been some time, but Jon remembers well enough the face of Myrcella Baratheon, or rather Waters, as the late Stannis Baratheon named her.

He knows what will follow. But he does nothing.

He is still a brother of the Watch and cannot speak for one or the other side of the conflict.

v

"It's that famed Stark honour," the former Kingsguard jeers at him. "You are all the same, yet you would cast stones first."

Indignation makes Jon's head snap towards the prisoner. Ghost growls. "Have a care with that tongue of yours, Lannister," he says, in as cold a voice as he can manage.

"She is as mad as her father, you stupid boy. He wanted nothing more than to burn everything to the ground. Can't you see it in her eyes, the same madness?" The warning lodged itself uncomfortably within Jon's chest, spearing him through.

He thinks of the red witch and the burnings.

"At the very least make your father proud." And now Jon is unsure of whom Jaime Lannister speaks.

vi

Myrcella looks at him with watery eyes. There is a question in her gaze that Jon does not know how to answer. He hands her a thick cloak and turns away, leaves the chamber and hurries down the stairs to where he knows he is needed.

After all, he has made sure the girl yet lives.

What more can he do for her given the current circumstances?

But this is so very strange. Jon closes his eyes and tried to shake away the feeling of discontentment that presses upon his shoulders.

There is not much more to endure. Or so he tells himself.

And then the memory returns, the memory of a golden knight and broken promises.

He walks away.

vii

"What use would it serve to burn her?" Aegon argues. "She is just a bastard. No more a threat than her so called uncle." It is sound enough. But the woman's face sours. "Jon, is it not so?"

"I cannot take part," he reminds the two of them. At this particular moment. he stops to wonder if it is less reprehensible to know someone's fate and not try to save them, than it would be to actively push that person to such an ill fortune.

Yet broken vows have never yielded positive results. Thus he mustn't break his own anymore than they have already been.

viii

The fever sets in on the fifth day. Sam shrugs helplessly as he grounds the poppy seeds. "It is up to the gods. The wound was deep." And it has also been bound.

Aegon is the cord that holds them all tenuously together. If he dies, Jon fears much for the many lord gathered behind the Wall.

Westeros needs a strong, sound leader.

"Find a way to save him then," he insists, clapping Sam's shoulder encouragingly. |I have the utmost faith in you."

"I shall do my best, my lord." The maester continues with his work afterwards, as Jon finds another scroll to look upon.

ix

Daenerys finds him down, among the shadows. "It is too cold here," she tells him, her whole frame shivering. Accommodating must be difficult. Or mayhap 'tis the fact that this winter is like no other. On the cusp of the long night, all must seem more than it truly is; the darkness is darker and the cold colder. All reaches monstrous proportions.

Human ambition bears no exception to this rule. "Set her free, Your Grace. We need as many hands as are available. If you do not wish her within your sight, let her work with Maester Samwell."

"And have her charm him into aiding in an escape?" she laughs, looking young and incredibly beautiful in the dancing torchlight. "I shan't."

x

The knight burns. Jon cannot see Myrcella anywhere, but he has little doubt that she too bears witness to this barbarity. He resists the urge to move away from the terrible sight and sounds. This is custom, as it was with Stannis Baratheon.

A burning desire to see it all turned to ash; he wonders if that is what motivates his aunt.

Who will check her when Aegon is no longer of this world, Jon wonders. Already his decline has led to this. Jaime Lannister is devoured by flames and for the very first time, Jon's horror is entwined with a sliver of satisfaction.

This frightens him.

xi

It's pity. Jon cannot think of anything else it could be. But she is huddled in a corner, her eyes red and her hair tangled, the scar running along her cheek livid and this stirs him. He enters the chamber and pulls her to her feet.

"Come along," he orders, feeling her fingers clench, instinctively, around his hand. She hurries along after him and doesn't make a sound.

What a strange thing. He has watched her uncle, or father, based on whom Jon would choose to believe, and now he feels a responsibility towards her.

"You are to help Maester Samwell with his scrolls," he says, more to break the silence than anything else.

Her fingers unclench slowly, as if ice is breaking beneath a weight of some sort.

xii

Drogon is flying in the grey skies above them. Myrcella presses so close to him that Jon thinks she might as well melt into him. A scared little child, that is what she is. And he understands.

But this is not the time, nor the place to soothe those fears. Jon hurries both of them along and wonders where Viserion has gone off to. He looks up towards the pitch black dragon and a shiver creeps down his spine.

Then it is time to advance.

Jon leads the young woman down the stairs and takes her to Sam. The maester looks up from his work at the two of them.

"I leave her in your care," he tells his friend.

xiii

Daenerys takes hold o his hand and presses her forehead into his shoulder, her skin exceedingly warm. "I cannot believe that he would die just like that." There is something about the way in which she mourns, something that leaves Jon cold.

His eyes linger on the body. They should burn it soon.

"My brother believed that he was the prince that was promised." Her words startle him. The Lord Commander drags his gaze away from Aegon.

"Mayhap he was right," he allows with a shrug. Not because he does not care, but rather because Jon has long since believed salvation impossible.

"What does one do when the hero is dead?" the Queen questions.

"Find a new hero."

She smiles.

xiv

They burn Aegon upon a great pyre. It is none of the dragons that sets the flame. That would only serve to tear the Wall itself down and then, there will be no defences whatsoever. There are no tears, of course. It serves naught to cry for the dead. They cannot feel or hear or know.

They are without a drop of life.

Jon looks at the sea of people. Has Aegon never reached the Wall, they might have well killed him in Essos or Dorne or any other place. Or mayhap not, of course.

There might have not been even the hope of a hero.

xv

Myrcella catches on to his sleeve and pulls him into the shadows, just around the corner. "My lord, I should like to offer my thanks. Maester Samwell is kind to me." Sam in kind to everyone. Jon pulls his hand arm away gently. "I truly mean it."

"See that you complete your tasks and no ill shall befall you," he responds. Of course Jon does not know whether that is the truth of it or not. The Queen might well decide to rid the realm of this bastard as well.

"I shall," the little lioness promises. There is no smile upon her face and no sign that she is sincere, but the fact that she speaks to him as she does.

Jon never thought he would see the day a lady of high rank would act thusly towards him.

xvi

The red priestess smiles, ruby lips stretching along the white expanse of her face. It looks a blot of crimson liquid. Jon wonders what she sees in the flames. Or rather what she thinks she sees. The only gods are the old gods. They do not forgive. They punish.

The wrath of the gods is upon them and that is what it boils down to.

"We should strike with all our force," Lady Asha Greyjoy argues. "We must strike the heart."

But where is this heart?

"That would lead to our death," a lord form the crowd argues.

"I would ensure our victory."

The Queen holds her hand up and silence befalls them all. "We shall do as I say, my lords and ladies."

xvii

Sam blinks up at him and dries his hands upon his breeches. "She is a hard worker, but I suspect she hasn't much of a choice in this matter." He tells Jon that Myrcella is of help. "Her Valyrian is good. And it gives me time to work on the Old Tongue."

"Then I am glad to have helped." He spies the blonde as she makes her way out one of the smaller chambers and sees that her arms are full of scrolls and parchments.

"My lord," she greets softly, green eyes luminous beyond what they should be.

The torchlight gets caught in her hair. The warm light softens her features.

Jon takes a moment more to gaze upon the lovely visage and then goes on his way.

xviii

"You have disregarded my wishes," Daenerys says. Her pretty face is cast in a thunderous visage that openly shows her dissatisfaction. "I should have you whipped for it. I am your Queen."

"The Watch does not take part, Your Grace," Jon reminds her. "And the Wall follows the laws of the Wall and no others." His calm manner seems to further anger her. He does not budge, however.

If she will allow her feelings to rule her then her reign shall be short and brutal.

"Do not force my hand, Lord Commander. You fight and I rule. This is how our realm functions." Her back straightens.

xix

Satin hands him Longclaw. "My lord, mayhap you should look closer to what is going on within the ranks of our men." Jon looks at the boy with roused interest. "Apologies for speaking out of turn," the young man says.

"No false modesty, Satin." He can barely stomach the lords that do it. His own men acting thusly is unthinkable. "Say what you will."

"The nobility is dissatisfied. There is talk of revolt." The black cloak is handed to Jon.

"There is always talk of revolt." The nobles are never without some issue that has them disgruntled. It is simply the nature of it, is all.

xx

"You will returns, won't you?" Myrcella asks, a sort of desperation clinging to her.

Jon has a moment of hesitation. Promises made to women never end well, not for him at any rate. But what is another lie added to the very many he has spoken up until this point?

"I shall." And if he does not, there is the comfort of knowing in the back of his mind, when he meets his end, that someone somewhere cares.

She places something in his hand, bites her lower lip and gives a slow nod.

He sends her of her way, reminding her that Sam might well need her aid.