The man in black walked towards the tower. Reports from all over the land had been coming in and none of it looked good. The only reason the watch was interested was because the tower was near them, or so they told him. The man walked up to the tower. It didn't look like it belonged, with the grass hills and the pine in front of him and the wall and the endless snow behind. The tower belonged in the middle of a lake, surrounded by fog, like in the stories he would listen too with Bran. He gripped his sword and sheathed it. This wasn't right. Why would they send him here? It was just so… deserted. You couldn't run anywhere and there wasn't a building in sight, save for the wall; but that was thousands of feet away! So, the raven-haired man continued to walk to the tower. Nothing moved, and you couldn't hear anything but the soft pat of his feet against the dewy grass. 'That's odd', he thought, 'it's not the mornin' no more'. But he did not stop, and the world was still quiet. Then it was broken. The man turned around to his horse that had whinnied and ran away. He couldn't leave now even if he wanted to. He could only hope that his horse got back to his brothers and they would look for him. And then, the world was quiet again. He turned around, and continued to walk, sword in hand to the tower.
He was a looker; girls swooning all over him, until they found out he was a bastard. Any man could tell he was from the north, with the traditional northern look; hair that shamed the wings of a raven, pale skin that was covered in scars from battles, and cold, grey eyes that betrayed nothing to what he was thinking. Yes, he was a bastard, but a high born one, and was often shunned for his father's mistake. His father's betrayal to his wife to a common whore, but whoever she was, he did not look like her. He was northern throughout.
He reached out and slowly pushed open the door, but found that he needed to put all his weight behind it to push it open. The door was stiff and heavy; it could withstand many an arrow. He took a look into the darkness of the tower. He shouldn't be here, but the commander asked it of him, and his horse was gone. If he tried to leave now, he would be captured and beheaded as a deserter. He had no choice, and so he stepped into the dark abyss. He really should've thought this through, 'huh', he thought. 'I really do know nothing'. Thinking that thought made him think of red hair, kissed by fire. But she was beyond the wall, and he betrayed her. He wouldn't ever see her again. He silently cursed himself, 'don't think these thoughts, Snow, she's gone and you have to move on'.
He was standing in the middle of the tower. It was dark, and clouds were forming in the sky. He really should've seen it coming. It was right there, staring him in the face. He was just too stupid to see it.
The arrow went through his shoulder. He gave a grunt of pain, but the next attack had already started. The sword seemed to come from nowhere, and he barely had time to bring his up to meet it, bit another was at his back. He thrust his sword into its face, and swung around to meet the next blow, but he could feel another to his left, and put his sword through its stomach. He immediately drew out and slashed another's skin. He turned and met another's blade; the loud clash of the sword seemed loud enough to reach Winterfell. It made his ears ring, and his slight hesitation was met with a dagger to his side. He groaned in pain, and slashed its throat. He landed another blow on another's torso, and it was then that he realised how wet he was. He liked his lips, and was met with the familiar tang of sweat, and the bitterness of blood. Another arrow landed in his thigh, and he fell to his knees, and slashed out at their legs. Longclaw was sharp, and he heard the screams of men and their bodies falling to the ground. A sword met his back, and he fell to the ground. His sword was still gripped in his hand, and he reached to par another's blow away, but the force was too much, and Longclaw was thrown from his grip. He tried to reach for it, but another arrow went through his back and hit his shoulder blade, smashing the bone and lodging itself into him. He had never felt so much pain. He expected more blows to come, but was met with the voice of a woman, and as she told the people attacking him to stop, a man with a torch came in. It was then that he could see how wet with blood he was. He was covered with it from head to toe. He could see the arrow head that had come out from the other side. It went through his muscle, and it fucking hurt. And it was red. There was just red everywhere. He had never felt so sick of the colour in his life, and seeing the woman was only making it worse. She had red hair, she wore red clothes, her lips were red, and her bare feet were splashing in blood. Their blood. His blood.
She bent down to look him in the eye. She reached out her hand and touched his face.
"Who are you?" he asked, and smiled at him with her perfect teeth and her bloody lips.
"That is none of your matter. You are here, because you have something that I want." her voice sounded like honey, it was smooth and looked sweet, but he was no fool.
"What do you want?" he wanted to grimace at how cliché he sounded, but he would not show weakness to this woman, to the lady in red. But she just smiled and threw her head back and laughed, and when she stopped, she looked at him in the eyes. The torch made them look like glistening red rubies.
"You know nothing, Jon Snow"
She started mumbling, and a pain so unreal surged through his body. It took up his entire existence. He had never felt so much pain. But he would soon realise that he, truly, knew nothing.