Jon

Sansa had been gone for all of five minutes before Jon's words finally caught up to him, and the realization caused him to stop as if he'd walked into a wall.

Fuckin' hell. Leannan?! Of all the words, you called her 'lover?!' The last thing she needs is another man seemingly lusting for her, let alone me!

He ignored the part of his mind that told him it wasn't lust.

Jon bemoaned it for several moments (that was a lie; he spent hours pouring over the words) before forcefully shoving it from his mind, after which he turned on his heel and set off in a stride to find who had once been his unofficial hand. He had a task in mind for the old smuggler that would come in handy should it succeed, and no one at his disposal save Davos himself could do it-

Actually, there was the Red Woman.

Jon's face soured at the thought of the R'hollor worshiper, and his hand moved unconsciously to the scars above his heart. It was far to easy, he noted, to compare the way he felt now and the way he had felt before his resurrections. Last time, he'd been resurrected by Melisandre's god, which had left him feeling dark and numb and wrong, and apparently addled in the mind and lacking for wits, seeing as his actions in his old life suggested so.

So long as he lived, he would never let himself forget the fact that he disregarded the fact that Winterfell had walls.

And he placed the gods-damned siege weaponry outside of them.

Fuckin' R'Holler.

Pacing down the halls of Castle Black, his faithful Ghost at his side, Jon eventually came to the room Ser Davos had taken to calling his during Stannis stay. At the thought of the Baratheon King, Jon found his mind straying from the man himself to his daughter-

Who was burned alive.

Rage.

Unlike when he had first been told of the Lady Shireen's death, Jon now felt the ever-increasing need to find the Red Lady and throw her off the Wall.

Maybe he would. Sansa might like it.

Shoving those thoughts aside, Jon rapped thrice on the doors to Davos' chambers, and waited. Sure enough, the Onion Knight opened it half a minute later. "Lord Commander," he greeted, and Jon snorted. "Lord Commander no longer, Ser Davos, but I do need to request a task of you."

"What d'you need of me, lad?"

Jon stayed silent for a moment, before walking over to the window and gazing outside, looking to the gate. "Stannis' ships are still anchored at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."

Davos blinked at that. "Surely not, the sellswords would have sailed them away by now!" Jon shook his head. "I have it on good authority that the sellswords never made it back." And it was the truth; before departing for beyond the wall, he had journeyed to Eastwatch during a then-routine maintenance patrol, only to find the ships in a small natural harbor not too far away, but the men dead from the Winter snows. The sellswords, he had learned from Sansa upon reuniting again, had died trekking through the North attempting to get to Eastwatch. "I need you to make haste east and claim those ships. Can you do that?"

The older man looked apprehensive, so Jon explained further. "Second only to Stannis himself, you were the Baratheon's naval master. They listened to you, and with Stannis and all his Lords and knights dead, it is to you that their command falls under."

Davos pursed his lips, frowning in concentration. "Aye, I suppose your right." He sighed, but nodded to Jon. "I'll do it, lad. Is there anything else? What should I do once I get those ships?"

"Sail them down to White Harbour," Jon ordered, "and present them to the Manderlys as a gift from House Stark. Remind them that the Starks have endured for eight thousand years and will endure for eight thousand more."

"Aye, I'll do that then. When do I leave?"

"As soon as you can, Ser Davos." The man nodded, and Jon turned to leave, but faltered for a moment before turning back. "And, should they refuse to send aid, mention the Greystarks. They will know of what I speak."

Then he turned and left.

I have a Red Woman to find.

He found her atop the Wall, staring out into the Lands of Always Winter. She wore nothing but her usual red garbs and that pulsating red ruby on her necklace, that thing that held back whatever forces pursued death. Melisandre didn't react as he exited the lift and stomped over to her, only sparing a glance. "Azhor Ahai, the Prince that was Promised. I believed it would be Stannis who would lead through the Long Night wrought by the Great Other, but now…" she trailed off, staring at him fully now, an unreadable expression on her face. "The Lord of Light has shown me my error, has guided me to you, Jon Snow. There can be no other reason-"

"Spare me your foreign religion, losgaidh," Jon spat. "I have no wish for it. Were I a lesser man, I would throw you off the Wall for your crimes, but much as I loath to admit it, your Lord of Light probably needs you to face the coming Winter, and you need to be alive for that."

The mysterious smile on Melisandre's lips fell from it, and her face became slightly colder. "The Lord of Light brought you back to life. How could you not wish to know more of him?"

The former King in the North snorted at that. "Aye, he brought me back to life… once. This time, though? It was not your god who resurrected me, but my gods who did. Aye, R'Holler may give you power, but this is the North. These are Northern lands, good lands. Our gods live here. Not the Seven. Not R'Holler."

Having had enough of the Red Woman, Jon turned away and started back towards the lift. "You would do well to remember that, Lady Melisandre, just as you would do well to remember the name of Shireen Baratheon. You owe her that, at least, for burning her alive."

Ignoring the flash of shock that flitted across her face, Jon left her alone in the snow.

Upon descending from the wall, Jon made the decision to go check the rookery for new messages. Over the course of several days, many of the smaller Northern Houses saw fit to declare for them (Sansa, because she was the Stark of Winterfell, not him, never him), but no word had arrived from the Skagosi or the Mountain Clans.

Jon hoped today would be different in that regard.

As if the gods were listening to him, the ravens that he and Sansa had sent to the Wolfswood Mountains and Skagosi were waiting for him on their perches, and Jon let out a sigh of relief. Gently untying the message from the Skagosi raven, Jon unraveled it, and was somewhat surprised to find the message written in the Runic language of the Old Tongue.

" ᛟᚢᚱ ᛊᚹᛟᚱᛞᛊ ᚨᚱᛖ ᛁᛟᚢᚱᛊ, ᛚᚨᛊᛏ ᚺᛖᚱᛟ," it read.

Our swords are yours, Last Hero.

He… didn't know what to make of it. Quite obviously, the Skagosi were pledging support, but the bit about the Last Hero?

Jon knew enough of prophecies and folklore to know who the Last Hero was supposed to be, and he still remembered the words uttered to him upon his awakening. He also knew enough of prophecy to know that those who heeded its words were foolish, like the man who sired him, may the gods damn his soul.

Gods, will I never escape the words of Prophecy?

Placing the parchment aside, Jon reached for the other message from the Mountain Clans, and was pleased to see that it was less cryptic than the Skagosi one.

We remember the good times, when the Starks ruled these lands, when The Ned was the Stark in Winterfell. We of the mountains have not forgotten where our loyalties lie. We march on the Queenscrown, under the banners of the Direwolf. Lead us, Àrd Bhanrigh."

Ever faithful,

The Magnars of the Mountain

Jon grinned.

Placing both rolls of parchment in the folds of his cloak, Jon left the rookery. Exiting the tower, he once again turned to the gate, just in time to witness Sansa's return as she guided her steed through the open gates, looking as radiant as the day she was crowned Queen.

...

Jon made a silent vow to the gods, then, that he would see Sansa seated on her rightful throne, no matter the cost.

He swore it on earth and water.

He swore it with bronze and iron.

He swore it by Ice and Fire.

"Losgaidh." (Burner)