Jon Snow
"North!"
"North!"
"Look North, boy!"
His eyes snapped open and he sat up with a cry and a gasp, the gasp carried on and turned into a fit of heaving and coughing as the voice rang like a bell in and around his head. The voices drowned out the sound of his dry coughs and left him dazed and confused.
"North! Look North! North!"
They continued on and on, unchanging in either volume or subject. He groaned in pain and covered his ears, finding that that did not help in the slightest bit. It wanted him to look North, Jon knew, so he looked and found a new predicament that he had not been seeking.
I'm not in my room, he realized and the deafening echoes stopped as suddenly as they had begun. The bizarre and slightly unsettling voice having gone away, he turned his attention back to his surroundings. Gone was Winterfell, with its high walls and guards, maids and cooks, stone towers and warm chambers and in its stead was white. Above a large, vast field covered by snow was a great dome of fog and mist. So thick was the fog that he could scarcely see twenty paces ahead of him and so thick was the snow that it failed to crack under his weight.
This was the North, Jon was sure of that. Only this far north could snowfall be so thick yet he was unsure over the fog. He had never encountered nor heard of such dense mist combing through the North. Occasionally, when he awoke earlier than his siblings and wandered the castle walls, he would bear witness to mist drifting off the treetops of the Wolfswood. Yet, that always occurred before the sun had risen high in the sky.
Spinning, Jon gazed intently towards his visible horizon, seeking anything of note in this winter hell that Jon was sure to be one of the seven hells Septa Mordane was always preaching about. Was that how he had arrived here, he pondered, had he died and been sent to a wintery hell reserved only for Northron bastards. Though if it was hell, it made for a poor one as Jon could not feel the cold, something he found exceedingly queer given that he was missing his cloak. And my weapons, he noticed with furrowed brows.
Lost in thought, he almost missed the faint yellow and orange shape that had made its home not far from where he stood but still obscured by drifting tendrils of mist. Walking over, he found it unsettling to leave no footprints in the snow but he ignored it and fixed his attention back to the coloured shape. He recognized it as a daffodil immediately as they grew in Winterfell's glass gardens. Its stem jutted out from the frozen snow and the yellow petals surrounded the orange center, making it seem as though the petals had been assailants that had finally caught up with their victim. It had already bloomed although the how of it was unanswered for it was the dead of winter here.
Similar to how he'd gotten here was unanswered as well.
Racking his mind, he recalled riding back to Winterfell. They had ridden out to execute a deserter from the Night's Watch and Bran had come along for the first time. Riding back to the castle, Robb and him had raced ahead and found a litter of direwolves in the snow and Jon had convinced his Lord Father to accept the newborn pups. He could recall riding back to the keep and passing through the Hunters Gate to bypass Winter Town. Closing his eyes now, he desperately searched his mind for what happened afterwards. Yet. all he could remember was riding past the kennels into the courtyards, a light snow flurrying and his cloak billowing softly behind him.
Had he been kidnapped? Yet that did not explain his lapse in memory furthermore if he had been, where were his captors? Surely they would not have left him alone with no cloak in what seemed to be winter conditions. If he had been taken from Winterfell, had they hurt someone else in their endeavour? Were Robb, Arya, Bran, and the others well? Had his father sent riders to search for him? Why am I here? Where are my captors, surely they wouldn't have just left me? Is everyone else safe? Why was I taken? I'm only a bastard.
Surely, he wasn't taken from Winterfell itself -If I was taken, he repeated- yet that was the last thing he could recall.
For a brief, fleeting moment, he wondered whether the Lady Stark had a role in his plight but he brushed the idea aside as soon as he had conjured it had shared the same castle for fourteen years and not once had she punished him. All his punishments and discipline he had received from Old Nan or a nurse maid. Lady Stark had never been overly cruel either, only neglectful. She hadn't had a role in this if only for the sake of his father, he rationalized.
The shrill screech, however, he couldn't rationalize. High, inhuman, and deafening it was, like cracking ice, it drove Jon to his knees and forced his hands back over his ears, making the boy wince in pain and causing goose bumps to appear. It went on for minutes - seconds, rather - before it simply ended, as unannounced as it had begun. Jon took his hands away cautiously, body tense with fear of the shriek continuing or worse the beast that had cast it, coming his way. Only a monster could cry out like that, he thought, his fear pressing down on him from each side.
He stood up stiffly, eyes raking each direction, trying to spot whether or not the monster was coming. Not that it would have made any difference. His line of sight extended to just twenty paces in each direction and a monster with the ability to screech like that would surely be too quick, large, and … monstrous … to outrun even if he had been afforded a league of distance. Which he had not been. Yet despite the monster having been thankfully silenced, a deep foreboding feeling washed over Jon, telling him it was time to leave. Yet it dawned on him the moment he turned, a fact that caused the boy to swear quietly and set him looking over his shoulders.
Jon didn't know which way to go.
Each direction he looked was the same, vast and barren, the only color being the white of the snow and the gray of the fog. Even the daffodil had disappeared, gone alongside wind, swallowed up by the boundless fog and the frozen snow. There was no knowing which was North or South, West or East. The sky and stars were swallowed by the gray gloom, the Sun and the Moon following suit. Truth be told, he couldn't even make out whether it was day or night, it simply looked unlike either. He glanced in every direction, desperately hoping for anything of significance and received a faint sound of wings flapping.
Flapping wings?, Jon thought bemusedly, twisting his head to search for a winged creature. He glanced each direction again before looking up to see an black feathered bird fluttering above him, mayhaps thirty feet high and largely obscured by the fog. The bird looked scruffy even from a distance but also huge, with long, black wings allowing it to descend slowly in a spiral trail towards him. The lower it descended, he realized it was a raven. He recognized its beak and its wedge-shaped tail from his studies with Maester Luwin.
Jon creased his brows, puzzled as to what a bird was doing in this vast and cold expanse lacking in trees to nest on. Figuring that it would have been equivalent to the sea for any creature blessed with wings. Besides the cold should have been enough driven it south, towards Dorne and the Reach yet here it was. He followed the raven's trail downwards. It was mayhaps twenty feet above him now and free from the mist. It descended steadily. Silent as a shadowcat and just as menacing. The bird seemed to eye him and as it lowered he could make out the black, beady eyes, never blinking, seemingly the entrance to an endless pit of aged happiness and regrets. A well of memories. Beckoning him to fall in and immerse himself in a time long past.
Only the talons aimed for his eyes kept him from falling into the pit.
He jerked out of the hypnotic trance just as the raven flew in, talons extended. Jon scrambled backwards and raised both his arms to his face, to shield himself, falling flat on his back in the process. The talons had grazed past his sleeves. He hadn't been able to break his fall and the frozen snow knocked out his wind. Groaning and with plain shock written on his pale face, he peeked through his forearms, attempting to find his attacker but the stupid bird had beaten him again. It landed on his forearms, talons digging into his sleeve while flapping his wings for balance.
Fear having grasped him by his jaw, Jon froze for a blink of a moment before screaming and swinging his arms to throw the raven off. The bird's talons released its grasp on the boy's arms and fluttered over several feet backwards to land on the hard grass. Jon had turned on his stomach and pushed himself back onto his feet, ready to bolt.
"No."
He stopped before he had begun. His feet ingrained themselves to the frozen earth. One word. One simple word and he felt it. An aged and omniscient power. Deep and earthy it felt, like the roots of a weirwood tree, thousands of years old; and ever growing. Jon felt oddly at ease, he felt… safe. The power the word possessed had flowed through his body and he felt… peace and … harmony. Nothing could harm him now, he believed earnestly.
Your sleeves, a soft voice whispered to him. The boy brought his arms up and saw no talon scratches, no rips. He turned round calmly to face the raven he thought to be hostile and saw it standing still on the grass. It was observing him closely, its black beady eyes didn't move and the seemingly endless pit faced him again. Entrancing and enticing, Jon fell in.
And came back out in a moment's blink. He jolted and blinked rapidly. Trying to remember what he had seen, where he had gone. The feeling of security melted away like summer snows and dread sank back in his bones as the raven started its strut which was punctuated by several two-footed hops. It began to peck the snow, like a chicken, while muttering for corn.
While he found a raven asking for corn strange, he found his lapse in memory to be even stranger and truth be told, disturbing. The black well of memories had drawn him in and shared something. He could remember going places, many places where he hadn't had the fortune to visit before and meeting many people, some who had been very strange to him. Yet, he couldn't recall anything.
Jon found that to be queer. Truth be told, he found all of this strange. His awakening here rather than Winterfell and the vast field covered by an unyielding snow. The high and sudden screech that had left him shaking and on the floor; the raven's apparent hostility. The lapse in memory which he was sure to be the raven's work but most of all it was the damn fog he found strangest.
It felt like Old Nan's tales of the Long Night and the Age of Heroes had returned but as reality rather than a story. Robb, Theon and him had always laughed at the tales then when it had been just that, tales. They had always boasted that they would have done the heroic and honorable thing had they been there. That they would have saved the fair maiden and slain the beast, casting its soul to all seven hells. But here dread sank deep into the bones and doubt seeped into his mind. His limbs felt like stone, stiff and heavy, and the suffocating, gloomy atmosphere that threatened to swallow everything whole refused to leave.
The heroic and honorable thing to do here would be to not collapse.
The screech ripped through the air again although it was different this time. It was just as piercing and deafening as before but felt farther away and lower in volume. Jon didn't drop to the frozen ground again nor did he cover his ears but he did wince aloud and his body seemed to shake harder than before.
The raven didn't seem affected at all. It cut its strut short and cocked the small head the gods had fashioned it at the shriek. It stretched its wings and flapped over to him, causing Jon to jump out of his skin when its talons clasped his shoulder.
He swiveled his head round, struck with the bird's audacity, and received a low squawk to the face for his trouble. It then twisted his head around and faced towards the right, away from him. Jon looked past the raven with trepidation, wondering what it was that the bird had noticed.
The fog had cleared in a queer manner, he noted immediately. Before it had kept him as the center, not allowing Jon to see anything beyond twenty paces but now the fog had cleared enough to allow him to see near a long way away. But only for that side, the others remained opaque in the smoky fog.
In the far distance, which Jon believed to be farther than a league, he could see where the opening ended. The mist was curtained by an imperceptible wall, straight as an arrow, rising to the heavens. He glanced back at the raven, who sat on his shoulder, still as a corpse, peering towards the vast path. He wondered whether it could claim some responsibility. It had already taken him on a journey and taken his memories of the journey. Before Jon could brood on the matter, a sharp, bitingly cold wind came from where the fog had cleared and for the first time since he had awoken, he had need for a cloak. He squinted his eyes and peered closely at the opening, more specifically the end of it and felt his breath leave his body.
The palest of shadows had emerged, still silhouetted by the thick haze the land provided. Despite the distance, Jon could not only see but feel the magnitude of the monster. He could feel as well as see the wings that were as tall as Winterfell's inner walls. The monster's height was of such size that Jon could barely distinguish its head from the fog. Indeed the monster's head seemed to be lost in the sky, high above. The neck's length alone looked a mile long.
No, not just any monster. Its a dragon! His jaw fell open, with equal awe and terror at the size and implication.
The dragon's head lowered, sounds like that of ice breaking reached his ears as the neck coiled like a rope. Lower and lower the neck wound. A cold blast of air sent his dull brown hair whipping back and made his teeth clatter loudly. Even the raven had trouble, flapping his wings hard against the strong wind and croaking.
Eyes squinted, his body refused to move as the wind picked up and speared through his body. He raised his arms to cover his face as small debris flew into his face, stinging it in the process. He peeked through his arms, somehow still curious as to what the dragon's intention was and he saw not the monster as tall as the sky but the fog, rushing at him, tendrils slithering out towards him.
"Way. Way." The raven shrieked over the sharp wind. Jon looked towards the bird with wide and desperate eyes. The raven repeated himself several times before flapping up and flying away from the incoming fog; following the wind. Jon didn't hesitate to follow. Knowing that the bird would be trying to survive as well, just like him. He first staggered in the same direction, feeling no shame in fleeing with his tail tucked between his legs after all he was fleeing from a dragon. He soon started running as hard as he could, the snow surprisingly not slippery, remembering his father's advice to always keep moving if they were ever caught in a snowstorm.
You must be moving, always, lest your blood freeze. He remembered Theon had made some stupid joke but his Father's Lord face had silenced him quickly enough.
The wind whistled in his ears as he ran, following the raven who stayed back enough for Jon to see his wedge-shaped tail. Every now and then the raven would cry out but the wind swallowed the words just like the mist threatened to swallow him. He ran harder and harder. Legs burning at the exertion and lungs heaving hard and sweat running cold on his skin. He did not dare look back for fear that the smoky vines would overtake him or worse the dragon would be on the chase.
And to make matters worse, the dragon screeched once more. His skin crawled and his entire body sagged from both dismay and fatigue. Yet strangely, the frozen snow had given ground to green grass. It was slippery and wet with dew, causing Jon to slip and fall hard to the ground. The boy crashed hard with his knees but his hands came up to stop the same fate from occurring to his face. The once frozen snow was now muddy and his clothes were splashed with it. His hands stung from the impact and his knees flared with pain.
Jon tried to stumble to his feet and keep on running but his feet slipped in the mud and he landed on his knees again. Bringing a cry from him. He had run a great distance and his lungs agreed along with his legs. Heaving and coughing, eyes dazed, he sat upon the soil that was wet with dew and rain and faced the way he had come. His eyes glanced up. Ready to see certain doom.
Instead, he found trees.
No. A forest. He thought, eyes raking over the firs, black briers, and soldier pines. He rose to his feet quickly, doubting that he had outrun his unnatural pursuers and looked all around. The forest was dark, the sky held little light, making Jon believe it to be dusk. The canopy was an overgrown mass of branches from what seemed to be dozens of trees. They had spread and intertwined like vines and moss would on stone. Through the gaps he could see a bruised sky, free of clouds.
Damp, rotting leaves littered the forest floor, giving off a rich, earthy aroma. The scent was intoxicating and Jon took huge gasps, finding that it was refreshing. Gnarly roots from all trees had creeped through the ground, some were thick others not so much. He spotted a sentinel, its thick trunk sticky with sweet sap and near it a specially bulbous and knotted tree.
Jon steadied himself on a tree with a hard, black bark. Gazing past the trees, he sought any signs of smoky gray vines yet found none. His relief was almost palpable and his breaths steadied as did his legs. He gazed at his new surroundings and believed them to be sultry and oppressive though Jon could not tell. The atmosphere did not affect him yet that did not stop his body from sweating profusely. Sweat made his clothes cling to his back and had him feeling sticky and unclean although he believed the latter feeling to be mostly the fault of the mud his clothes were splattered in. He turned his attention to the tree he was grasping and peered at it closer, realizing startlingly that it was an ironwood.
Confusion ran through his mind as exhaustion slowly filtered out. Ironwood shields, doors, hafts and so on could be found from Oldtown to King's Landing and all over the Free Cities of Essos. Yet, ironwoods only grew in the North, making it a valuable export for Northmen. Seeing the ironwood confirmed to him that it was indeed the North. He looked away, all thoughts of dragons and endless, drifting mist forgotten, and back at the forest, gazing much more closely at the trees. He walked around, looking at all kinds of trees. Evergreens, sentinels, oaks, chestnuts and hawthornes. He touched roots as old as Westeros, forded a stream overflowing from a recent rain, and even heard a wolf howling in the distance.
It was the Wolfswood.
He let a laugh spill from his lips and breathed out in even more relief. It was the Wolfswood, filled with hunters and crofters and many of his Father's bannermen. It was the Wolfswood, large and wild, difficult to travel through alone for most men let alone a boy. It was the Wolfswood, teeming with bears and wolves and thieves, he thought as his smile drooped and he huffed, irritated greatly by his dilemma.
He trudged back towards the stream he had forded, reasoning to following its path. Streams meant freshwater and freshwater attracted smallfolk. Smallfolk means brigands and bandits, a voice cautioned, but Jon pushed aside those thoughts. Northmen were honest and plain, they lived straightforward lives and would rather reveal their thoughts on you rather than put on a false smile. Aside from that, the North had few bandits and brigands; his Lord Father and his staunch bannermen saw to that.
Reaching the stream, he slipped slightly on the muddy bank yet he paid it no mind as his eyes were struck with the sight of the stream, bone-dry.
Jon stepped closer, wiggling his boot free with little effort. He crouched down, the now inky black sky making it an arduous task to see well but still the mudcracks were visible. Wide and deep they cut criss cross through the bed but the banks had remained muddy. Jon was sure that this was the same stream. Although, last he had passed, the current washed up to his hips and that had been at a shallow point. Here, the current would have undoubtedly ran above his shoulders, had there been a current of course.
A sudden gust of cold air swept over his face, stinging his eyes and reminding him of the dragon and the boundless fog. He rose from his crouched position, wondering whether he would have to escape from mist and a dragon again. Blood rushed to his knees then and they were both engulfed in a queer pain. The boy shook it off and stared towards the wind, his eyes blinking hard.
On a small ascent, he bore witness to a queer sight that one would commonly not call abnormal. There stood what appeared to be a great stag with equally great antlers but with too short a body and even stranger, shorter hind legs. It had too short a body to match such great antlers but Jon brushed it aside to the light. The Wolfswood had grown dark and he was only guessing by its silhouette.
The harsh wind eased without warning and his hair fell into his eyes. He shook his head and brushed his long hair back. It was longer than he remembered it to be. Falling down to his shoulders and almost touching his collarbone rather than resting just below his ears as it should have.
Having tamed his hair, he turned his attention back to the queer stag, still standing still. It unnerved Jon, and the boy inside him considered backing away while his wits told him to also back off but out of precaution rather than fear. Stags were wild animals and they could become very aggressive. If it decided to give chase, Jon would not be able to escape, his best option would be to climb a tall tree and wait.
Before he could slowly back off, the stag's hind legs turned and walked away.
Jon blinked hard, not understanding what had occurred up there, convinced the dim lights were playing tricks on his eyes. Rustling sounds behind him drew his eyes away. Turning he saw trees bending and twisting away from each other, seemingly repulsed and repelled from their neighbors. Bushes violently shook and branches rattled and smashed against one another. Roots slithered across the ground like snakes and leaves were blown away by gusts of strong wind. A trail had opened, the forest having been parted like drapes down the middle and at the end and a hundred paces from him, stood a large raven, shrieking for corn.
Eyes wide as saucers and mouth gaping, Jon stood there like a fool. The raven squawked, "Way. Way", loud enough for Jon to hear even from his distance. The words filled him with comfort, odd as it may seem, Jon trusted the raven. It had led him to the forest, away from the monster and the mist. It had clearly helped him before, why not now?
He turned back, towards the ascent where the stag had stood, still curious over its intent. Wondering if the hind legs had truly walked away, separate from the remaining body or if it had simply been his eyes fooling him.
The beast was gone. The slight incline it rested on now only held wet leaves and moist soil. He faced away and gave it not much thought. All animals roamed the forest, he thought, and the stag had just been interested. Perhaps it had never encountered a man before. It was a plausible idea, the Wolfswood covered a vast space across the North and the North had never been very populated. Although that did not explain the apparition with the hind legs.
He walked down the path, observing the trees as he did. They were pulled back and taut, he saw. Like a slingshot, drawn and ready to be released and these trees were straining to be freed. It appeared as though a massive hand was holding them apart, a hand he could neither feel nor see.
Crack!
His head whipped back round, looking for the cause of the commotion. An oak had broken free from the spell. Branches swayed back and forth wildly as the trunk settled back down. It seemed as though a dam had broken as the forest began to break free from the spell. Slowly at first, with the trees awaiting their turn patiently, one by one it seemed before slowly gathering pace. Leaves came flying back and roots shot back to their homes like whips. The branches cracked through the air like a whip, attempting to punish the air before falling still once more.
Jon gathered pace as well, slowly at first as the trees had done before truly breaking into a sprint. Leaves and twigs struck his face and roots twisted round his feet. They threatened to take him to the ground but he rushed through, ducking wild branches and jumping over grasping roots. His fear of being engulfed by the forest grew steadily and only settled when he saw the raven not five paces away from where he was. Jon lunged in panic despite common sense telling him that it would only pain his hands and knees.
He landed hard and his hands and knees flared with pain just as he knew it would but he cared naught. He was free from the twisted Wolfswood which had changed so much since he had last passed under its branches. Shoving himself to his feet, he glanced back, ready to flee once more if the danger had not passed. But the trees were still and peaceful again. They appeared undisturbed as though they hadn't been clashing and battering one another just moments ago. The raven flapped down to his shoulder and this time he did not startle. Indeed, the weight of the bird felt comforting and when it decided to peck at him, he felt affection rather than pain.
Satisfied that the forest had calmed itself, he turned his back on it, not wishing to venture in there again any time soon and laid sight upon Winterfell. Ancient and strong it loomed half a mile away and appeared illuminated by a glow that shone strange and eerie. Facing the castle, his home, Jon did not feel anything glad. Yet, he should have. This was his home and he would soon see his family again but This Winterfell felt … different somehow. Instead of feeling relief and joy, he felt … apprehension … mayhaps. He could not identify the emotion running through him though it set his nerves on edge and raised the hair on the back of his neck.
The raven nipped at his ear, as though beckoning him to go on, go home. Indeed, it felt as though the castle was inviting him in, Jon could feel the pull inside his mind. He knew it to be wrong and dark but he couldn't back away, no matter how much he wished to. Left with no choice, Jon put his foot forward and headed up to the gate. His legs shook and his heart raced, he felt as though he was marching into a battle. A battle he could not win.
The outer walls loomed, eighty feet high and strong as ever. The guard turrets stood abandoned and the Hunter's Gate was left opened. He crossed through, sweat ran down his brows and back, caused by the emotion that he couldn't name. A courtyard opened up before him and the ground was muddy, likely from the rain, he thought as he stepped over numerous puddles. He kept his pace slow, allowing his eyes to observe everything. The kennels came next, they were silent and the gates were swung open. The night sky disallowed Jon the chance to see inside but he guessed by its silence that it was as abandoned as the turrets.
The moat came next and there the drawbridge had been let down as the chains had been cut loose and tossed around. The moat was still intact and filled with water. Mist drifted off the surface as he passed, revealing black water.
Now he quickened his pace, passing the empty inner walls and raised portcullis he found the kitchens to be cold. He entered them, searching for signs of life, a burning hearth, boiling pots, the sweet scent of lemon cakes. But he was met with the revolting stench of decay. Seeing nothing of use, Jon left, feeling a small joy at leaving the desolate kitchens behind.
The courtyard was empty as he walked across, headed to the Guest House. A shrill shriek of laughter stopped him. It came from behind him and turning, he saw the Great Hall, blazing with light, it's great doors opened as a gaggle of women came out. They were leaning on one another and it was clear as day that they were drunk. They walked off slowly, still laughing shrilly, towards the Great Keep. Jon frowned at the women's state, wondering how his Father had allowed them to act in such a way.
Frowning deeply, he walked across the courtyard and under the bridge that connected the Great Keep to the inner wall. Reaching the wide doors made of oak and iron, he peered inside and saw a grey feast. Every hearth in the hall was burning, bigger and brighter than he had ever seen them to be. Smoke rose from them, making it incredibly hazy; indeed, the haze covered the dais and the rafters, not allowing Jon a glimpse at his family. His eyes stung and watered at the excess smoke the hearths provided but he blinked them away and his eyes adjusted.
Eyes clear, he moved down the center aisle, four long trestle tables to each his side. It was enough to seat five hundred yet as Jon gazed around he felt as though there were more than five hundred people. Most of the faces he observed were unfamiliar but he saw many who were. First was Ser Rodrik, his whiskers noticeably shorter, his clothes were splattered with blood and he was missing his right arm. Maester Luwin was next, hurrying past a serving wench, he had a large red stain at the back of his robes and another smaller one above his heart. Then Jory was there and so was Fat Tom and Old Nan and Alyn, Beth, Gage, Mikken and on it went. They all had scars and old, red stains. Raucous laughter drew his attention. At a table near the raised platform, men were howling with laughter while a man, bearded, grey-eyed, and with a bruised neck regaled upon them a tall story.
Jon's head was in a daze and it was not because of the smoke. As he neared the dais, the smoke lifted and instead moved further upwards and back. There was another table above the dais and now that table was obscured. Yet his escalating confusion was quickly supplanted by sheer horror. At the Lord's seat sat his Lord Father, Eddard Stark. He knew it was him because his head was there, sitting on his lap. Long faced and with a beard shot with grey, there was no denying that it was his Lord Father. Jon was horrified and looked away, not wanting to see his Father in such a way. To his Father's left sat Lady Stark, her face clawed at by what Jon thought were nails and her throat was slit, adding to Jon's horror. A wolf-headed man sat to his Father's right and Jon quickly recognized him to be Robb. Although how he knew it to be so, he hadn't the faintest idea.
It felt like a blow to his gut, to see them dead. Jon staggered back, eyes moving from one chair to another, fearing to see Arya, Bran, Sansa, and baby Rickon up there with no heads or gruesome wounds. Instead he saw another horrific spectacle, a man dressed head to toe in roasted armor with golden spurs. Skin had merged with iron and the wounded flesh had not healed and puckered red, creating a truly ghastly sight. The visor had not been spared and so Jon was gifted a look at the man's eyes and distinguished them to be grey and dignified.
A lovely woman flitted down from the dais above this one and stole his eyes, she had a pale dress, one not in the style of the North; her lower half was splattered with lots of blood but she did not seem to care. She moved past him and seated herself next to the man with the ugly bruised neck. Grabbing his goblet, she downed it one and laughter spilled from her lovely lips when the man sputtered and glared at her. He quickly recovered however and made a jest that sent another gale of rambunctious laughter through the hall.
She wiped her lips with the back of her hand when she noticed him. Her wide smile died and her dark grey eyes filled up with tears. She did not shed them however as she gave him a sad smile, her eyes conveying the depths of her sorrow.
Sorrow.
That was it. Sorrow was what he had felt and been unable to name. This was a feast for the dead, he realized, where the ghosts of Winterfell came to rest eternally. Sorrow filled this hall as this feast was only an imitation of living. Being here was like having a thirst that could never be quenched. After so long of 'living' like this, Jon surmised that it would neither be hell nor heaven, simply an in between where only sorrow could be experienced.
Jon could feel it, the sorrow. No, he had been feeling it since he laid his eyes on this castle. It was overwhelming. Simply put, he had been here not an hour yet he wished to curl up and cry in a corner. It reminded him of whenever he had been insulted as a child, whenever he had been belittled and ignored.
He returned his own sad smile and let his eyes wander around again. This was a feast for the dead and Jon Snow was not dead yet or so he hoped. He dropped his eyes and headed to the door, desperate to get out, to leave this place. You'll be here when you die, a voice whispered, this is your fate, endless sorrow will be the reward for all your pain. He brushed those thoughts aside, gods be good, he would not return here for a long time.
The great doors slammed shut when he exited and taking with it the sorrow and seemingly Winterfell. The Winterfell he emerged to was burnt and heavily damaged. Whereas before, it had been abandoned and cold now it seemed wholly ruined. He saw the stables gone to ash, the kitchens had been upended, the Library tower was covered in soot while the Bell tower had scorch marks. The massive bell which had hung at the top had been cut and now lay in the mud, cracked and dirty. Alongside it lay a golden kraken on a black banner, although it lay in the mud alongside charred planks and rubble.
Anger coursed his veins as he walked through Winterfell, his black cloak billowing behind him, trying to find which structures had remained intact. His anger grew when he saw that almost all of Winterfell had been damaged, only the godswood being truly spared. He passed the Great Keep with its shattered windows and the armory where weapons and armor stood destroyed. The Guards Hall was much the same but further on he saw the crypts and saw them to be undefiled.
The ironwood doors had been caved in and the dark, spiralling steps stood exposed. Jon knew he had to descend down to where the Kings of Winter rested beneath their stone direwolves in their stone tombs. He had had this dream many times before, although he had never witnessed his Father's fate nor had Winterfell ever been sacked in it. However, the dream would always conclude when he descended the steps and it became too dark. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, determined to see it to the end.
He descended carefully, the steps were steep and in several places slippery and it would not do well to slip and break a bone. Darker and darker it grew as Jon descended, making him believe that he would need to find a torch soon. Feeling his resolve waver as he went, he stopped and considered his options. Fleeing would be a craven's choice, he knew but it had not felt cowardly in the Wolfswood or in the snowy field. It did not feel cowardly now but he refused and took another deep breath. His Lord Father had raised four sons not four craven, he thought. The torch would prove unnecessary it seemed as at the bottom of the steps, he could see well enough without light. The dream would not end because of the darkness this time.
Way down below it was sweltering rather than cool and Jon became uncomfortable in his black, leather clothing as he passed the statues slowly. Black, he noticed, like the Night's Watch. They eyed him it seemed, the Kings of Winter and the wolves at their knees. Now the wolves looked hungry where before they had looked noble and fierce. The Old Kings had naught else but scowls and rusted swords it seemed. They judged him with cold eyes, making him feel unwelcome. He parted through a cobweb and heard rats scuttering round and even cursed when one ran by his foot but his focus remained on the statues. He observed them, ready to flee if he saw anything more than judgement.
Aunt Lyanna was the last statue and by the time he reached her he was forcibly breathing, so great was his fear then. Jon looked at her, as she had been a lady, she did not have a stone direwolf to sit beside and guard her nor an iron sword to keep her spirit in her tomb. But he was far more curious about her eyes, were they judging him just as every other pair of eyes seemed to do down here. Yet rather than condemning him, her eyes were shedding tears, wetting her cheeks and dripping slowly down her face.
"LEAVE!," the stone kings all chorused. It was deafening as it resonated through the crypts and made Jon wince, startled and hurt deep in his heart.
"GET OUT! HALF-BREED!," they all roared, threatening to make Jon break down and cry. Much more willing to oblige the stone kings than to weep in front of them, he ran, uncaring if it made him a craven or not. He ran back across the granite pillars as they chanted for his removal. He ran up the stairs, not caring if he slipped and hurt himself, even hopping up two steps in places where one was steep enough.
Jon ran out onto the snow and found it to be night again. The snow, which had just appeared, came up to his knees and fluttered about his head, landing on his hair. A wind blew across the courtyard blowing his hair and his black cloak back. He had felt the wind but it lacked the bite that all winds in the North usually delivered. The snow engulfed his black boots and leggings but he did not feel the cold nor did he feel the wetness of melting snow.
Walking away from the crypts, he witnessed Winterfell in the midst of a terrible blizzard. Damn near everything was covered in huge drifts of snow and tall poles had been planted so that men did not lose themselves crossing through the castle's many courtyards. There were numerous snowmen, all shaped differently with some even having garments. A scarf here and a hat there yet most distinct snowman was the fattest. So fat that it was quite ridiculous to even imagine a man of such form. He stumbled through the snow, eyeing the various snowmen and using the poles to steady himself as he bore witness to the extensive change Winterfell had undergone.
Gone were the diamond-shaped window panes and in their stead were boards nailed in to stop the snow from blowing in. Winterfell had always been decorated with lots of direwolves but Jon found them to be gone, most likely chipped away. Many of the structures had remained in ruins but the ones deemed most important were fixed up as best as could be during winter. The gates had been replaced with new wood as had the stables. He viewed that the sept had been demolished as he passed the courtyard although he was sure that he would shed no tears over that. It had always been a place of worship for Lady Stark and he had kept with his father's gods
His feet led to the walls and he warily climbed the snow laden steps. To his luck, ice had not formed on the stone steps and the snow was hard but not slippery. His black cloak billowed alongside his hair as he made his ascent. The ramparts had been well salted as there was only a thin sheet of snow, allowing Jon to walk smoothly. Looking in between the merlons, his eyes were treated to the breathtaking sight of the North in winter.
The clearing between the outer walls and the edge of the Wolfswood was wholly covered in brilliant white snow. So white that he knew it would have gleamed and glittered had the sun risen in the sky rather than the moon. The forest laid half a league away and in between both rose Winter Town. At the height of summer, when the common folk roamed the forests and tilled their lands, the town would be filled with whores, orphans and traders alongside those who actually lived there. In the dead of winter, it would have been bursting and bustling with an influx of people. Now it stood cold, despite it being winter, devoid of much light or warmth. Many of the stone huts had been collapsed as had the inn and brothel. Their remains still visible despite the heavy snow, the charred tips of many wood planks still stuck out.
To put it simply, Winter Town was near lifeless and dead.
Nonplussed, Jon stepped away from the battlements and peered at Winterfell. It was only partially restored with many of the old structures were still damaged. His eyes crawled upwards slowly, taking time to gaze upon each shattered window and scorched stone, each new plank of wood and each piece of rubble. Higher and higher they went and stopped, finally, at the banner that hung there. Banners were rarely visible in the dark, yet this one flapped brightly, red on pink. Red on pink. Only the Boltons kept banners colored in such a manner and as he slowly stepped closer and peered harder, he made out the flayed man.
Hanging above Winterfell.
Dismay and anguish slowly gathered in his gut as his mind pieced together what he had seen. His Father, Lady Stark, Robb, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrik and all the rest, dead, Winterfell put to the torch and sacked, winter painting the North white and Winter Town laying in desolation. But most of all, the flayed man flying instead of the direwolf.
He would have screamed if another had not beat him to it. It was high and girlish, desperate and in pain. Coming from the Great Keep, it dawned on Jon that it was not any girl's cry but Arya's.
"ARYA," he yelled as something cold grasped his heart and his gut tightened with terror. His shout echoed through the acres large complex that was Winterfell and her cries paused for a second before continuing. Now more desperate and in more suffering. He lurched forward towards the stairs but before he could take a step he was shackled. Shackled by massive black chains that shot out of a dark cloud that had materialized behind him which he glimpsed out of the corner of his eye. They wrapped around his wrists and ankles, another one coiled itself around his neck, restraining his head, as another chained his gut and chest.
Immobilized, he struggled and tugged hard at the chains, praying for them to snap in the cold so that he could run to Arya's aid. But they remained firm. He twisted his head as far as it could go and considered the cold, black shackles and found it to be made of a material he did not recognize.
The raven flew into his sight then and landed on an unlit brazier. Jon had never noticed its disappearance, had never noticed it flying off. He stared at the silent bird and wondering why he hadn't noticed it fly off and observing its posture. It seemed different, less like the bird that nipped at his ear and more like the one he had first made acquaintance with. "Hurts, doesn't it?" The words had poured from its beak, so unlike itself that Jon was shocked into silence. His sister screamed again and broke his shock, he cried out.
"ARYA," Jon called, distraught at his sister's suffering. The raven gave his sister's cry a bored glance before turning its attention back to him.
Opening its beak, it spoke again, "I suppose all her pain and hardships are irrelevant in the end." His voice was patient, careful, and seemed to ooze empathy but Jon cared naught for his tone but rather his words.
"What is it you mean, bird? Why are you holding me?" Jon questioned impatiently. Sure that these chains were the raven's doing. It possessed great power, Jon knew and now it felt as though it was mocking him and boasting of its power.
It - no, He, he speaks with a man's voice, Jon conceded - made a tutting sound that, for Jon seemed impossible to do given his beak. "Boy, I know you to be naive but not a fool. I meant exactly what I said, your … sister's … hardships are irrelevant at the end." he said, lingering on the word sister with an amused glance in his beady eyes. "And as for holding you," he looked affronted and now unamused, "I am not the one whose chained you. That would be yourself."
Silence greeted his words as Jon tried to make sense of what he had just heard. Not just his own silence but Arya's as well, his fear steadily grew as time passed. Swallowing hard, Jon regarded the raven on the brazier. He seemed to play with Jon, hinting at something but not explicitly explaining. So he decided to concede and rather than ask of his sister he decided to humbly ask him to explain the chains since he seemed to not care for her. "Please, my lord, I don't understand," he pleaded. "If I truly shackled myself, for whatever reason, why can I not unshackle myself?"
The raven regarded him now with eyes that seemed squinted. Although he could not know for sure given the eye's small size. "Well, perhaps I phrased it wrongly," he said, in a thoughtful tone, "While it is true that it is not I who has chained you, to say that it was you who chained yourself would not wholly true either. In truth … I suppose these chains represent your honor. Honor is what keeps you from saving your sister from a fate worse than death," he nodded gravely.
"Honor?" he repeated. That did not make much sense to the young boy. Jon had been raised to believe that honor would aid him and that oathbreaking was the gravest of sins. Yet, honor was not aiding him now, he noted, neither did honor seem to have spared his Father and brother from their dark deaths. Honor was not helping him now, it was hindering him rather. It was keeping him chained and shackled while his sister suffered.
The chains loosened and turned to black sand, blown away by the cold wind. The cold, he thought, he felt it now. The sharp, biting wind, the cold kiss of each snowflake that touched down upon his skin. Each breath he took felt as though needles were pricking his lungs but it felt invigorating. Closing his eyes, he looked up and took many deep breaths, the flurrying snow felt cleansing as he kneeled in the snow, getting his knees wet doing so. He felt not only clean but free as well. "The honorable path is not always the best one, Jon Snow," he said, "Don't forget that." With that he turned to black sand too, just as the chains had and like the chains, he was blown away by the wind. Carried off to wherever the wind went.
Arya's scream pierced through the air again, reminding Jon of her plight. He made for the stairwell and this time found himself to be obstructed by only the thick snow and harsh wind. His heart pounded, both out of fear and anger. Who dared to hurt his little sister, he thought as he rushed down, the hardened snow on the steps allowing him to do so. Reaching the bottom, he didn't stop, running inside the path that had been shoveled by guardsmen much earlier. Thundering past the granite walls of the Great Keep and under the bridge that led to the armory, he tried to imagine who was bringing harm to Arya. Was it the Boltons, who had appeared to have sacked the great fortress and taken it for themselves. Was it the Greyjoys, whose banner he had witnessed in the mud in the courtyard.
Jon finally arrived at the thick, oaken entrance to the Great Keep. He wrenched them both open and ran through … and found himself on a hill overlooking a walled city. A bloated sun was sinking in the horizon. Its last crimson fingers struck against the walls and the many ships docked at the port. The city itself was massive and was being illuminated by great, bright lights. Bewildered, he looked back, expecting to see a door behind him but instead his eyes found a wave. Over a hundred feet tall and wider than he could make out, it crashed into him and swept him away.
The strength of the wave was incredibly powerful. It pulled and pushed him, spun his whole body around and disoriented him so greatly that he could no longer tell up from down. He flailed his arms and body as his lungs burned from the lack of air. Fortunately, the wave's pull subsided and his stinging eyes glimpsed light from behind his head. Twisting his body around, he swam upwards and thanked the gods that he had always been a strong swimmer. His head broke free from the surface and he took huge breaths to relieve his burning lungs. The water had clogged and slowed in the streets of the city, dead bodies floated in and about as he tried to keep his head above the water.
Light poured down from the cloudy sky. The clouds had blocked most of it but it soon darkened again as something fell and crashed down upon them. Again he was swept away by the strength of the water. Again the water pulled and pushed him, spinning his whole body round and disorientating him and again he could not tell down from up as he flailed his leaden legs and arms, trying to surface but unable to do so.
His lungs burned worse than before and he couldn't see now, it was too dark. He breathed out and felt the bubbles rushing away from him; towards the surface; towards air. But he was spent, his arms slowed as did his legs and he felt his will leaving him; just like the bubbles. It felt odd, he thought, he had never envisioned himself dying in such a way. Falling in battle, yes, burning up from some unknown fever, that too and sometimes, when he felt his shame leave, he fancied himself dying in his bed, at an old age in his own keep; surrounded by servants and family.
Suddenly he felt himself rising. He felt something wrap a limb around his chest and push him up, towards the air. Gently, he was pushed upwards, the limbs, for lack of a better word, grasped his legs and arms. Opening his eyes, he saw light, rushing to his face and was curtly ejected from the sea. He flew high and landed on a stony ridge overlooking the sea. Landing hard on his back, he immediately hurled up fresh seawater and bent over, coughing and spluttering. His throat felt raw and incredibly sore, as though he had been shouting for an hour. Jagged rocks cut into his hand and knees as he gathered his wits and glimpsed a variety of pebbles and stones littering the ridge.
Foamy waters sprayed across his face as he slowly raised his pounding head. The ridge he had been thrown on was high above the sea, some thirty feet he guessed but the water here lapsed high and wild. He saw huge rock formations rising proudly above the sea, ready to destroy the hull of any ship that wandered too close, yet he saw smaller ones too. Ones that barely broke surface but were much more treacherous for that very fact. He knew that experienced captains would steer clear of the large ones but fall prey to the ones lurking just below.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, his head whipped around when he heard the sound of steel clashing on steel. Already spent, Jon wanted to ignore it and find a place to rest but his legs ignored him it seemed as they stepped towards the singing sound. He followed what seemed to be a made path, as the ridge led to a cliff and the cliff had a stone path. It stood no wider than two feet and had the cliff as a wall on its left and a sharp drop to the grey water on its right. He walked slowly, wary of the churning waters and mindful of his steps as one blunder could mean his return to the sea.
Finally, the cliff fell away to reveal a sight straight from one of Old Nan's tales. There were two knights, both clad in brilliantly adorned and crafted armour and both lacking their helms. They appeared to be twins, Jon thought, as both had flowing silver hair but the blur-like movement of their swords and armour stopped him from properly glimpsing at their faces. Moving gracefully over stones and the sparse, softly swaying grass, the pair of them swung with equal vigor and skill.
Suddenly, the knights came to a halt, swords frozen mid-swing as a low thrum came from the distance, beyond where the knights stood frozen. Jon gave a low grunt of pain as an arrow lodged itself into his right breast. The speed of which the arrow hit threw him back and suddenly he was falling. But not into the sea it seemed as he kept falling and falling. The cliff, disappeared as did the salty air and the waves upon waves of grey water. Grasping at his breast, he tried to find the arrow, to yank it out but it was gone, as gone as the waves and cliffs. Falling, he spun around, just in time to distinguish a red door before he fell through it.
The red door led to a large corridor, lit with sunshine and intricately carved. He made out more red doors and great tapestries before he left the corridor, falling sideways through the doors and to the outside. Outside was red and hot. Dusty mountains gathered in the distance and a round tower rose on a hill. Seven against three, he saw. Seven dressed in various garbs and roasting under the red sun. Three garbed in white armour and snow cloaks. He passed them just as they drew their swords and fell through the sands.
The sands let him through and now he landed; on snow as soft as silk. Yet, that had not been enough to steal away all the momentum he had gathered in his long fall and his body shuddered with pain as he hissed. Jon sat up slower than a snail, spasms of pain surging through his body whenever he made a quick movement. A pale moon rested high in a cloudless sky and the tall, dark trees that cluttered about stood silent.
Yet, what claimed his eyes was the Wall. Seven hundred feet tall it went up and three hundred miles it ran end to end. It was enormous and Jon found it hard to imagine it being built by just men. Old Nan had told him long ago that Brandon the Builder had had help from the giants and the children of the forest yet as he had grown older, he had dismissed it as a fable. Now though, looking at it with his own eyes, Jon saw how it could not have been a simple tall tale. The Wall was built with giants and men, children and magic, and something else, Jon knew. He could feel the power and sorcery locked beneath the ice. It felt too immense, too unworldly and he feared whatever had the magic to cast such a spell.
AAAroooooooooooooooooooooo sounded a horn from beyond the Wall. He had jumped at the abrupt call of the horn but now he waited. Straining his ears to listen, he waited rigidly as the cold swept up his now smoky grey cloak. Crack! He heard far to his right and another far to his left. The Wall was cracking and disgorging massive sheets of itself. They landed with a heavy crash in the snow as more of the Wall fell. The cracks turned visible and the massive sheets turned to massive chunks. The chunks hit the earth and shattered into millions of pieces of old ice as the ground rumbled and shook.
The Wall had fallen. The great barrier to the end of the world now was just simply countless pieces of ice and boulders. From his distance, Jon stood thunderstruck and numb. All the feeling in his arms and legs had left. Yet it was not over. Not even close.
Things crawled over the rubble. They were dark and unending, they surged in masses and in each direction Jon looked, he saw them and their eyes; burning blue. Brighter than any star and colder than cold. They brought the cold with them and their leader brought death with him.
Death and winter.
A tug pulled at the small of his back and drew him away backwards; away to the south. He left the army of blue eyes and dark bodies but the feeling of death and winter followed him. Like a stench he could not get rid of. He flew south, faster than he could grasp. He passed Long Lake and the many trees of the Wolfswood. He saw the Northern mountains, their peaks white with snow. And at last, he saw Winterfell, bringing with him death; from far to the lands beyond the wall.
Jon woke up. He was sweating and felt weaker than a stray dog but he cared naught, he had to warn them. He had to tell them. Head swimming, he sat up and yelled as loud as his throat allowed him. He doubled over, wheezing, but didn't stop. Try as he might but he couldn't keep yelling. His throat felt too raw and he himself felt feverish. Allowing his head to drop down to his pillows, he felt himself slipping back into unconsciousness when his door slammed open and he held on.
"By the gods," he heard, was it Alyn? "Go, Porther. Inform Lord Stark that Jon's awake." Heavy steps signalled that Porther had gone and he heard Alyn shout after him. "Bring a nurse, as well." A blurred figure kneeled next to his bed and called his name but Jon could only groan, warnings on the tip of his tongue. "By the gods, Old and New, you're awake, and on the day that he fell too," Alyn continued. Who fell?, Jon wanted to ask but he had held on as long as he could and the darkness took over again.