Jon

The brutally cold wind whipped in their faces as they stood, surrounded on an island, facing the hoard of the dead. For three days they had stood here, trapped, while the dead simply watched them and waited. But Jon knew it couldn't last. He had sent Gendry back to Eastwatch, to try and get a raven to Daenerys, but it was really a contrived excuse to get the boy to safety. As the dead advanced, alerted and prompted on by Clegane's skidding rock, Jon knew now there was no hope. Still, he drew Longclaw one final time, prepared to fight until his final breath.

The initial impact of life and death was marked by the final battle cries of the living and the eerie silence of the dead, punctuated by the sound of steel crunching into flesh and bone. At first, the living were able to carve out pockets of space around themselves, but the dead kept coming. The sheer weight of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of wights quickly collapsed any room, and it soon became difficult to even swing a sword. To his left, Jon saw one of the wildlings who had traveled beyond the Wall with him literally rippled apart by dozens of cold, unfeeling hands while the most horrible screams Jon had ever heard filled the air. The world was collapsing around him, making it hard to breathe. Longclaw was pinned against his chest, of no use. He let go of the sword with his right hand, and drew his dirk, stabbing blindly into the mass of blue eyed corpses as he felt their hands tear at his face. The twin smells of rot and death filled his nostrils, and Jon screamed as one of the wiights bit down on his ear. He felt a dagger enter his back, something he had hoped never to feel again.

Suddenly, there was space around him as Thoros of Myr's fiery blade carved a path through the dead, freeing Jon to retreat farther inland on the tiny island, up its even tinier hill. The reprieve didn't last long. Thoros, swinging his sword in broad arcs to try and keep the dead at bay was quickly surrounded. He stabbed one final time into the mass of corpses and then spun trying to clear some room around him; then, Thoros of Myr fell on his own sword.

Jon, from the crest of the hill surveyed the carnage. Of Jorah Mormont there was no sign. Tormund was still fighting, but he was swinging his sword at random with hand, while the other tried to hold his vital organs inside his chest. The Hound was trying to run up the hill, toward Jon, but the man was buried in wights. It was amazing he could run at all with sheer amount of weight on his back. Jon saw dozens of wights trying to bring him down, but Clegane kept throwing off his back. Of the wight they had stuck in a bag, there was no sign. Sighing, Jon screamed a final time and plunged back into the fray, trying to help Clegane.

Jon's momentum allowed him to cut down several of the dead, giving Clegane time to shake off the last few wights and turn around. The two pressed back-to-back, protecting each other, preventing each other from being flanked. Together, the two easily felled three dozen of the dead before Jon felt the Hound's back go lax against his. And then he stood alone.

Jon felt another dagger bury itself in his shoulder. He spun, twirling Longclaw over his head, decapitating two opponents, before half a dozen weapons pierced his back and sides. He collapsed, leaking blood, as countless stab wounds penetrated his body. Then suddenly, they stopped.

He lay there, on the verge of life and death, while the sea of the dead parted. From the corner of his eye, Jon could see a half-dozen blue-white feet walking toward him. He clenched Longclaw, preparing for one final swing, one final blow, one final attempt to kill the Night King.

The feet stopped, easily within reach, and then delivered a kick to the ribs that jarred Jon's teeth, flipping him onto his back. As he turned, Jon lashed out with everything he had left. The result of the summation of Jon's final effort was a pathetic attempt at a strike that the Night King easily knocked aside. The last thing Jon saw was a blade of ice entering his face.

Nooooooooo! Countless voices, ancient voices, screamed out. It's over. We have lost. The Other One has won. "There is another" said one voice, which spoke with the force of seven. "She can still defeat him. She was the one who was Foretold, not he."

"She cannot win now" said a new voice, a young voice, one only recently joining their council. "She doesn't know what's coming. She doesn't know she is needed, doesn't know who she is, doesn't know what's at stake. She looks South." Thunderous agreement broke out among the voices. Their collective murmurs of assent sounded, to the young voice, like a mighty wind rushing through the trees.

"There is still something that could be done" a new voice said, the voice of one who had long been the ambassador between the council and the world of men. The Other One is gaining strength, whilst our own strength wanes. But we still are powerful enough to intervene one last time."

Another murmur went through those assembled. "To do as you suggest would take the last of our strength. We would be empty shells thereafter. And who then would safeguard the world of men?"

"If we don't do this, there won't be a world of men to safeguard."

"You want this? You want to be an impotent old man trapped in a tree, your life's work for naught."

"His life's work has already come to naught" said the new voice, the young voice. One champion is dead, and the other will waste lives, time, and resources for an iron chair while the dead sweep over the Wall, sweep over the North. By the time she knows what is coming for her, it will be too late. I can see it; can you not?"

"Do not presume to share your visions with us, boy" the assembly hissed vehemently. "We gave you your would be nothing, a cripple in a sick room, without us."

"Then you know it's true."

Angry chatter raced through the crowd, a tempest through a Godswood.

"Let us do it" thundered countless voices in unison. Tension surged through those assembled, and then a surge of power. Suddenly, a fire burst into the center of the assembly. A voice called out something unintelligible. Then, a flash of light. The voices fell silent. Then there was one, the one who had long been an ambassador, and now was again.

"What happened?" he asked, confused. "I can still sense you." What before had been a mighty chorus of thousands of powerful voices floated across the void with only the strength of a whisper: "There was a surge of power at the end. It wasn't us. Could it have been Him?"

Jon

Jon darted awake, gasping, panting, sweat roiling down body. Immediately he knew what had happened. Melisandre has brought him back again. But this time was different. Before he had come back naked, this time he awoke wearing his bedclothes. And he felt weird, as if his proportions had changed. He rolled out of bed and was startled to find himself in Winterfell. But more startling, he was in his old room, the room he had stayed in as a boy, instead of the apartments he had stayed in when he had been proclaimed King in the North.

He grabbed the pitcher and washbasin from his nightstand, which seemed both taller and farther away than it should have, filled the pitcher, and dumped it over his head. The chill shocked his senses into alertness. And then he saw his reflection.

Jon jumped back, startled. All of his facial hair was gone, and his hair was longer than it had been since, well, since he had died the first time. But what was more disturbing was his faced looked, well, youthful. Startled, Jon positioned the basin so he could see examine his chest in the reflection. No scars! And, while still fit, he was missing quite a bit of muscle. He tried to move and tripped over his suddenly uncoordinated legs. Nervously, he pulled at the front waistband of his breeches and looked down at his manhood. It was smaller than it should have been. A mixture of fear, dread, and strangely hope raced through him as he raced out of his room and to the great hall. Several startled serving maids jumped out of his way, and giggled nervously about something as he raced by.

The guards at the door tried to stop him for some reason, but Jon burst right past them and into the Great Hall, where he immediately slid to a halt. All eyes were on him, but he could not have cared less in that moment. Arya sat at the table, wearing a dress instead of the trousers he was used to seeing on her; Needle was nowhere in sight. Sansa was considerablely less, well, developed, than when he saw her last (Jon was slightly relieved he was not the only one), and she was not wearing the ostentatious direwolf broach she had taken to wearing upon her return to Winterfell. The glare she fastened him with would have made the Sansa he had last met blush and stammer out an apology. But Jon only had eyes for the men at the table; Rickon was playing with his food, while Bran, Robb, and Father stared at him, aghast for some reason. A twinge of anger flashed through Jon, as he remembered Rickon bleeding to death in his arms. Bran was not in a wheelchair. And Robb and Father were alive!

"Robb" Jon said weakly, tears coming to his eyes. "Father." Suddenly, Jon's legs were very wobbly Lord Stark rose to say something, but Lady Stark was faster. "Jon Snow" she said, barely restrained fury in her voice. Jon could clearly hear the emphasis on his surname. "What is the meaning of this?" Jon was confused by her fury; she had never liked him, but this was excessive, even for her. He didn't care; Robb and Father were alive.

"Jon" Father's said, voice grave, "go back to your room this instant."

"But-" Jon started to say, and then the pieces clicked together in his brain. The way the serving girls had giggled nervously as he ran by, the way the guards had tried to stop him from entering, the way Sansa and Arya were looking at him right now: Arya with open curiosity and Sansa with something hidden in her glare; it suddenly occurred to Jon that, in his excitement, he had run all the way here in his smallclothes. "I beg your pardon, my Lord, my Lady" he said. But he was too excited to be embarrassed.

But as he walked back to his rooms, a sudden sense of duty overtook him. Jon knew where he was, but he didn't know when he was. But of one thing, he was certain: The Night King was still coming; death still marched on the Wall.