We were not there.
Woe to the Usurper if we had been.
Woe—if we had been.
Regret was not something Arthur was overmuch familiar with for much of his life, and if he had any choice in regards to it, it was like to stay as such.
Yet the gods were rarely so kind.
Regrets were a luxury he could not afford in times like these; times where everything felt so bleak, when people he were entrusted to guard died left and right, when the kingdom seemed to be on fire at every turn, and when he himself was barely standing upon his feet with all that was being thrown against him by the gods in a cruel jape.
His king.
His best friend and prince.
The Queen and queens-yet-to-be.
The royal family.
The children of his friend, all except for one.
The finest swordsman the world had ever known, and yet he was powerless to protect them; then, now—it mattered not when.
He could do nothing, save ride his horse until he drove it into the ground; 'til both their hearts ceased beating and breath rose from their chests no longer.
He would ride to the ends of the world, would do anything to ensure the safety of his last charge.
And even that hung on the precipice; a knife's edge.
One last cruel, mocking jest from the gods—or perhaps, mercy? He knew not which, as he pray to gods both new and old.
"Ser Arthur, the outriders have made contact with the enemy host. We must hasten our steeds, brother."
He glanced over his shoulder; Ser Gerold rode next to him, concern in his eyes, but steel behind them—sharp as the blade he wore strapped across his side.
Arthur nodded. There was little time for thought.
"I understand, brother."
They were a thousand strong; more than enough to take on an army of three hundred riverland men, yet it would take time to catch up to them. Time they did not have.
A beat.
Then, a new dawn broke upon the world as the sun peaked from behind the horizon and the Sword of the Morning answered the call to arms.
Ser Arthur nodded, and then spurred ahead with the others; they broke from the ranks of their army, their horses breaking from a steady canter to a desperate gallop.
"We ride, for his grace."
Arthur spurred his horse forward, leaving their host of northmen behind.
He did not look back.
He continued on, as Jon observed past, present, and future.
A cry rose up amongst his soldiers, for this day would be a day of blood and death.
For this day, the land would burn, for today was the day that the Riverlands would fall.
It was a day of reckoning, the moment where justice would be served unto its rightful owner.
For this was a day of blood and fire, for this day the rivers boiled and the land burned and for this day—he was not alone.
The words rang in his heart as surely as the first song from the lyre sung to him.
In the distance, Jon saw them; men upon men marching forth, all clad in the darks greys and blue of the furs and the armor of the North; carrying Targaryen banners. They held the center of the army, the Westerland loyalists the left, the reach-men and knights of the Vale on the right.
He raised his sword high above his head; he shouted, he screamed as he swooped down toward the Riverlands on dragonback, as the men marching in his name charged forth in pursuit; to deliver the same judgment they gave to his beloved cousins.
There would be no mercy.
He witnessed Brandon the Broken's wretched betrayal; saw him turn against those who stood by him, saw him turn against his own kind—turn against his own kin.
Watched, as Those Who Watched the Night fell.
He watched as the North succumbed. Watched as his home froze, buried beneath the endless winter.
When all was dead, and all was lost—he watched, as the morning never arrived.
Yet still he watched, as the last light was snuffed out and ashes were stirred to a frosty blanket.
Nothing moved in the dark.
All was quiet—as quiet as the night itself.
But words not-yet-never-always-spoken whispered on the non-existent breeze:
If there are gods to listen, they are monstrous gods who torment us for their sport. Who else would make a world like this, so full of bondage, blood, and pain?
Who else would shape us as they have?
And he watched as The One Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken rose against The Faceless God, that Haunter of the Dark; the Lion of the Night.
If I see you again I will devour you
I̵f̷ ̴I̴ ̷s̵e̷e̴ ̵y̵o̸u̸ ̷a̷g̵a̵i̴n̴ ̵I̷ ̷w̷i̶l̴l̷ ̴d̴e̴v̶o̵u̸r̸ ̶y̵o̶u̴ ̴
I̸̭͑f̴̱̆ ̶̠̔Ȉ̷̺ ̸̲̀ș̴̇è̷̦e̷̳͊ ̸͍̍y̷̝͋ŏ̸̱u̵͓͗ ̶̙̾a̸͍̾g̴̻͘a̴̦͒i̷̞̒ń̵̺ ̵͑͜Ỉ̶̲ ̴͇͝w̵̢͆i̶̡͂l̵̨͒l̷̺̊ ̶̩̾d̶͔̀e̵̞͝v̴̞͗o̵̪͆u̴̹̒r̸̭̔ ̷͍͂y̷͈͠o̷̭̕ǔ̵͖ ̶͕̌
I̷̫̱̦͂̉͗f̷̧͎̣͋̕ ̶̝̦̪̊I̴̥̔̍ ̴̻̕s̴̫̈́̎̀ẻ̷̢̮̫͝e̴͙͝ ̷̫̈́́y̶̨̼͛́̌ŏ̷̯̽ų̶̦̀͗̾ͅ ̵̢͈̳̊a̷͔͚͝g̸̼̔̽ͅa̸͍̦̎̂͝į̷̤͚́̒n̶̹͗ ̸̱͛́Ị̷͗͘ ̶̢̱̃ẇ̸̼į̴̘̾̔̉l̴͚̩͝l̵͔̥̓̎ͅ ̷͇̠̌́d̸̢̖̝̾͌́è̸͙͍̟ṿ̵̱͐ǫ̸̣̽̊ǔ̵̪́̓͜r̸͇̲̼̾ ̸̯͑̈́ͅy̷͉͙̣̓̈́ò̴̢̹̼̆u̴̠͛̓͊ ̶̙̱͕̂͠
A Three-Eyed bird cawed, and Jon jumped in place—startled.
He must be mad; 'tis the only answer for things he'd seen, continued to see.
A third eye peered over his shoulder and he turned sharply to find himself face to face with the creature. It cocked its head at him, as it spoke the tongue of man.
"No." It said, then blinked slowly with each eye closing after the other, "you are merely blind," always managing to leave one open. "But to the truth or the lie, is the question." The bird croaked once more, then fluttered off
Jon shuddered; goosebumps ran up his body as if someone had reached into his chest and pulled hard on one of his organs, or something equally unpleasant.
"You must go back, to go forward."
The bird's cawing echoed through the forest, filling the air.
Jon. Jon Snow. Jon Stark. Jon Targaryen. You must go back.
His mind raced, trying desperately to understand what was being spoken—what had been said.
The world turned upside down, the trees swayed and the walls toppled as his vision spun.
He felt ill; he felt giddy. He clutched at his chest as the wind blew harshly against his warm body—as it grew chillier, sharper. A coldness overcame him and he began trembling violently. His knees grew weak and he stumbled as the ground seemed to shift under him.
He heard voices calling—cries—then shrieks; screams; wails; the birdsong rang in his ears.
A forest a bloody entrails; thousands of weirwoods donning the face of a hearts tree calling out his name. The bark of a pale tree split open and the leaves within burst outward, the petals falling to the ground as the wolves howled; wolves that were wolves no longer. Men, and yet they walked in the flesh of men no longer; they wore chains of bronze and iron that bound them to the earth.
And as he looked around, there came nothing but black, swirling shapes; no colors, no shapes, just the darkness. He felt as if he was falling, as if the earth beneath him disappeared; his feet leaving the soft soil; leaving behind a deep, black pit.
It was only after a while—years, perhaps hours, perhaps seconds later—he lifted his head and opened his eyes. The light of the rising sun, filtered through the canopy of trees, made them glow crimson; they were a deep, rich red, the color of fresh blood. Blood—the taste of it burned and lingered on the tip of his tongue.
The color of a dying flame; the leaves and branches overhead dance before his gaze, twisting and shifting in the breeze before his sight. For a time, everything was silent; still save for the soft chirping of accursed birds overhead, the rustle of small animals foraging about.
There, among the dark red splotches that had fallen to the ground, Jon saw something glittering in the sun's rays, drawing his attention downward. A small golden chain. With delicate links adorned with an gem set in the center, shaped in the foul sigil of the Freys.
As Jon looked about, he found Jojen sitting up on one elbow atop his mount, resting his head in his palm. There was a soft smile upon his features, as he used the other to scratch at the head of the lizard-lion.
Jojen smiled beguilingly, as if he knew of the thoughts passing through his companion's head. "Perhaps this changes the nature of terrible things yet to come; we can only hope." He then sighed softly upon seeing Jon's confused face, "You would know of these things, my lord." Jojen whispered under his breath, "if you and your wild cousin had only bothered to attend the wise-man's lessons, rather than join father on his hunts for those Frey curs."
Jon turned to regard his friend. A silence fell over the two boys for a second or two before he spoke: "Well… I suppose there is some truth to that."
Jojen rolled his eyes, but grinned nonetheless. "There always is," he murmured as he rose from the lizard-lion, extending a hand down. "I fear, my lord, that we must be returning to Greywater Watch; we have been absent for too long and it has likely been noticed. Father might be lenient to you, but he'll be most displeased with my own actions regardless—I don't believe he'd be much fond of informing Lord Eddard Stark that his ward had died under his watch. And the less to say of Arthur's reaction, the better." Jojen added dryly.
They both laughed; Jon even gave a small snort of amusement, though whether from amusement at his own expense, or the other boy's, neither really knew. Neither really cared at the moment either.
Jon took the offered hand without hesitation and allowed his friend to pull him upright onto the mount.