A/N: I fixed the Bronn problem and I hope this is good enough. Honestly, this chapter was made too quickly but I have no more time to fix it so I'd just rather post it and hear what you guys think about it. I'll fix it when I can. Sorry if it's late. I just had a lot of stuff going on. I haven't even had time to thoroughly think about this plot twist. I was just going for whatever my mind thought out. And before any of you mention it, yes, I do have this fixation about Jon and burning and fire. There's something similar to this in my other GOT fic as well. I just think that he deserves a moment of his own like Dany, don't you agree? There's also a little bit of Tyrion in the end. You'll see what I'm talking about. And also, I'm thinking of getting a proofreader. So, if any of you guys know good ones, feel free to tell me about them. Anyway, hope you enjoy this and let me know what you think.
Disclaimer: Game of Thrones is not mine.
Summary: When Ned finally told Catelyn about Jon Snow's mother, he had not expected for things to turn out the way they did in the end. It was so unfortunate that Robert had been smarter than Ned ever thought he was.
X
A week later, for the first time since he'd been released, he didn't break his fast with the king.
He woke up and got dressed only to be told by Ser Barristan that the king was no longer in the castle. He ate alone in his rooms; relishing the fact that it was the first time he'd been able to enjoy the morning meal in months. He'd been cooped up in his rooms, reading the books and scrolls about the North again. He had refrained from exploring the rest of the keep, dreading that he may meet the Master of Whispers again.
A page told him that the Hand had invited him to lunch which he readily accepted. Ser Barristan hadn't been as forthcoming about where the king had gone but maybe Tyrion would indulge him when he's had a few cups. But it seems, he didn't even need to ask.
"The king has ridden off to meet my father in the field of battle. I expect they are fully engaged in the fighting right about now." Tyrion told him without prompting, sensing his anticipation to ask where the king had gone as they ate their lunch with Ser Bronn while Pod attended them. Ser Barristan still trailed him like a warden instead of an escort but he was standing outside the Hand's solar so they were freely conversing without fear of being overheard. Jon felt himself sigh in relief knowing that the king, at least at the moment, was leagues away from him.
But something about what Tyrion had just said sparked an interest in Jon. "Your father wages war to get you back?" Like me, went without saying. Tyrion gave him a knowing, empathic look and a cynical, sad smile. It was moments like this that endeared Tyrion to Jon most of all. He didn't need to say the words aloud in order to be understood. They were in the same precarious situation after all.
"It would be terribly remiss of my father to abandon one of his trueborn sons, no matter how unwanted. My father cares more for the reputation and legacy of our House than he does his own children." Tyrion scoffed, sipping his wine. "Besides, I'm willing to bet it's more of Jamie's idea to wage a war to get me back than my father or sister. Gods know, he's the only one of my family who actually truly cared."
Bronn snorted and rolled his eyes while Tyrion gave him a toast. The Knight of the Blackwater was a peculiar man, Jon concluded. He was once a sellsword who roamed the Vale and had somehow traveled his way to the Westerlands only to save Tyrion from a group of bandits. He was rewarded his post in Tyrion's retinue of guards coming to King's Landing and they had been as thick as thieves ever since. But the day Jamie and Cersei Lannister fled the city with their bastard children, he had tried to stop the twins from escaping on one of the ships and a clash of blades broke between Jamie and Bronn. Naturally, Jamie Lannister overpowered him and strangely spared the former sellsword's life, leaving him with only a few scrapes and a jagged cut on his arm. Then, the lions and their cubs escaped through the sewer tunnels when they realized that they were cut off from a ship and the sea. For this bravery, the king knighted him and appointed him as a guard to Tyrion. Although, it was plain to see that this wasn't a problem at all for the little Lannister. Tyrion had been left behind in the fray. Being at the wrong place at the wrong time, he came into a hall with too many guards and too little friends to help him. He was arrested but shown mercy strangely because of Varys and Ser Barristan whom had convinced the king that the little Lannister was more useful to him alive than dead. Hence, the beginning of Tyrion's appointed place as Hand under Bronn's watchful eye and their budding friendship built from hard, blunt truth and almost endearing insults.
But Jon secretly suspected that Bronn had meant to meet the Lannisters in Blackwater Bay to warn them of Stannis Baratheon's fleet sailing for King's Landing. It was said that Stannis had laid in wait for them at sea, waiting for the opportune moment to board their ship and capture them. They were saved from either drowning at sea or being dragged back in chains to face the king's fury. Jon thought that drowning was the more merciful of the two.
But he was merely speculating, he knew. Either way, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater guarded the Hand both from escaping and from harm. Jon couldn't help but think it ironic that the king Tyrion serves may also be the king who'll make him a head shorter at any given time if it was within the king's best interest. He wondered if it came down to choosing between the king's gold and Bronn's friendship with Tyrion, which will weigh more to the former sellsword. Would he save the little Lannister or will he kill him in cold blood?
Jon shook his head to stir himself away from those thoughts. The man's loyalty belonging to either the Lannister or the king didn't necessarily matter to Jon anyway.
"My father is pillaging the Crown Lands and the Stormlands with small parties of men, burning villages, killing innocents and has prevented supplies to come into King's Landing. Fortunately, my uncle's navy is not as grand as the Royal Fleet. Otherwise, we would be facing complete chaos and other horrific events that usually happen when people are desperate and subjected to famine." Tyrion continued after he's had his third cup. He was deep in thought, swishing the contents in his cup absentmindedly. "But that may not be enough if this war will last longer than our stores. Already, many are going hungry and dying inside this city. It won't be long before they are at our gates. His Grace's forces from Storm's End, Dragonstone, and some of the City Watch dispatched more than thirty thousand men, leaving us with at least two thousand men. His Grace and my father's forces are equally matched if my calculations are correct and Varys' little birds are to be believed."
There was little doubt about the accuracy of Varys' little birds, Jon knew.
"The king and his men had done some raiding and looting of their own in the Westerlands. The small folk are scattered, scared and driven to the one place they can have even a small measure of safety, thus, swarming here in King's Landing. We cannot hope to feed these people indefinitely. This war is already taking its turn for the worst. Unsurprisingly, the North, the Reach, the Vale, Dorne and the Riverlands have all remained out of the war for their own reasons. The king called them to arms but they've made their own excuses to not partake. The Reach wants no part of the war between the Baratheons and the Lannisters, insisting that they are all simply peaceful lords and ladies sitting atop fertile land." Tyrion almost snorted in derision from the falsity of the words. "Dorne dislikes both parties. The Vale doesn't have a liege lord and most likely tearing each other apart to fill the power vacuum Lysa Arryn and Littlefinger left behind. As with the Riverlands and the North, well…"
Tyrion gave him a look as if that explained everything. Jon concealed a shiver at being reminded that his own father will wage war for him, too. "Is there any news of my family?" He asked, whispered almost. Bronn and Tyrion exchanged glances.
"Your cousin, Robb, and his lady mother have gone to the Riverlands to visit her family, "Tyrion answered. He gave a heavy sigh. "And Lord Stark was called to the Wall after his brother, Benjen Stark, reportedly went missing Beyond the Wall."
Jon's eyes widened at the news. "He's gone?"
"He's presumed dead." Tyrion told him softly. "But Lord Stark has not given up hope. He's sent men beyond the Wall to look for him and to investigate the problems stirring with this King Beyond the Wall named Mance Rayder. Varys has informed me that Lord Stark went to search for Benjen Stark himself."
Jon nodded numbly, a dreadful weight settled in his gut, wishing with all his heart that he was there helping them look for his uncle instead of being locked away here in this wretched dragon pit. His eyes became as cold as ice, darkening in barely controlled anger and his fists clenched tight on the armrests of his seat to stop himself from doing and saying something reckless. Resentment once again bubbled in Jon's throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Tyrion forced a smile on his face and clapped his hands cheerfully. "Why don't you continue exploring the Red Keep? I'm sure Ser Barristan has not shown you all there was to see last time you explored."
Jon gritted his teeth and nodded, biting his tongue so he doesn't say anything scathing to the only friend he has in King's Landing for being so patronizing. He stood stiffly, his seat screeching sharply on the floor.
"Thank you for this meal, my lord. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll take your advice and see all there is to see in the Red Keep." So, I can possibly plot my escape.
"Good, good." Tyrion nodded awkwardly. "Fresh air will be good for you."
Jon nodded to both Tyrion and Bronn, leaving without a backward glance.
Before the door was completely shut, Jon heard Bronn say, "Well, that went completely to shit."
Ser Barristan once again became his escort more than his warden.
They passed through the White Sword Tower where the Kingsguard lived, the throne room with the ugly Iron Throne (in Jon's opinion), Maidenvault and the Traitor's Walk. Jon noted how unnervingly but also pleasantly quiet the castle was without its regular courtiers. They've barricaded themselves behind their fancy houses like the craven they were, he heard. With the food scarce and the king gone to ride into battle, the rest of the nobility had to fend for themselves, saving their own arse while the capital tore itself apart.
It was late when Jon realized that they were still walking along the Traitor's Walk. Ser Barristan had long given up his spiel, realizing that they fell on deaf, uninterested ears. They've strolled for so long, Jon barely noticed that the sun had sunk away and torches and lamps replaced its glow, buried deep in his thoughts. He came back to life when they heard loud, angry shouting, steel being drawn and then a crash.
Jon, with Ser Barristan behind him, sped towards the commotion and saw that the gates were flooded by an angry mob, striking at the guards and damaging the wagons that were pulled by a horse that came in from the gates. They were looting the wagons, the horse pulling them cried out in distress as it was butchered by the mob. More of the City Watch was dispatched and they formed a defensive position against the mob, shields and spears up to push them back. But the men cannot hold the line indefinitely, Jon knew. Between the well-armed City Watch and the stone, knife and cane wielding peasants, Jon knew blood will soon flow in earnest.
"We've got to get you inside." Ser Barristan said, pulling him away. Jon was about to follow when the mob broke through the ranks of the City Watch. Men with knives ran straight for Jon but before he can think of defending himself, Ser Barristan was there, cutting them down with only a swing of his sword. But one lone old knight cannot hope to defeat the onslaught of so many peasants. They've overwhelmed the men of the City Watch and the wagons were nearly empty of supplies. Before Jon could think, he was assaulted by another man, and this time his attacker wielded a blunt blade as long as his forearm. He ducked and rolled away, relying on his speed to avoid the clumsily swung blows. He could see from the corner of his eye that Ser Barristan is too preoccupied to help him, no matter how the old knight desperately tried to cut down the men who came between him and Jon. He was on his own. So, he ducked and avoided as best he could, waiting for the right moment to strike, trying to control the pain that sprouted from his healing injuries as he moved. In the end, despite the exhaustion that began to weigh his movements down, Jon's sword training overpowered the man. He took his opportunity to step closer to his attacker as Jon avoided his thrust and twisted his wrist until the sword fell from his grip. Jon elbowed him in the face and he fell flat on the ground, groaning. Jon grabbed the blunt sword and proceeded to help Ser Barristan from his multiple attackers. Together, they fended them off until one of them got the better of the old knight. Ser Barristan howled in pain and he fell, his sword cluttering to the ground. Blood easily flowed from the old knight's leg between where the metal of his armor met.
Jon kicked the old knight's attacker in the stomach and threw the blunt sword for Ser Barristan's sharper one. He cut down the men that came his way, only pausing to help the old knight on his feet and dragged him safely away, swinging the sword almost wildly against those who came close enough to hurt them. Three soldiers from the City Watch quickly came to their aid and Jon supported the old knight as best as he could, setting him down in an alcove, hidden away from the fight. Jon was about to return to the fray to help when a hand firmly stopped him.
"Don't!" Ser Barristan gritted out, but his eyes were almost pleading and panicked. "The king won't be pleased if you die in this fight. He won't be pleased that fought as it is."
The old knight was right, of course. Jon knew that the king won't be entirely happy about this at all, accidental or not. The king had warned him against stepping out of line from his new privileges and this, fighting in this battle, killing commoners and getting one of the Kingsguard—the Lord Commander, no less—injured, was surely a leap instead of a step and the king won't care if Jon had just happen to pass by when this insurrection broke out. But something more powerful called to Jon. So loud and so strong, it pulled him to act even against his better judgment. The fear that the king had driven into him was nothing but a faint whisper at the back of his mind while the dying cries and the rage-fueled screams were all that pervaded his senses. Something primal in him pulled him toward the fray, not away, even as the stench of blood and sweat, the sight of lifelessness beginning to surround him, gave him more reason to run instead of stay. The sword in his hand felt more of an extension of his being than it was a weapon. It was not the familiar weight of his Valyrian steel, Longclaw, but it was enough to make him harshly aware of a duty to protect. His duty called him to arms, to aid, to end the chaos before him. He can't stand by while others died. He can't run and he can't hide away. His honor demanded him to stay as did his overwhelming sense of responsibility told him that he could find a way to stop this madness.
"I have to try." He whispered but his voice was steady, strong and sure. "I can end this."
Ser Barristan paled like he'd seen a ghost and a sad, pained smile crossed his lips. Seeing it took Jon back to a painful memory. The day he begged for Ned Stark's life, Ser Barristan had paled then, too, as if he had seen a ghost instead of a tortured boy, a gleam of respect in his eye. He doesn't understand its meaning but he held the old knight's eyes anyway, no matter how terribly sad it looked.
A moment later, he felt the old knight's hand beginning to slack until Jon was free. Ser Barristan turned wholly serious and resolute as he nodded, accepting Jon's decision.
Jon wasted no time to get up and rejoin the fight, Ser Barristan's sword still in his hand. The mob had now infiltrated the castle. The wagons and whatever remained of the City Watch hindered their entrance. If Jon didn't think of a way to stop this soon, the castle would be sacked by its own people. A full scale civil war would wreak havoc in this already devastated city. With multiple wars in various directions brewing like storms in the horizon, King's Landing cannot afford to be any more divided than it already is. The city will not survive.
He met blades with those who ran toward him, cutting them down as fast as he could or only carefully incapacitating them. His injuries hampered his movements and it exhausted him so fast that he knew he will not last long.
He had to think. He had to find a way to stop them from fighting.
He pulled himself behind a column and looked around wildly, hoping for any way to get their attention. He was bordering desperation when someone pulled him away and into a corridor. He tried to struggle but the person held him firm, his sword swinging uselessly in front of him. They dumped him on the floor and he hissed in pain, feeling all the old and newly acquired injuries springing into being.
"Jon fucking Snow." Ser Bronn of the Blackwater stood above him and Jon froze.
"Jon!" Tyrion hissed almost in panic somewhere to his left while Jon, sighing in relief, was too busy trying to sit up and stand. "What are you doing out there?! Where is Ser Barristan?!"
He saw Pod standing guard by the entrance with an axe in his hand and Varys a few feet away with a worried look on his face. Tyrion held a crossbow, angling it away from Jon. He recovered whatever dignity he had left and stood as well, his face grim.
"Ser Barristan is injured. I helped him hide in an alcove. We have to find a way to stop the fighting." He said to Tyrion. "Help me find—"
"There's nothing we could do about it now." Tyrion interrupted him in a rush. "We have to find a way to get out of the city before it's too late."
"But the city is falling apart! We have to—"
"Jon, we can finally escape King's Landing!" Tyrion insisted, almost pleading with him. "The city is in disarray and the war is getting worse every day. This is our only chance. We have to leave!"
Jon looked at Tyrion in surprise and it dawned on him. He can finally go home, he realized. He can go home to the North, to Winterfell, to his family. He can leave this wretched place forever and never come back. He'll see his family again, be with them, and stop them from ever having to march south, to war. There was nothing here but pain and misery. His family will have no need to come here if he left. The South was no place for a Northerner. They do not need to fight if he escaped.
But the cries and the screams rang in his ears again.
Duty and longing pulled him this way and that until he felt it's torn him apart. It wasn't right to leave them all to die. It wasn't right to run away and hide from the wretchedness of King's Landing. Jon was first and foremost Ned Stark's son. Duty, honor, desire and longing weren't always easy to choose from, he was taught. He had a duty to save the people who had nothing to do with a war they had started. Why should they suffer for one man's pride? Why should they die for another man's glory? He could find a way to save them and he was honor-bound to stay to carry it out despite the hate and bitterness that grew around his heart. His father carried the sentence and swung the sword every time. So would he. He was a Stark of Winterfell above all else and their way is the old way.
He chose to stay for Ned Stark, now he will choose to stay to save these people.
"Send my regards to my family, Lord Tyrion. But I cannot leave just yet. I have a duty to do." Jon finally answers, gripping the sword in his hand tighter. "Tell them you are my friends and they will protect you in the North."
"You're fucking staying?!" Bronn asked him incredulously. All of them looked at him as if he'd gone insane. Maybe he has as his grandsire had.
"I am honor-bound to help—"
"Fuck your honor. You can go home!"
Jon's eyes dimmed but he cannot be persuaded. "I know."
"Why? You owe these people nothing. They aren't your duty. They aren't your people, either. The Northerners are your people and they are waiting for you. Your family is waiting for you."
"I know—"
"Then, we must leave now!"
"I can't leave and condemn innocent lives to a war they didn't choose, Tyrion!" Jon snapped. His posture sagged, the sword heavier in his hand. He shut his eyes tight and sighed. "I just can't. I'll be right behind you. I just need to find a way to stop the fighting."
"You can't." Tyrion shook his head to his madness. "There's just no way to do it."
"There is."
They all turned to Varys who procured a vial from his long, voluminous robes. It was small and glowing green.
"Is that—" Tyrion whispered in disbelief.
"Wildfyre." Varys confirmed, looking at the little Lannister. "I was saving it for our departure. But that isn't the case now, is it?"
Tyrion looked to be grinding his teeth together and Jon felt relieved when he saw his friend nod stiffly in response.
"Fucking hells." Bronn muttered, followed by many more crude insults. Varys handed the vial to Jon and he took it with care.
"The plan is simple: throw it under one of the wagons. Make sure it breaks and leaks. Then, after you're in a safe distance, knock a flaming arrow and blow it apart." Varys told Jon. "Be warned, my lord, even with only this small vial, it will be extremely flammable. The explosion could drive the common people away and cease them from entering. We lock the gates as soon as we can. What remains of the City Watch will apprehend the commoners inside the castle and wait for the king to come back with the bulk of his forces."
Tyrion pointed his index finger at him as if to disagree but he only looks defeated. "That is actually not a bad plan."
Varys shrugged. "I live to please, my lord."
"It's not a good plan, either, Varys." Tyrion grimaced as he handed Jon his crossbow and the setter on his belt.
"I never said I was perfect."
"We can do this." Jon told them all as he ripped a part of his tunic to wrap it around the bolt. "We can stop this bloodshed then we can escape."
"I liked you better when you're brooding, Jon." Tyrion sighed but smiled encouragingly as he always have. Jon stood to leave, a cross bow on this arm and a sword tucked without a sheath on his belt.
"You were right about one thing," Bronn mock whispered to Tyrion as he unsheathe his sword. "It wasn't long before they're at the fucking gates."
Tyrion snorted.
Jon, Pod and Bronn braved the maddened battle.
Bodies lay everywhere and stained the earth with blood, swords were clashing and arrows flew in every direction. The battle had only gotten worse. The east and south side of the castle were now on fire. He can hear shrieks of women somewhere distant inside the castle and he only wanted to move quicker for it. He pulled the squire by his leathers as they fought their way to the wagons when they were near enough.
"Pod, in an alcove on the left side," Jon screamed over the fighting. "Take Ser Barristan Selmy to Tyrion and Varys!"
"Yes, my lord!" Pod yelled back determinedly and ran his way to the pointed alcove.
"Ser Bronn, watch my back!"
"Aye, you fucker!" Jon turned to see Bronn had just gutted a man and could see that the insult was more for the person he'd just killed rather than directed at Jon himself but with Bronn he wasn't entirely sure so he focused on his task. His sword was on one hand while the other gripped the crossbow and bolt. He knocked his opponent to the ground and rolled to the nearest wagon he can find. He threw the vial under it and it broke into pieces, wildfyre slithering on the ground like a glowing green snake. He saw that Bronn had already begun to retreat and Jon was about to follow when he saw that the wagon was not empty as he had assumed. It had two barrels filled with dark liquid, oozing all over from the chaos of the looting. No one took it because it was heavy, Jon realized. It was oil.
Jon mentally cursed.
"GET BACK! EVERYONE, GET BACK!" He warned but no one paid him any attention unless they were trying to kill him. He cursed again ran for a torch. He placed the bolt on the crossbow and lit it. When it burned, he took aim. No one heeded his call. They were too close to the wagon. He has to warn—
Someone rammed into him and he fired the bolt by reflex. Cursing, he swung his sword across the man's throat and he fell agonizingly slow, gripping at his open throat, eyes wide in pain. Jon stood stock still as he watched the man die, unable to scream, unable to stop himself from dying. Jon looked on at the stranger even after the breath left his body and suddenly, he felt as if he was plunged underwater. He killed that man. He took away his life. He murdered—
"JON!" Tyrion's voice called out. "JON, DO IT!"
Another wave of common folk was trying to force their way in and he knew that the City Watch will be no match to the next slaughter.
He had no time to think. He grabbed the torch, ran back to the wagon, pass the blades that tried to kill him and the arrows that flew pass him, and threw the torch under the wagon where it quickly caught and exploded.
Jon was blown backward from the sheer force of it and he heard more cries and screams. A bright light filled his vision and it blinded him, heat washing over him like a wave. He remembered how he burned his hands when he was at the Wall. He remembered the pain. He knew he would die from that same pain here, only tenfold. Fire was everywhere. Fire and blood. It surrounded him now, engulfing him, burning him away and he shut his eyes, thought of the cold winter winds and the winter roses that grew around Winterfell.
Maybe he would see his mother now. Maybe he would be safe now. Maybe he would be—
He was plunged back to the cries and screams. Always the cries and screams.
He opened his eyes and saw men burning, wounded and dead alike. He smelled blood, burning flesh and sweat mingled in the frigid night air. He keeps hearing them weep and howl and cry and scream until something in him snapped.
He stood carefully, his rage burning like an inferno within him instead of feeling the flames that clung to his skin. His vision turned red and all he saw was Fire and Blood.
Fire and Blood.
Fire and Blood.
And then he screamed back at them.
TYRION
"ENOUGH!" Jon Snow stood among the flames, scorched and burning with righteous fury. It escaped him that the flames were licking his skin, marring his clothes with embers, seething in anger too much to feel it burn.
But the men who saw had noticed.
They bore witness to a young man among smoke and flame, scorched and burnt but he did not seem to care. His fury was magnificent and petrifying to behold, Stark grey eyes resembling a cold winter storm. The men stood rigid in fear, weapons falling to their sides with mouths agape.
"LISTEN TO ME!" He commanded and Tyrion noticed how every man's rapt attention was focused on Jon Snow, including his own. "MY NAME IS JON SNOW OF WINTERFELL! I COMMAND YOU TO LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS AND CEASE THIS FIGHTING!"
Jon Snow, the Dragon Prince, Tyrion hears many of them whisper and his heart nearly stopped when he heard it. It was true that Jon Snow's true parentage was never kept secret after the king found out. They had even taken great cares to spread it as far and wide as they possibly could. Jon Snow, the last dragonspawn of Rhaegar Targaryen. Jon Snow, the product of rape and a spawn of evil in this world that the king has now, finally, captured.
But only the idiots believed it, Tyrion knew.
The Bard Prince was known far and wide as a gentle, handsome prince, marred only by the reputation of his father's madness and his family's dwindling support because of his father's cruelty. Tyrion had heard how he loved music and was always blue, how he stood proud and strong that day in the Tourney of Harrenhall when he took down rider after rider with his lance until he won a crown of winter roses and laid it upon a promised maiden's lap.
Seeing the fascination and—dare he say it—hope in the common people's eyes, Tyrion knew then that Robert may have killed Prince Rhaegar Targaryen but he is not forgotten.
The North remembers, they say in the North and maybe so does the common people of the wretched King's Landing. They remember and they are reminded through his last living son who stands before them in flames, back straight and Northern face grim, a prince of ice and fire.
Jon Snow the Dragon Prince, they aptly whisper.
When Jon noticed that they listened to him, his eyes softened sadly but they remained strong and piercing, the baritone of his voice ringing across the listening silence. "This war has taken many from us! This war has left us to suffer! But this is not our war! We did not choose to offend which lord it is they fight! This is their war!" There was a murmur of almost reverent agreement and Jon was panting hard, intoxicating heat and smoke blurring his vision, fatigue nearly overcoming him but he fought against it. "We are all victims of this war! But we shouldn't declare war upon ourselves! The lone wolf dies but the pack survives, we say in my House! Killing each other won't help us survive! Only together!"
He took a deep breath, eyes meeting each pair he can see. "Fight together, not each other! Fight with us, not against us! Stand with us! Stand with me!"
Tyrion saw many of the men's faces, common folk, City Watch soldiers, and knights alike, looked fiercely moved and for a moment, the little Lannister had thought they won.
But silly little man, forgetting life was not a song.
There was a click of a crossbow firing—a quick sound of swoosh—and then a sickening sound of something imbedding into flesh. Tyrion saw Jon's face molding into shock and then stumbling forward with an arrow on his back. The Red Keep came to life, shouts and screams alike broke the stunned silence that overcame them.
The little Lannister had only time to gasp before Jon Snow fell to the ground. When Tyrion ran to his friend, he didn't expect that much blood to pour so fast. He cradled his dark head in his lap, murmuring reassurances he knew he had no right to make, and the last thing Tyrion saw before Jon closed his eyes were the fresh flecks of purple that were now as stark as its grey, intertwined like the twin powerful bloodlines that ran in his blood that now soaked the ground red.