When the men had left, Charleen went over to the fireplace and sank down in a chair, burying her face in her hands. It had been almost an entire day since Ser Davos had come knocking on her door to get her to safety from Jon's killers, but the reality of the situation was still only beginning to sink in. Jon was dead, his corpse laid out right in front of her, yet all that she could feel was emptiness.

Many months ago, when news had reached Winterfell of the murder of Robb along with his mother and his new wife, Charleen had beat her fists against the walls of her room in helpless rage against the traitorous Freys and then sobbed herself to sleep, but now, there was no pain, nor grief, nor even anger. It was as if time had stood still, freezing her in a state of shock so deep that it left no room for emotion.

The fire in the grate had long since burnt itself out when the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside finally roused Charleen from her stupor. It was Ser Davos, followed by Edd Tollett and the wildling, Tormund. At the sight of the three men, a shiver passed down Charleen's spine.

"Is it time?" she asked faintly, moving to rise from her chair.

"No, my lady," Ser Davos replied, "not quite yet."

At his words, Tormund took a step forward into the room, revealing a fourth person to Charleen's astonished gaze – the Red Woman had returned.

"The Lady Melisandre", Ser Davos explained hesitantly, "knows of a spell that might –" he paused, motioning towards Jon with his head, "– help." He looked up at Charleen as if asking for her permission to proceed, but she simply stared at him in disbelief.

"Help?"

For a moment, she wanted to rush at Ser Davos and shake him – this woman had violated the memory of Jon's life with her false prophecies, and now she was to be allowed to desecrate his death, as well?

But then, Ser Davos's words from the previous night came back to her – 'you haven't seen her do what I've seen her do' – and she lowered her gaze.

The Red Woman lit a fire in a brazier and stood for a long moment gazing into the flames. Then, she turned around and said quietly, "I need to unclothe him. Will you help me?"

Without a word, Ser Davos moved to stand beside her, and together, they removed one layer after another of Jon's clothing until only his shirt and smallclothes were left. Charleen watched them from the corner by the fireplace, anger once again bubbling up in her chest as she remembered how she herself had helped Jon take off his clothes on the evening of his return from Hardhome. Seeing somebody else undressing him now felt like an intrusion into the moment of intimacy that they had shared, and she hated the Red Woman for it, the more so that the entire ritual could not be anything but a sham. In the mortal world, after all, death was final, and there was no power on earth – not even that of a priestess of the red god – that could bring Jon back.

When the Red Woman finally pulled off Jon's shirt and revealed the bandage around his ribcage, there was a murmur of surprise from the men. Edd Tollett exchanged a glance with Tormund and gave Charleen a questioning look, but she did not respond. At the sight of the bandage soaked with blood and torn by the blades of traitors, tears of fury had risen into her eyes. Thorne and his men had drawn blood where she had bandaged, had injured where she had sought to heal, had killed where she had cherished, and for a vertiginous moment, all the tortures that Ramsay Bolton had ever inflicted did not seem punishment enough for them.

In an effort to keep her outward composure, Charleen balled her hand into a fist, digging her nails into her palm. With tear-dimmed eyes, she watched as the Red Woman slowly began to unwrap the bandage from Jon's torso, revealing the gashes in his chest and abdomen from which his life's blood had spilled. She could hardly bear to see him like this, his wounded body exposed to the view of strangers, all its secrets laid bare to their sight. 'Nobody must know', Jon had implored her when she had first noticed that he was hurt on the night of his return, and at the same time he had placed himself into her trust by allowing her to take care of his injuries. Now, however, this trust had been violated. In the flickering light from the brazier, the bruises on Jon's right side stood out starkly against his pale skin, the contrast clearly visible even underneath the dried blood that covered his body, and Charleen felt a pang of jealousy at the sight. The Red Woman, Ser Davos, Tormund, even Edd Tollett – none of them had any right to see what Jon had entrusted to her alone! She wanted to shield Jon's body from their looks, to slap the Red Woman's hands away as she laid the bandage aside and began to unfasten Jon's smallclothes, but, inexplicably, Ser Davos' words – 'you haven't seen her do what I've seen her do' – kept her rooted to the spot.

When Jon was completely naked, the Red Woman covered his groin with a piece of linen and then began to wash the dried blood from his body, revealing one by one the grisly wounds that Thorne and his band of traitors had inflicted upon him. In the corner by the fireplace, Charleen stood motionless, watching the Red Woman's hands moving across Jon's skin, and another hot flash of anger coursed through her as she was reminded of how she herself had washed the cuts on Jon's side on the night of his return to Castle Black. To see another mimicking the intimacy that she had shared with him then was unbearable – it made her feel violated, almost as though the Red Woman were taking Jon away from her a second time.

Finally, the Red Woman stepped away from the table upon which Jon was lying. With a deep, almost shaky breath, she picked up a small pair of scissors and cut off a few strands of his hair, murmuring a prayer in a strange language that sounded harsh in Charleen's ears.

"Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon."

The Red Woman dropped the hair into the brazier, and the flame sputtered for a moment before accepting the fuel.

"Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon."

The Red Woman reached for a pitcher of water, rinsed Jon's hair, and wrung it out with her fingers. Then, she set the pitcher aside and slowly, very slowly, lowered both her hands to rest on Jon's upper body.

"Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson."

She paused for a second and then repeated her prayer, first commandingly, then pleadingly, then falteringly.

"Please," she finally whispered, her voice breaking, but it was no use. Jon lay pale and still, the sheer physical evidence of his death suddenly exposing the absurdity of the ritual that had just been performed.

Recognizing her defeat, the Red Woman slowly lifted her hands away from Jon's body. She looked at Ser Davos for a moment with an almost imperceptible shake of the head, then, she abruptly turned and hurried from the room.

In the silence that followed, the fact of Jon's death suddenly hit Charleen with full force. Reeling, she stumbled towards the door as her emotions threatened to engulf her. She was angry at herself for having given in, against her own better judgement, to the hope that the Red Woman had seemed to offer, and at the same time, grief was crashing in upon her like a wave. She barely made it out of the room and down the stairs before it forced her to her knees. On the bottom step, Charleen sank down to the floor, burying her face in her hands, her whole body wracked with sobs. It was only at this moment that she finally admitted to herself the true nature of her feelings: she was mourning not only a dear friend and companion, but the man she had loved.

Her heart breaking, Charleen barely noticed when Tormund and Edd passed by her on their way out of the tower, nor when, a few minutes later, footsteps once again sounded on the stairs above her, hurried this time, and accompanied by a breathless call.

"Lady Charleen!"

It was Ser Davos. Catching sight of Charleen at the bottom of the stairs, he hastened forward and grabbed her by the shoulder, and she finally turned her head to look at him.

Ser Davos did not speak, but there was something in his face that immediately brought Charleen to her feet. Without a word, she followed him back up the stairs, and when they had reached the room where Jon's body had been laid out, he pushed open the door and stood aside to let her enter.

Charleen took a tentative step forward, across the threshold, and then froze in her tracks.

Jon was sitting – sitting – on a stool beside the table upon which his body had lain a mere moments ago, wrapped in what appeared to be Ser Davos' cloak. He was hunched over, his breathing fast and laboured, but when Charleen appeared in the doorway, he raised his head to look at her.

"Charleen…"

Unable to move or make a sound, Charleen simply stared at him for a moment, but then Jon reached out for her with a shaking hand, and she rushed at him and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could.

"Charleen," Jon whispered hoarsely, bringing his face close to her ear, "Charleen, I love you…"

Whatever Charleen might have expected him to say, it was not this. With a choked sob, she tightened her hold on him even further as fresh tears began to stream down her face.

For a moment, they remained locked in their embrace; then, the sound of footsteps on the stairs made Charleen draw away from Jon, although she kept her hand on his back as though to physically reassure herself of what she was as yet completely unable to comprehend.

It was the Lady Melisandre. Eyes wide, she paused in the doorway for a second, staring at Jon in utter disbelief. /

"The lady brought you back," Ser Davos explained to Jon.

At this, Melisandre hurried forward and dropped to her knees in front of Jon, staring intently at his face.

"After you died," she demanded urgently, "where did you go? What did you see?"

There was a moment's pause; then, Jon shook his head.

"Nothing," he said emphatically, "there was nothing at all."

"The Lord let you come back for a reason," Melisandre insisted. "Stannis was not the Prince Who Was Promised, but someone has to be."

She grasped Jon's arm imploringly, but Charleen had finally had enough.

"Could you give us a moment?" she asked, taking a step forward as if to position herself between Melisandre and Jon. Melisandre looked up at her uncertainly; then, she rose to her feet and moved towards the door, throwing Jon one last glance over her shoulder as she went.

When Melisandre had gone, Charleen turned back to Jon. In spite of Ser Davos' heavy cloak, he was still shivering, and Charleen fell back upon her training as a medic almost with relief.

"Come on, let's get you warm," she said to Jon. "Can you stand?"

At this, Ser Davos moved to Jon's other side, and together, they helped him to his feet. Jon seemed weak and unsteady – he leaned heavily on Ser Davos' arm, and as they slowly moved out of the room and up the stairs to his chambers, Charleen had to support him with her arm around his waist to keep him from falling.

When they finally reached Jon's bedroom, he sank into a chair by the empty fireplace with a stifled groan.

"That's it," Charleen reassured him softly, "take it easy."

She remained standing by his side for a moment while Ser Davos went to retrieve Jon's clothes, and then knelt down on the hearth to light a fire, keeping her back turned to give Jon some privacy as Ser Davos helped him to get dressed. When the flame had finally caught, she rose to her feet and moved towards the door.

"I'm going to get some hot wine," she said, "I'll be right back."

When she returned to Jon's chambers a few minutes later with a steaming cup of hot wine with honey in her hands, she found Ser Davos sitting by the fire across from Jon, talking to him earnestly.

"What does it matter?" he was saying. "You go on. You fight for as long as you can." He exhaled heavily and then turned around to look at Charleen, who had paused in the doorway so as not to interrupt.

"All right," he said, "I'm going to leave you two alone." He rose to his feet and moved past Charleen into the outer room and from there out into the stairwell, closing the door softly behind him.

Charleen waited until Ser Davos had gone, then, she took a step forward and crouched down in front of Jon. He had stopped shivering, but the chill of death still clung to his body, radiating off him as the heat would from someone who was feverish.

"Here," she said, holding the steaming cup of wine out to him, "try some of this. It'll warm you up."

Jon reached out for the proffered cup with a shaking hand, took a tentative sip and then another, slightly longer one.

"Charleen," he finally said, raising his head to look at her, "what I said earlier – it doesn't have to change anything between us. It was just –" he broke off, hesitating for a moment, "– I've always loved you as a friend, but when I came back from Hardhome to find you here, my feelings for you very quickly began to grow deeper, and when I – when they stabbed me –" he paused again, swallowing hard, "– one of the last things I remember is feeling regret that you'd never know."

His eyes met Charleen's, and he held her gaze for a moment before looking away.

"And then," he continued, "when I – when I woke up, I was – I had the chance to rectify what I'd regretted just before – before my death, and I spoke without thinking. You know now how I feel about you, and I'm glad of it, but it's like I said – it doesn't have to change anything. I'll still be your friend, the way I've always been, and –"

At this, Charleen finally found her voice.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head, "no." And before Jon could say another word, she raised her face to his and kissed him.

She drew back again almost instantly, but her wordless avowal had sparked a fire between them that craved more fuel. Without taking his eyes off Charleen's face, Jon set aside his cup and then scooped her up into a passionate embrace.

"Charleen," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion, "my love…"

He held her tightly in his arms for a moment; then, they kissed again, longer this time, and Jon gently caressed the side of Charleen's face with his hand.

"Oh, Jon," she breathed, leaning into his touch even as she drew away from him a little, "what are we going to do?"

"What are we going to do?" Jon repeated, a sudden fervour in his tone. He straightened up a little, his gaze fixed upon Charleen's face. "We're going to ride south with the free folk," he said, "I'm going to retake Winterfell and rescue my sister, and then I'm going to marry you in the godswood, under the old weirwood tree – by my life I swear that I will!"

He grasped Charleen's hands and pressed them tightly as he spoke, but she did not reciprocate.

"You can't," she whispered, shaking her head. "You've already sworn an oath…"

"Aye, I have," Jon replied bitterly. "I swore to take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. And I swore to live and die at my post, which is what I have done. I have fulfilled my oath, Charleen. My watch is ended."

There was a long silence; then, Charleen's fingers slowly tightened around Jon's.

"I love you, Jon," she breathed. "Don't ever leave me again."

And Jon put his arms around her and pulled her close.

"Never," he whispered, "my love, never."