305AC Red Keep Dungeons, Kings Landing
Winter had descended upon King's Landing, but Jon Snow found no solace in its icy grip. The air, whether beyond the confines of his damp cell or within the stone walls that embraced him, failed to offer the familiar chill of the North. The reasons eluded him—was it the season's hesitant touch; was it the dampness seeping through the stones, or the stark contrast to the cool winds he had grown accustomed to? The enigma of warmth lingered, unsettling in its ambiguity.
Within the cell's confines, a small window barred Jon's escape, its iron lattice a cruel reminder of his confinement. Day after day, he awaited the descent of snow, a phenomenon that eluded him despite his longing. The skies, draped in perpetual grey, mirrored the tumult within him. The absence of the cold he had known so well in the North, a stark departure from the familiar embrace of winter, whispered mysteries that danced on the edges of his understanding. Perhaps, he mused, the death of the Night King held secrets that reached beyond the Wall, influencing the very essence of the seasons.
In the frigid solitude of the cell, the remnants of the Red Keep bore witness to Jon's lonely vigil. Seated on the cold, unforgiving stone, he cradled the weight of regret in the hollow of his chest, a bitter pang that refused to dissipate. The echoes of a fateful day reverberated within the confines of his memories, a haunting refrain that painted the cell's dreary walls with shadows of remorse.
The dagger, a harbinger of choice and consequence, had mercilessly found its mark in Daenerys's heart. The chill of winter, once mere background noise, failed to numb the profound ache that had settled within him. In the dimness of his cell, the recollection of that pivotal moment played out like an unyielding specter, a ghostly reel that cast shadows over the embers of warmth now turned cold. The cold wind whispered through the unseen recesses, carrying with it the weight of a decision that had forever altered the course of history.
Love, an emotion he had tried to suppress as the Lord Commander and later as the reluctant heir to the Iron Throne, now surged within him like a storm. Daenerys had been more than just a queen; she had been his confidante, his lover. The realization that he had been the one to end her life, someone he had pledged his loyalty and heart to, sent waves of sorrow through him. Duty clashed with the yearning for a different outcome, and the conflict tore at his soul.
The clash of values reverberated in his mind. Jon's Stark upbringing, with its emphasis on honour and justice, clashed violently with the ruthless act he had witnessed in the destruction of King's Landing. The woman he loved, once seen as a liberator, had become a tyrant in the eyes of many. Jon grappled with the weight of his own moral compass, questioning whether he had done what was necessary or betrayed the very principles he held dear.
Leadership had always been a heavy burden on Jon's shoulders. The responsibility to make decisions for the greater good often left him sleepless, but none weighed as heavily as the choice to end Daenerys's life. He questioned whether there could have been another way, a path that didn't demand such a devastating sacrifice. The mantle of leadership, once worn with a sense of duty, now felt like a crown of thorns.
Fear gnawed at him, the fear of retribution from those who had followed Daenerys, those who saw her as a saviour. Jon knew his actions would be met with hostility and judgment. A death sentence, perhaps, awaited him, or at the very least, a life branded as a traitor. The weight of his own isolation settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
Amidst the ruins of hope, Jon mourned the shattered dream. Daenerys, once a symbol of liberation and breaker of chains, had become a harbinger of destruction. The loss of hope, the realization that the vision they had shared for a better world had crumbled, added another layer to Jon's sorrow. In the desolation of the Red Keep, he sought solace, grappling with the haunting echoes of a choice that had changed the course of history.
Time felt like an eternity since the dagger pierced Daenerys's heart, and in the quiet solitude of the stone walls of his cell, Jon grappled with the weight of his actions. It wasn't merely the love he held for her that tormented him, although that certainly compounded the agony. The blade might as well have been thrust into his own chest, for the consequences of that fateful act reverberated through the confines of his being. His fate forever entwined with the haunting echoes of a pivotal choice that altered the course of history.
Sansa's foresight, a wisdom Jon had dismissed, now revealed itself as a prescient truth. His initial rationale for her wariness toward the Dragon Queen—the bending of the knee and the forfeiture of the North—unravelled before him. There existed a depth Sansa had perceived, a recognition born from her own experience with cruel tyrants. She possessed a keen eye for the shadows beneath regal facades, a skill honed in the halls of power. Jon, by contrast, had been blinded by a naïve trust and a love that clouded his judgment.
He wrestled with self-deception, attempting to convince himself that Daenerys wasn't a tyrant when their paths first crossed. The harsh reality, starkly illuminated by the treatment of Sam's family, shattered the illusions he had woven. How had he not seen the signs earlier? The question echoed through his mind, a ceaseless refrain that haunted his waking hours and tormented his restless nights.
These thoughts, a relentless tempest, accompanied Jon day and night. The anticipation of death, a consequence he deemed inevitable, loomed over him. The realm, divided in its perception of Daenerys as both a saviour and a tyrant, would demand retribution. Yet, Jon found himself indifferent to the fate that awaited him. As Ser Alliser once remarked, the prospect of death held an ironic allure—a chance for respite, a break from the ceaseless turmoil that now gripped his soul.
Jon reclined on the stone bench, hands beneath his head, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. The finality of it all beckoned like a distant relief, a bittersweet embrace that promised an end to the tumultuous journey. In the quiet solitude, as he contemplated the impending verdict, Jon couldn't help but wonder if, in death, he might find the elusive peace that had eluded him in life.
The clink of metal against metal jolted Jon from his thoughts, a stark reminder of his confinement. He didn't bother to turn his gaze towards the source; such gestures held little purpose in the grim reality of the cell. Whoever lingered on the other side, whether friend or foe, would impose their presence upon him regardless of his consent. The click of the lock echoed in the dimness, a harbinger of intrusion, and the cell door groaned open with an unmistakable creak.
Footsteps, a distinctive patter that spoke of a person with a small gait, reverberated within the confines of the cell. The owner of those footsteps, whose identity remained veiled in the shadows, approached with an air of purpose. Jon sighed, shifting his attention from the brooding thoughts that held him captive.
Swinging his legs over the cold stone, Jon sat up, the edges of the cot biting into the contours of his weary frame. The weight of the impending moments pressed upon him, an awareness that either his fate had been clandestinely decided or that Tyrion, bearer of tidings, would reveal when the inexorable trial awaited him. In the stifling silence, he braced himself for the revelations that lingered beyond the cell's threshold, each creak and echo amplifying the uncertainty that gripped his destiny.
"Giving you to the Unsullied would start a war. Letting you walk free would start a war. So our new king has chosen to send you to the Night's Watch," Tyrion's voice cut through the air, its weight carrying the gravity of decisions made in the aftermath of chaos.
Jon's furrowed brow betrayed his surprise. "There's still a Night's Watch?"
"The world will always need a home for bastards and broken men," Tyrion asserted, the words laced with a sense of inevitability. His gaze met Jon's, and in that exchange, a silent acknowledgment passed between them—one exile understanding another.
"You shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children," Tyrion continued, laying out the terms of Jon's muted existence. "The Unsullied wanted your head, of course, but Grey Worm has accepted the justice of a life sentence. Sansa and Arya wanted you freed, but they understand our new king needs to make peace. No one is very happy. Which means it's a good compromise, I suppose."
Jon's eyes lingered on Tyrion, grappling with the weight of what had transpired. "Was it right? What I did?"
Tyrion corrected gently, "What we did."
"It doesn't feel right," Jon admitted, a heavy frown etching lines on his face.
"Ask me again in ten years," Tyrion suggested, his tone holding the weariness of a man acquainted with the harsh realities of choices made in the crucible of power. He approached Jon, his hand finding a resting place on Jon's shoulder before he started to walk away.
"I don't expect we'll ever see each other again," Jon spoke, the acknowledgment of parting hanging in the air.
"I wouldn't be so sure. A few years as Hand of the King would make anyone want to piss off the edge of the world." Tyrion's parting words carried a hint of wry humour, and Jon nodded in understanding as Tyrion left the room. The weight of the decisions made and the uncertainty of the future settled over Jon, a lone figure in a world reshaped by the echoes of choices that could never be undone.
Immersed in the cavernous heart of King's Landing, Jon found himself ensnared by the city's pulse, an unwilling witness to the aftermath of devastation that unfolded until the Dothraki, Unsullied, and Ironborn readied themselves for their divergent paths. The transition to more expansive quarters within the Red Keep provided a fleeting respite, but the grandeur of the rooms, adorned with opulence, proved incapable of expunging the haunting vestiges of Daenerys's violent legacy.
Within these once-luxurious chambers, soot clung stubbornly to the walls, while the cracked floors bore witness to the seismic upheavals that had shaken the foundations of the capital. The air itself seemed to carry the lingering stench of death, an unrelenting testament to the toll exacted. A stark reminder that the choices made had plunged the realm into an abyss of darkness that felt insurmountable.
As Jon paced within the opulent confines, he grappled with the lingering question he had posed to Tyrion. Did it feel right, what they did? The answer reverberated through the corridors of his conscience, a truth belatedly acknowledged and weighted with the burden of complicity. They had allowed Daenerys to soar to unparalleled heights of power, and in doing so, had become unwitting accomplices to the tragedy that now lay in the fiery ruins of King's Landing. Regret, a haunting companion, cast a shadow over Jon as he stood by the windows of the Red Keep. He gazed down upon the ruins that stretched beneath him, a silent testimony to a city marred by the unchecked ambition that had spiralled out of control.
The prospect of heading to the Wall, once regarded as both a blessing and a curse, loomed large over Jon's contemplation. He had sought refuge from the political machinations that ensnared Westeros, yearning for the simplicity of Castle Black's austere existence.
Yet, the thought of spending the rest of his days to the icy confines of the Wall no longer held the allure it once did. Jon longed for something else, a distant horizon where the shadows of his past couldn't cast their lingering grip.
The craving for anonymity, a relentless tug at the fabric of Jon's being, sought to sever the shackles that bound him to the intricate web of thrones and power plays. The journey ahead, fraught with uncertainty and unseen perils, beckoned him to carve a path that meandered far from the clandestine whispers of politics. In the obscurity of an unfamiliar horizon, Jon envisaged a canvas yet untouched by the strokes of his tumultuous past. A place where the echoes of his lineage and the burdens of his name could no longer reach him. All he wanted and hoped he could find, was the solace of anonymity, a new beginning.