305AC Kings Landing
Within the stone cell's confines, a small with latticed ironwork at the tiny window, barred Jon Snow's escape, although it did not entirely block out the view of the world outside.
Winter had descended upon King's Landing, but Jon Snow found no solace in its icy grip. Or lack of it, to be precise. Day after day, he awaited the falling snows. A seemingly elusive phenomenon in what was left of the capital despite. Instead, the skies outside were draped in perpetual grey. Although chilly, the absence of the cold he had known so well in the North, was a stark departure from the familiar embrace of winter, a confusing phenomenon. Perhaps, he mused, the death of the Night King himself had been influencing the very essence of the seasons.
Often, Jon's mind wandered back to the day which looked to be the true downfall of the Targaryen dynasty, wrought at his hands. The dagger, his choice of weapon selected for camouflage, had mercilessly found its mark in Daenerys heart. However, his real weapon, was stealth and his betrayal. Jon had chosen her moment of vulnerability. Just as she was about to ascend the Iron Throne, in what was left of the Red Keep, he distracted her, using her love for him against her. Jon would never forget that kiss, for his was the kiss of death, as he plunged the dagger into her heart.
Love and grief, emotions he had tried to suppress as the Lord Commander and later as the reluctant King in the North, now surged within him like a storm. Daenerys had been more than just a queen; she had been his lover. The realization that he had to be the one to end her life, a woman 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 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.
Jon knew his actions would be met with hostility and judgment. He knew a death sentence awaited him, although the consequences of his death would be far-reaching. His claim to the Iron Throne surpassed that of Daenerys, as did his popularity in Westeros itself. Not that he wanted it. Instead, he wanted to go back north and hide away from everyone and everything.
The weight of his own potential death settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak. Yet, the one who should have performed the act, Drogon, couldn't bring himself to kill Jon. Instead, the dragon reserved his wrath for the symbol which had led to her madness, the Iron Throne itself. Now a pile of molten slag, a more fitting representation of the havoc it wrought.
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. He realised that the vision she had for a better world had crumbled, added another layer to Jon's sorrow. How had he not understood her true intentions? Yet the slaughter was clear, he had been an unwitting part of it.
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. Sansa had perceived, a recognition born from her own experience with cruel tyrants, what was to come. She possessed a keen eye for those cloaked beneath regal facades, a skill honed in the halls of power. Jon, by contrast, had been blinded by a naïve trust, beauty, lust, and a perceived love that clouded his judgment.
Jon had wrestled with self-deception, attempting to convince himself that Daenerys wasn't a tyrant. The harsh reality, starkly illuminated by the treatment of Sam's family should have shattered his illusions. That was the point he ought to have realised what she was instead of making excuses for her. He'd sided against those he'd known for years, defending a woman he barely knew. How many people had died for his mistake? Love was the death of duty, a wise man once said. How right his uncle had been.
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 peaceful solitude, he contemplated the impending verdict. Jon couldn't help but wonder if, in death, he might find the elusive peace that had evaded him in life. His final conversation with Ser Alliser Thorne seemed to be on endless repeat.
"I had a choice, Lord Commander. Betray you or betray the Night's Watch. You brought an army of wildlings into our lands. An army of murderers and raiders. If I had to do it all over knowing where I'd end up, I pray I'd make the right choice again." Ser Alliser said. "I'm sure you would, Ser Alliser." "I fought, I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever." Ser Alliser had lifted his head ready to die.
The clink of metal against metal jolted Jon from his thoughts. 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. True enough, the click of the lock echoed in the dimness, and the cell door groaned open with an unmistakable creak.
Footsteps reverberated within the confines of the cell with the distinctive patter of a person with a small gait. The owner of those footsteps, could only belong to one person, Tyrion Lannister. The instigator of the plan to kill Daenerys. A man who had escaped the wrath of the angry mob, despite his involvement. Jon sighed, shifting his attention from the brooding thoughts that held him captive to the man invading his melancholy.
Swinging his legs over the cold stone, Jon sat up, the edges of the stone slab biting into the contours of his weary frame. The weight of the impending moments pressed upon him, an awareness that either his fate had already been decided or that Tyrion, bearer of tidings, would reveal when the inevitable trial awaited him.
"Your grace." Tyrion acknowledged Jon's previous title.
"I'm not a king anymore, Lord Tyrion. I bent the knee, remember?"
"Ah yes, I do distinctly remember something of the sort." Tyrion replied.
"Are you here to tell me I'm a dead man?" Jon asked. "I presume the Unsullied want me executed for Queenslaying."
"Giving you to the Unsullied would start a war. Letting you walk free would start a war. So our new king opted 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 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.
"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 turned and walked away.
The prospect of heading to the Wall, once regarded as both a blessing and a curse, loomed large in Jon's thoughts. He had sought refuge from the political machinations that ensnared Westeros, yearning for the simplicity of Castle Black's austere existence. Mayhaps he could head further north instead. Seek Tormund and the Freefolk. Nobody would know, save for the Three Eyed Raven. And that would be the best choice for all of them.
"I don't expect we'll ever see each other again." Jon said, 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 words carried a hint of wry humour. "Although I doubt this is our final goodbye. In the meantime, Bran has ordered chambers befitting a man of your status." Jon nodded, slightly confused by the cryptic message, as Tyrion left the room.
Jon barely had time to register the implications of his sentence when two armoured guards arrived at his cell to escort him to his new accommodations.
Emerging into the cold stone corridors beneath the Red Keep, the journey unfolded through twists and turns, the torchlight casting flickering shadows on the dungeon walls, until he eventually emerged into the brighter passageways of the keep itself.
Upon reaching his chambers in Maegor's Holdfast, heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing the accommodation which would be Jon's home for one night. The guards unshackled him and retreated, leaving him to stand alone in the antechamber. With the guards standing outside, this was just another prison, albeit the standard of comfort was far greater than the last.
Jon explored his new chambers. Despite being devoid of their previous opulence, the rooms still bore the regal remnants of Lannister influence. Dim light filtered through the once white, now smoke damaged latticework shutters, casting a subdued glow on the red walls. The windows led to a balcony, however, the white shutters were tightly sealed against the harsh realities of a world scarred by both war and dragonfire.
Tapestries of lions adorned the room, faded and tainted by the soot of Daenerys and Drogon's fiery wrath. Cracked floor slabs of terracotta, bore witness to the scars left by the recent upheaval. The rugs which lay upon the terracotta floor, once vibrant in their red and gold Lannister hues, like the tapestries which adorned the walls, now bore the scars of smoke damage, a stark reminder of the chaos that had unfolded within the very heart of power.
A hearth, its roaring flames cast a warmth across the room, offering much needed solace against the chill of winter. The bed, sizeable yet adorned with soft linens, stood as a testament to Jon's former status as a King, despite being a criminal, who had been sworn off titles and grandeur.
In the middle of the room stood a desk, scarred by the scribbling of quills and the weight of important decisions. Nearby, Jon discovered a large ornate wardrobe, holding fresh clothes inside. The black garbs of the Night's Watch. He took them out and placed them upon the bed, a reminder of what was to come.
Near the window was a vanity table, adorned with a tarnished mirror. Jon confronted his reflection. Vanity was not his vice, but the unkempt state of his hair and beard betrayed the toll of recent events. Once youthful and described as pretty, his was now a face marked by scars, weariness, and the lines formed by the burden of leadership.
A door at the opposite side of the room led to a privy, offering a semblance of privacy, revealing a tin bath, already full of steaming hot water. A small luxury for a man tainted by the title of Queenslayer, although he doubted any soap would cleanse him of that stain.
Jon's gaze shifted back towards the clothes neatly laid out on the bed. Fresh and unblemished, a welcome departure from the grime-stained rags that clung to his body. His body, marked by the stains of smoke and stench of weeks old, dried sweat. The prospect of a steaming bath in the adjoining privy beckoned.
Jon discarded the stinking rags that clung to him, flinging them carelessly onto the chamber's floor. Bare and unburdened, he wandered into the privy, where the tin tub awaited, promising warmth and a brief respite from the weight of his own existence.
As he descended into the water's embrace, Jon submerged himself, the warmth enveloping him like a cocoon. He held his breath beneath the surface, seeking solace in the peaceful sanctuary the bath provided. A place where the world couldn't intrude, and he could momentarily escape the consequences of his actions. As seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, Jon remained submerged, a fleeting attempt to elongate the sense of tranquillity.
Jon eventually emerged from the water, drawing in a deep breath, reminiscent of a newborn taking its first gulp of air. The ritual unfolded like a cleansing, a symbolic rebirth that offered him the chance to start anew. In the simple act of submerging himself, Jon found a brief respite from the turmoil that surrounded him, soon the guilt would return.
Having cleansed himself with the provided soaps, Jon dried off with the towels and ventured naked into the chambers. Surprisingly, the discarded rags from before had vanished, leaving him little choice but to don the attire laid out for him.
His attention shifted to the vanity table, where a bowl of water, soap, a razor, a beard comb, and scissors awaited. Unconcerned with dressing, Jon seated himself, contemplating the task of transforming his appearance into that of a man of the Night's Watch—the man he once was before death claimed him. "Kill the boy, let the man be born," the wise words of Maester Aemon echoed in his mind. The boy had perished. Yet the man reborn in his stead seemed perpetually entangled in a web of mistakes. Perhaps reverting to the guise of the boy he once was, held the key to regaining the clarity he had lost.
Jon set about the grooming task, more specifically, trimming and tidying his beard. Cutting his own hair was a challenge beyond his skills. It mattered little. The bath had worked its magic, restoring his unruly curls to a semblance of order. The bounce in his hair seemed to shorten its appearance, bringing him closer to the semblance of his former self. However, the scars remained.
Upon the bed, the neatly laid out garments which awaited Jon, were tailored with an almost uncanny precision to his form. Sansa's doing, he presumed. Bran, even with all his knowledge of a Three-Eyed-Raven, was unlikely to possess the knack for accurate body measurements. Whereas Sansa had been making his clothes for years and knew how to tailor clothes to fit him with her own precision of a military commander.
Sansa's meticulous craftsmanship reflected in the clothes, and upon closer inspection, Jon could discern the subtle touch of her hand. A miniature direwolf, discreetly stitched into the tunic's hem, symbolic of Sansa's artistry. A half-formed smile of gratitude tugged at Jon's lips, yet resentment toward Sansa lingered, postponing the moment of forgiveness. Her betrayal was for the greater good, that was a fact Jon understood. However, the principle still stood, she had betrayed him. That moment for forgiveness, he conceded, would need more time. Yet it would one day come, of that he was certain.
Fully dressed, Jon faced himself in the mirror. A man of the Night's Watch reborn. The familiar cloak of black draped over him, and he felt a certain comfort in the colour that had defined much of his life.
Jon turned towards the hearth. A chair stood before the fire. Next to the chair, was a table where a pewter pitcher, presumably filled with ale, accompanied by a horn for drinking was waiting for him.
As Jon settled into the chair, pouring ale into the horn, as he heard the distant echo of slow-moving footsteps in the outside corridor. Unfazed by what was probably a guard changing station, Jon took a measured sip of the ale, savouring the quality of the brew. Thoughts of inquiring about the recipe surfaced; an improvement from the Castle Black ale might be a pursuit to consider.
A click of the lock on the door announced a guest. Jon looked up, and the door creaked open, to reveal Bran's wheelchair being pushed by the capable hands of the newly knighted, Ser Podrick Payne. The once-squire had risen to his own quiet prominence. Now a knight of the Kingsguard, the unmistakable white cloak adorned his shoulders. The fate of becoming the caretaker of the realm's omniscient ruler had fallen to him.
The air shifted as Bran's gaze, unfathomable in its depth, met Jon's. King Bran. The thought echoed in Jon's mind as he rose from his seat. No one could have foreseen the outcome where his brother, no cousin, would be seated on what was once the Iron Throne, but was now a wooden one.
Podrick left the room once the wheelchair was positioned opposite Jon. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Jon and Bran together, alone for the first time since Jon's punishment had been exacted. The rhythmic sound of Podrick's steps faded, then stopped, waiting for the next instructions from his king.
Jon, a man of honour and duty, bowed before the wheelchair-bound Bran. It was a symbolic gesture, an acknowledgment of the role reversal that fate had orchestrated. Once a king in his own right, Jon now bowed to a once brother who had become a vessel for the wisdom of ages.
Bran watched Jon with an expression that betrayed neither joy nor sorrow, before nodding his head, accepting Jon's deferential act. Jon returned to his chair opposite his once brother, waiting for him to speak, yet he uttered no words.
Jon had been so caught up in Daenerys and the Night King, he had spent little time with Bran. Now was the time for him to rectify that mistake, as it would probably be the last time he saw him. "I should have asked you sooner. What happened to you, Bran? Where did you go north of the wall?"
"I'm not really Bran anymore. I'm the Three-Eyed-Raven. But you can call me Bran if you wish," came Bran's cryptic reply, his eyes holding the distant gaze of one who has seen beyond the veil.
"Or should I call you 'Your Grace'?" Jon asked, attempting to grasp the essence of the transformation that had befallen his brother.
Bran, or the Three-Eyed-Raven, offered a soft smile. "There's no need for such formalities. Not when it's just you and I."
As Jon settled into the chair, his eyes locked onto Bran. "So, tell me, Bran. What happened to you?"
"Beyond the Wall, I found the Children of the Forest and the roots of a great weirwood tree. There, time unfolded before me like a vast, ancient book," Bran told him.
Intrigued by Bran's journey, Jon leaned forward. "What did you see?"
Bran's lips curved, a semblance of a smile playing upon them, while his gaze held the shadowy depths of knowing. "Everything. The past, the present, and the future, all tangled in its ancient branches. I became the keeper of history, Jon, a witness to the ages."
Jon furrowed his brow. "The future?"
Bran nodded solemnly. "A glimpse, uncertain and hazy. The threads of fate are not always clear. But the past, Jon, the past is etched in the weirwood's memory. It is how I found out who you really were."
Jon eased into the chair, his gaze fixed on Bran. "Tell me, Bran. What was it you saw? The future, I mean. Or can you not say?"
Bran closed his eyes, as if venturing into the vast expanse of time. "The free folk finding new homes, forging alliances with the Night's Watch. The Wall remaining as it is, broken, yet healing a rift between two peoples. It stands as a monument to unity. I also see a shadow in the north. Something is stirring."
A ripple of concern etched itself on Jon's brow. "What is it? What stirs beyond the Wall?"
Bran's blue eyes locked with Jon's. "I am uncertain. The visions are fragments, whispers. But there is a power awakening."
"Not the walkers?" Jon's voice held a tremor of fear.
Bran's enigmatic smile played upon his lips as he shook his head. "It is different. Neither good nor evil. An ancient power reborn. One which, I believe, can be controlled."
"How do we control it? Is that why you're sending me back to Castle Black? Is there time?" Jon's question lingered, a plea for reassurance in the face of an uncertain future.
Bran's smile held a wisdom that seemed to penetrate the fabric of time itself. "Time is a construct, Jon. It bends and weaves. In the meantime, we must prepare for its arrival. For now, it sleeps, but will soon waken. There is no imminent danger."
Jon's nod was an acknowledgment. If the Three-Eyed-Raven deemed a threat significant or imminent, urgency would be paramount, but Bran seemed relaxed about the prospect. Therefore, Jon steered the conversation toward more personal matters. "And what of me, Bran?"
"Your initial path leads beyond the Wall, where your heart finds solace. There, brother, your destiny awaits you." Bran told him.
A sad smile played on Jon's lips at the term 'brother.' While Bran was not his brother by blood, and this Three-Eyed-Raven entity remained a mystery, Jon found solace in the term brother. Perhaps Bran wasn't entirely lost to them. Yet, the words still stirred a sense of confusion within him. "Destiny?"
"The weirwood has murmured your name, Jon. You are woven into a tale that spans the ages, and your part in it is far from concluded." Bran said. "You and another. One who still lives."
"One who still lives?" Jon was worried he would have to kill someone else he cared about. But for now he was concerned with events from the past. The Three Eyed Raven must have known what would happen. "And what of Daenerys? What of the toll I paid? What about the price she bore for this destiny we supposedly shared?" Jon's gaze locked onto Bran.
"Daenerys legacy is a tragic tale of choices, Jon. The toll paid, the burdens carried—they carve the path forward. Your journey is an unfolding chapter, not a conclusion; Daenerys was but a vessel. A lesson had to be learned from her. Your journey has just begun. Yours and that of another. You needed to learn from Daenerys, and that is exactly what you did."
"What have I learned? How not to be a tyrant? What good is that at the Wall?" Jon questioned.
"All shall become clear in due course. Your apprenticeship under Daenerys has concluded. A new beginning awaits. It is all I can tell you for now." Bran replied.
Inner turmoil stirred within Jon. All this while, Bran had known. In that realization, Jon sensed a feeling of being manipulated, akin to Daenerys. The gods, it seemed, cared little for the emotions of those destined to serve their will. A surge of rebellion welled within Jon. An undercurrent of anger gripped him, one he tried to conceal, though Bran, he suspected, was privy to these suppressed emotions.
"What does destiny expect from me now?"
"Beyond the Wall, your narrative converges with a grander saga—the chronicle of ice and fire, enshrined into the very roots of time. Do you think my directive to return to the Wall was a punitive measure, or a destination ordained by fate?" Bran disclosed.
Amidst Bran's revelation, he produced a clear glass vial with a cork stopper. A relic radiant and luminescent. Bran extended the vial toward Jon. "Weirwood paste," Bran stated, as the vial exchanged hands between them.
Jon furrowed his brow. A profound silence enveloped them, an eternity distilled in the examination of the small vial containing white paste streaked with red veins.
At last, the stillness yielded to Bran's voice. "Jon, beyond the Wall, in the frozen heartland, a solitary weirwood tree stands. Its roots plunging deep into the earth, and its branches stretching toward a sky that cradles the echoes of ages. It is a portal, Jon, a gateway that swings open into the very fabric of time. The weirwood paste you bear, is a key to this gateway. Ingest it, and you shall stand at the crossroads of deeds done and those yet to unfold."
Jon, clutched the vial of weirwood paste in his palm, its contents aglow in the ambient light. "What lies beyond that threshold, Bran?" he inquired, a fusion of apprehension and determination in his tone.
"The road to your destiny, Jon Snow. Past, present, and future. They all converge in the great weirwood in the north. You asked me where I went? This is the place where I am sending you."
"Where can this weirwood tree be found?" Jon asked, though uncertain he truly desired the answers.
"Tormund will take you." Bran replied. "It is well known amongst the Freefolk."
Jon's gaze returned to the vial of paste. "Once I locate this tree, ingest the paste, and touch its roots, what happens next?"
"You will encounter the one destined to aid you in your quest. Patience is your friend. For this ally will not reveal themselves right away," Bran said, his words as enigmatic as the journey ahead.
"Won't I starve?"
"The weirwood paste will nourish you for as long as you need to be there."
"And how do I return?"
"To endure in the river of time, a moment shall approach where you must decide between life and death. Opt for death, and only then shall you truly live."
"What happens after that?"
Bran's gaze, filled with a knowing depth that transcended mere sight, fixed upon Jon. "You will return south, Jon. Once you've gained the knowledge to control what lies beyond the Wall, you will find your true home. One word of warning, Castle Black is not meant to be your home. Do not swear your vows." Bran turned his head and looked to the door. "Podrick!" he called out, before returning his gaze to Jon. "We will meet after your journey." he smiled.
Jon stood, and with a bow, he acknowledged the meeting had concluded. As Podrick returned to guide Bran out of the chambers. The door closed behind him, while Jon remained in the room, alone once more, staring at the vial in his hand, contemplating all Bran had told him.