Jon awoke, gasping for air as if he'd been dragged from the depths of the sea. Davos, on his way out, halted at the sight before him, his eyes locking onto Jon Snow, the once-commander now stirring upon the unforgiving wood of the table. With each strained breath, Jon rose, meeting Davos with a mixture of disbelief and confusion, while Ghost observed from the sidelines, his curiosity piqued.
Jon's gaze fell upon his wounds, stark reminders of the betrayal that had led to his current state. Panic threatened to overwhelm him as he attempted to dismount from the table, but his weakened legs buckled beneath him, almost causing him to collapse. Davos acted, shedding his cloak and hurrying to Jon's side, guiding him back into a seated position and enveloping him in warmth.
"Easy now," Davos soothed, his voice a calming presence amidst the turmoil. Alerted by the noise, Melisandre entered the room, her focus fixed on Jon with a reverence that bordered on the divine. Turning to Jon, Davos was gentle but firm as he pressed for answers.
"What do you remember?" he asked, searching Jon's eyes for any sign of comprehension. "They stabbed me." Jon said, his voice heavy with pain and tinged with shock. "Olly... he drove a knife into my heart. I shouldn't be here." He added, shaking his head and casting a furtive glance around the room.
"But the lady brought you back." Davos told him, acknowledging the inexplicable resurrection. Melisandre knelt before Jon, her red eyes burning with fervour.
"Afterwards, after they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?" she inquired, her voice a whisper tinged with prophetic weight.
"Nothing." Jon lied. "There was nothing at all." He wouldn't reveal his journey to the crypts or seeing Sansa in the Godswood. Those memories held no suggestion of life after death, nor gods. They were the same dreams as one would have during any night of slumber.
"The Lord let you come back for a reason." Melisandre declared, her unwavering faith undimmed by the enigmas of the divine plan. "Stannis was not the prince who was promised, but someone has to be."
Feeling the gravity of their exchange, Davos intervened, urgency colouring his tone. "Could you give us a moment?" he requested, pleading with Melisandre through his gaze. As Melisandre withdrew, Davos settled before Jon, his demeanour solemn yet resolute. "You were dead. And now you're not," he remarked, a sense of incredulity underlying his words. "That's completely mad, seems to me. I can only imagine how it seems to you."
Jon met Davos' gaze, fear mingling with uncertainty in his eyes. "I did what I thought was right. And I got murdered for it. And now I'm back. Why?" he questioned, desperation edging his voice.
"I don't know." Davos confessed, acknowledging the unfathomable nature of their circumstances. "Maybe we'll never know. What does it matter? You go on. You fight for as long as you can. You clean up as much of the shit as you can."
Jon nodded, his resolve hardening with each passing moment. "I don't know how to do that. I thought I did, but...I failed," he confessed, his voice heavy with the weight of his own self-doubt.
"Good." Davos declared, his words a simple yet profound reassurance. "Now go fail again."
"Can I be alone for a little while? I need to wash and dress," Jon's voice held a quiet intensity as he addressed Davos. The weight of his recent resurrection hung heavy in the air, and he longed for a moment of solitude to gather his thoughts.
"Of course." Davos replied, understanding the gravity of Jon's request. Rising from his seat, he made his way to the door, his gaze lingering on Jon for a moment longer, concern etched into his weathered features. "Is there anything you need?"
Jon shook his head, a weary expression crossing his features. "No, thank you, Davos," he murmured, his voice tinged with a hint of exhaustion. With a nod of acknowledgment, Davos departed, leaving Jon to his own devices.
Alone at last, Jon heaved a heavy sigh, feeling the weight of the world pressing down upon him. His thoughts swirled tumultuously in his mind, a jumble of emotions and unanswered questions. Something about him felt off, incomplete, as if a piece of himself had been left behind in the darkness he had just emerged from.
Jon limped back into his quarters, his movements slow and deliberate. Ghost padded silently at his side. He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, the physical toll of his recent ordeal finally catching up to him.
Jon's gaze fell upon the garments he had been murdered in, a tangible reminder of the violence that had torn him from the realm of the living. With a mixture of curiosity and trepidation, he reached out to touch the black leather jerkin, fingers tracing the edges of the tears that marred its surface.
A chill ran down Jon's spine as he poked his finger through one of the holes in the black leather jerkin he had worn the night of his death. The rough edges of the fabric caught against his skin, jarring him from the numbness that had settled over his reawakened heart in the wake of his resurrection. Once warm and crimson, his blood now coated the edges of the tear in a hardened crust.
Withdrawing his hand, Jon shattered the momentary reverie, confronted by the harsh reality of his situation. Though the blood had dried and hardened, its presence served as a haunting reminder of the betrayal he had endured. He felt a little piece of his heart harden like the blood on the black jerkin.
Turning to the mirror, Jon met his own reflection. A haunting reminder of the man he once was and the trials that had reshaped him. His eyes lingered on the scars that marred his chest, the wounds that had claimed his life. Hatred built up inside him, alongside something else, something he had never experienced before to this degree. A deep-seated burning desire for revenge.
Jon wanted to exact revenge upon those traitors for what they had done to him. Aye, it was dishonourable, but so was what they had done. Honour had gotten his father killed, it had killed his brother, fuck; it had killed him; he thought. Why should he care about honour anymore? Or was it his duty to be honourable, like his father? Fuck duty! Jon thought, with a silent apology to Maester Aemon. What good had duty done him? Left him to a loveless and lonely death.
Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honour to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.
Jon had lived and died at his post. Jon had lost his life and honour for the Night's Watch. He owed them nothing. Jon's eyes lay on Ghost, who was sniffing the hardened blood on the jerkin and doublet he had worn. The direwolf snarled. A silent agreement was formed between them in that moment. The Night's Watch was not their pack. The only place Jon and Ghost belonged was amongst other wolves. But for the time being, they had work to do.
Jon washed his face, adorned some clean clothes, and pulled his raven curls hair back in a messy bun, tied with a piece of leather. The Lady Melisandre had cut it during the ritual, and it was chopped. Jon paid it little attention. He'd deal with it later.
Once dressed in his black attire, Jon picked up the black cloak of the Lord Commander. It was a heavy burden to bear, both physically and symbolically. And Jon was sick of wearing it. But for now, it adorned his shoulders, pressing down on him, aggravating the painful scars.
Giving himself one last glance in the mirror before he re-emerged into the world, Jon looked a mess, but he didn't care. Let the fuckers see what they did to him. Let them squirm.
When Jon stepped onto the balcony outside his chambers, the courtyard fell silent, all eyes fixed upon him. With each step down the stairs, the weight of the cloak bore down heavily on him, urging him to rid himself of its burden.
Finally reaching the snow-covered ground of Castle Black's courtyard, Jon's eyes met the wary gazes of those around him, apprehension etched upon their faces.
Approaching him first was Tormund Giantsbane, his wild mane of red hair and beard a stark contrast against the white backdrop. Tormund's embrace was strong, too strong for Jon's still-healing wounds, yet Jon endured it without complaint.
"They think you're some kind of god. The man who returned from the dead." Tormund whispered into Jon's ear, his voice tinged with admiration.
"I'm not a god." Jon replied, his voice cracked and tone humble.
Tormund leaned in close, his words a whispered jest that elicited a chuckle from both men.
"I know, I saw your pecker. What kind of god would have a pecker that small?" Tormund quipped, his laughter echoing through the courtyard as Jon's own mirth filled the space between them.
They separated and Jon continued his procession through the crowd, where he encountered Dolorous Edd, the loyal brother of the Night's Watch who had stood by his side through trials and tribulations.
"Your eyes are still brown. Is that still you in there?" Edd inquired, his scepticism tempered by a hint of genuine concern and the merest hint of sarcasm.
"I think so." Jon nodded. "Hold off on burning my body for now." Jon replied with a wry smile, as they brought one another into a brotherly hug.
The time for jesting had passed. 'Where are they?' Jon's voice was firm as he addressed Edd, who understood the meaning of his question.
'In the ice cells, Lord Commander.' Edd replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. It wasn't a secret Edd held a deep disdain for Thorne, a sentiment Jon shared.
Jon's jaw clenched, a surge of anger threatening to overcome him. 'Build the gallows. I want them dead within the hour. There's no time to waste.' His words were laced with cold determination, devoid of any hint of humour.
Despite the grim task at hand, Jon couldn't suppress a bitter twist of irony. Once the traitors were dealt with, he would free from the shackles of his vows. The prospect couldn't come soon enough.
'Aye,' Edd solemnly nodded. 'I'll see to it.' With a purposeful stride, he departed to oversee the construction of the scaffold, where justice awaited its execution."
Jon trudged through the corridors of the castle, his thoughts consumed by the looming task ahead. Revenge whispered in his mind, urging him forward with each heavy step. Though his heart burned with hatred for those who had betrayed him, the idea of executing a boy younger than Bran sat uneasy in his gut. The remnants of his former honour clashed with the thirst for vengeance, leaving Jon torn between conflicting ideals.
Alone in his chamber, where a fire had been built, Jon wrestled with his uncertain future. The events leading to his demise had shattered his sense of duty, leaving him adrift in a sea of uncertainty. The decision to rescue Arya had cost him everything, yet he refused to let his sacrifice be in vain. Winterfell still beckoned to him. And Jon vowed to reclaim his ancestral home for his siblings, by any means necessary. The bonds of loyalty to the Night's Watch had been severed, replaced by a newfound determination to carve his own path, consequences be damned.
Accompanied by Lord Baelish and Lord Royce, Sansa finally crossed the threshold of Winterfell's castle gates. A surge of emotion welled up within her. This was her ancestral home, and it was hers once more, reclaimed from the clutches of those who sought to destroy it.
Instead of riding through the Hunter's Gate, East Gate, which followed the Kingsroad, was opened to her, as that was the closest entrance to their vantage point of the battlefield. She rode past the First Keep, and the Great Keep, before entering the main courtyard.
Whatever Sansa expected to see, wasn't what she found. In front of her was a cross. Strung upon it, was the body of a part flayed woman, her face untouched, but her body was a different matter. From the neck downward, it was a mass of blood, muscle, and sinew. However, it wasn't the body itself which shocked her; it was the face. Her childhood friend, Jeyne Poole, was nailed to the cross.
Sansa fell from her horse, whereby sheer fortune, she was caught by Lord Royce. Then she did the most unladylike thing she had ever done in her life and vomited all over his boots.
"My Lady, my Lady." Littlefinger rushed over to her, turning her away from the horrific scene.
"There, there, child." Lord Royce's voice was soothing. "Don't look, it'll be alright."
Sansa wished the ground would swallow her up. If only she could be Alayne Stone once more. Alayne was bastard brave, she wouldn't have vomited at the sight of Jeyne Poole flayed upon a cross. Alayne Stone had never even heard of Jeyne Poole. Unfortunately, Sansa Stark did.
"Take it down!" Sansa heard Littlefinger order. He meant well, but he wouldn't understand her connection to the woman on the cross.
"Why is this still in the courtyard?" came the stern voice of a woman from across the courtyard. "Get rid of it now."
Sansa stood, her back to the cross, noting the footsteps of the woman approaching.
"What in the seven hells have you done? Allowing her in here before we had the chance to clean the monster's mess up." The woman huffed.
"Lady Dustin." Sansa heard Littlefinger say.
"Lord Baelish." Lady Dustin acknowledged his presence. Sansa couldn't tell whether or not the woman liked him, however, her question was answered moments later. "Lord Royce, good to see you. Even if it is under such unfortunate circumstances."
"Lady Dustin. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance once more." He replied.
"My dear, Lady Stark, are you alright?" Lady Barbrey asked, her tone was clipped, and efficient, if not stern.
Sansa turned to face the woman and nodded her head. "I apologise. Jeyne was my best friend while as a child." Tears were threatening to fall from her eyes. Not only was Rickon dead, but now Jeyne. She needed to ask the obvious question. "What about Arya?" Sansa dreaded the answer that was given.
"I'm afraid your friend on the cross was being passed off as Arya." Lady Dustin gave Littlefinger a quick glance, but said nothing to him, instead returning her attention back to Sansa. "Not sure why she thought she could do it, poor girl. Death was a kindness for her in the end, although I'm not so sure by which the manner of her death was kind."
"He was cruel to her?" Sansa asked, although she really wasn't up to wanting to know the answer.
"Ramsay was a monster." Lady Dustin said. "But enough chitchat, let us get you inside, you must be freezing."
"No!" Sansa shook her head. "I'm waiting for Rickon." The tears finally spilled. "Ramsay killed him on the battlefield."
"Thought he much." Lady Dustin said in a matter-of-fact tone, with no empathy. "The boy was too much of a threat to let him live."
"It will be hours before they recover the body." Lord Royce told her kindly. "Why don't you find your old room, lie down there for a while and grieve your losses. Someone will fetch you when his body is returned."
"I'll have some food and wine sent to you." Littlefinger added.
Sansa nodded. "Alright." She agreed. This was not the homecoming she had expected, although she should have.
Sansa made her way over to the Great Keep and headed towards her old room. Once inside, she flopped down on her old bed, and cried.
As he sat by the crackling fireplace, lost in the plans he was forming, a familiar knock sounded upon the door, heralding the moment of reckoning.
"It's time," Edd announced, as he entered the room.
Jon rose to his feet, standing tall and shedding the vestige of his past wounds, as he picked up his sword, Longclaw, and made his way down to the courtyard..
In the snow lined courtyard of Castle Black, a monochrome scene of solemnity unfolded as Jon Snow, accompanied by Dolorous Edd, made his way towards the gallows. The gathered assembly, including Melisandre, Tormund, Davos, and a mix of Wildlings and Night's Watch members, watched in silent reverence as Jon ascended the stairs, to exact justice.
He who passes the sentence, must swing the sword. Words his father used to say. Despite forgoing honour, this was the standard he still wished to live by.
On the platform above, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck, Alliser Thorne, and Olly stood with hands bound and nooses around their necks. As Jon approached, his gaze met theirs with a steely resolve.
"If you have any last words, now is the time," Jon announced, his voice carried across the courtyard.
"You shouldn't be alive. It's not right," Bowen Marsh protested, his words tinged with bitterness.
"Neither was killing me," Jon replied quietly, his tone firm.
Othell Yarwick pleaded with Jon to deliver a message to his mother. "My mother's still living at White Harbor. Could you write her? Tell her I died fighting the wildlings." Jon had no intention of fulfilling Yarwick's request, leaving that decision to the next Lord Commander.
Alliser Thorne, unrepentant to the end, continued to defend his actions. "I fought, I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever," he proclaimed, his voice filled with resignation. Despite Jon's resolve to ignore the perils beyond the wall, Thorne's words resonated deep within him. Could he really let go?
As Jon's gaze fell upon Olly, the young boy whose betrayal had cut deepest, he felt a mixture of sadness and hatred. While he understood that the boy may have been manipulated, and his viewpoint clouded by what had happened to his parents, Jon knew that wasn't his problem. He had been trying to save the realm, including Olly. Now, the boy was going to die for nothing. But Olly had murdered him, and the punishment for murder was death.
With his mind settled, Jon turned away and unsheathed his sword, Longclaw. With a single decisive stroke, he severed the rope, and the platform beneath the traitors' feet fell away. As their bodies swung lifelessly in the air, the courtyard fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of choking and gasping.
"Jon removed the heavy black cloak from around his shoulders and handed it to Edd. It felt like a weight had finally been lifted from him, a burden he had never realised he bore.
"We should burn the bodies," Edd suggested, his voice tinged with solemnity.
"You should." Jon replied. "But I recommend you hang them on the other side of the wall. They might turn into wights. You'll need proof when you tell the high Lords of what is coming." With that, he removed his Lord Commander's cloak and handed it to Edd.
Edd looked startled. "What do you want me to do with this?" he asked.
Jon shrugged. "Wear it. Burn it. Whatever you want. You have Castle Black." With that, he turned to leave. "My watch is ended!" Jon declared, as he descended the stairs and walked away, becoming the first Lord Commander in history to resign from his post at the Night's Watch without fear of retribution."