The great hall was a sight to behold, with its towering grey stone walls and tall narrow windows that allowed beams of pale light to filter in, casting intricate patterns upon the worn flagstones below. Massive oak doors, reinforced with bands of iron, stood at either end, one leading out to the bustling castle yard, while the other beckoned to the dimly-lit gallery beyond.
Within, the air was alive with the hum of conversation and the clink of armour, punctuated by the crackle of torches and the scent of woodsmoke coming from the enormous hearth, which stood at the far end of the hall.
When Jon and Sansa entered the Great Hall, whatever conversations bore upon the lips of those inside, immediately died, leaving a silence. Only the sound echoing footsteps reverberated around the room, as Jon and Sansa made their way down the centre aisle. Their presence commanded attention as they approached the top table where Lord Baelish, Lord Manderly, and Lady Dustin awaited them.
Jon looked up and down the table, unsure whether a seat had been saved for him. In the middle was what was the ornate wooden seat, carved from ironwood, polished smooth by the passage of time, the ancient throne bore the likeness of snarling direwolves upon its massive arms, the sigil of House Stark.
Jon recalled seeing his father often seated upon the imposing throne during feasts and council sessions. Now, however, that seat belonged to Sansa alone, leaving Jon to find solace against the chamber's dimly lit wall, his arms folded in a stance of silent observation. As he positioned himself amidst the shadows, the room instinctively made way for him, allowing the hulking figure of Ghost to follow in his wake.
Sansa settled into her designated chair, and those in attendance took their places around her. Even from a distance, Jon could discern a hint of apprehension in her demeanour, invisible to all but his keen eye. The presence of Littlefinger at her side only heightened his concern, knowing all too well that matters were poised to worsen. In this moment, all Jon could do was despatch Ghost to stand vigil, a silent directive passed between man and beast. Rising from his post, Ghost made his silent journey to the high table, where he lay down at Sansa's feet.
This seemingly insignificant gesture wielded immediate influence. Sansa found comfort in Ghost's proximity, her delicate fingers finding solace in the softness of his fur, even as Littlefinger's unease grew palpable. For Jon, the sight brought a flicker of grim satisfaction. Even if fate were to claim him this day, the disquiet etched upon Littlefinger's face would offer a sliver of vindication, albeit a fleeting one.
Once the room settled into a hushed anticipation, Littlefinger rose from his seat. "Ladies, gentlemen, thank you for gracing Lady Sansa and me with your presence..." Jon's ears tuned out the rest of the sentence, his fury simmering beneath the surface. There was no "Lady Sansa and Littlefinger" in his mind. Swiftly, he warged into Ghost, finding solace in Sansa's gentle caresses as he eavesdropped on the unfolding dialogue.
"We have pressing matters to address," Littlefinger pressed on, his voice cutting through the tense air. "As you all know, Lord Commander Snow currently lives within Winterfell."
"Has he forsaken his duty?" a voice rang out from the assembly.
"Behead him!" cried another, the sentiment echoed by some.
"Hold!" Sansa's command sliced through the clamour. "There will be no talk of executions until we've heard from Lord Commander Snow himself."
Jon returned to his own body, watching as two soldiers approached, shackles in hand. He extended his hands, resigned to the charade to maintain Sansa's authority over Winterfell. The weight of his swordbelt lifted, his wrists bound, Jon was then led to the centre of the room.
"Am I under arrest, my Lady?" Jon inquired, his tone betraying little emotion.
Her gaze flickered briefly to Littlefinger's, who remained silent. Jon observed her clutching Ghost's fur for support, recognizing the facade of strength she projected. She despised this ordeal as much as he did, yet they both understood its necessity.
"You are under scrutiny until we've heard your account," Sansa asserted, her voice a steady anchor in the tumultuous sea of accusations. "Then we shall discover whether your actions constitute to desertion from the Night's Watch or if there are merits to your... peculiar circumstances."
Lord Royce interjected, rising from his seat. "We received correspondence from Ser Alliser Thorne claiming your demise. Can you substantiate his claims?"
Jon restrained a sardonic chuckle. "Ser Alliser was instrumental in my supposed demise, Lord Royce. Regrettably, he cannot be summoned from Castle Black, as he no longer draws breath to corroborate his allegations."
A furrow formed on Lord Royce's brow. "Are you suggesting he succumbed to illness?" he inquired before resuming his seat.
Jon shook his head solemnly. "Indeed, not, Lord Royce. Ser Alliser met his end not by fever but by the hangman's noose, alongside Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwick, and my steward, Olly."
Littlefinger's voice cut through the tension. "And why were four of your sworn brothers subjected to such punishment?"
"It is treason to conspire against the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, is it not, Lord Baelish?" Jon countered, his tone unwavering.
Lord Baelish, with a solemn nod, conceded. "A compelling argument, indeed, were you truly deceased. Yet, here you stand. So, which is it?"
"I was murdered," Jon asserted, his tone cutting through the scepticism permeating the room.
"Then how do you find yourself among the living?" Lady Dustin pressed, her scepticism clear. "You don't appear deceased. And I've encountered my fair share of corpses."
"I was resurrected," Jon confessed wearily, his disdain for the conversation palpable, especially amid the stifled chuckles echoing from behind him. It was clear his testimony thus far had failed to sway their doubts. "Which means my watch has ended."
"What do you mean, ended?" Lord Royce inquired, his gaze piercing.
"Lord Royce," Jon addressed the formidable man before him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Both your son and I swore an oath. Allow me to recite it for you:
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 fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, 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."
"For all nights to come," Littlefinger interjected with a knowing smile, his tone laced with a hint of cunning.
"I doubt Ser Waymar is honouring that vow right now," Jon retorted, his words striking a chord as Lord Royce squirmed uncomfortably. "The crux of the matter lies in 'it shall not end until my death.' I died, thus my watch has ended."
"What about pledging your life and honouring the Night's Watch for all nights to come?" Baelish interjected, his tone probing.
"I remain in service to the Night's Watch, albeit without the constraints of my vows," Jon explained calmly. "There's a necessity for someone on the outside to advocate for them. While not obligated, given the horrors I've witnessed, it's only prudent that I continue aiding them in any capacity."
"You seem to have a penchant for breaking vows, don't you?" Littlefinger chimed in, his tone tinged with a sense of triumph. While he might concede, he still sought to undermine Jon whenever possible. "What about her, Ygritte?"
Murmurs of discomfort rippled through the room. Jon recalled Sam's counsel regarding romantic entanglements, a lesson now proving invaluable. "Pray tell, which vow did I breach?"
"I'm sure you comprehend the meaning of 'I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children,'" Littlefinger pressed on.
"I didn't wed her, so there was no theft of marital vows. Nor did I claim any lands. And as a seasoned purveyor of brothels, Lord Baelish, you're well aware that carnal relations don't always lead to becoming a parent," Jon countered, then turned to Sansa. "Apologies for the coarse references, my Lady."
Sansa's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "You are forgiven, Lord Jon."
"The Freefolk women are well-versed in avoiding unwanted pregnancies, as are the ladies at the Moles Town brothel, which thrives due to its robust patronage, primarily stationed at Castle Black. But I suspect you're already acquainted with that, Lord Baelish. Some of those girls likely originate from the brothels of King's Landing," Jon remarked, a knowing smile dancing on his lips as he observed Littlefinger's subtle shift in posture, a habit Jon had observed before. He made a mental note to decipher its significance, even as Sansa squirmed uncomfortably at the discussion's course.
"And how, pray tell, are you privy to such information?" Lord Baelish regained his composure, though Jon recognized the telltale signs of a mind racing to devise an impromptu response.
"He straightens his shoulders when caught off guard, needing a moment to conjure a reply," Jon mused internally, then replied, "Men speak of the Moles Town whores. The girls from King's Landing earned favour among the men for their expertise."
"Can we return to the matter at hand?" Sansa interjected, her discomfort palpable.
"Apologies, my Lady," Jon conceded, directing his attention back to the proceedings.
"You claim to have been stabbed. Do you possess evidence? Scars?" Lady Dustin inquired.
"Aye, the wounds still afflict me," Jon affirmed.
"If a maester were to verify that these wounds were indeed fatal, would that settle the matter?" Sansa posed the question to the gathered lords and ladies, receiving nods of agreement with Lord Royce, Lady Dustin, Lord Baelish, and the previously silent Lord Manderly.
"Do you have a maester willing to attest that my injuries are beyond survival?" Jon inquired, his gaze steady as he awaited their response.
Littlefinger shook his head. "Not until we uncover how you stand here now, despite your fatal wounds."
"I'm sure you're all familiar with the Red Woman, Lady Melisandre, who accompanied Lord Stannis," Jon began, sensing the room's collective intrigue.
"Yes, her existence is no secret," Littlefinger acknowledged.
"She claims to have resurrected me using her magic from the red god," Jon confessed, his throat parched with apprehension. He prayed they wouldn't misconstrue his words as allegiance to R'hllor, yet he braced for the inevitable accusation.
Lord Manderly broke his silence. "Do you follow R'hllor?" he inquired bluntly.
Jon shook his head. "No. I'm uncertain why he deemed it necessary for me to return. It seems unlikely it was to face execution here. Perhaps it is to safeguard Lady Stark," he added, offering Sansa a reassuring smile, which she reciprocated.
"Now that we have some clarity on your resurrection, we can assess the veracity of your account," Littlefinger interjected. "A maester could confirm the fatal nature of your wounds if he understood why you're still among the living. Isn't that right, Maester Rhodry?" he beckoned to a small, bespectacled man with wispy brown hair and a prominent nose who had approached.
"Before we proceed further, please state your name and the house you serve," Sansa interjected, her voice carrying a note of authority.
"Maester Rhodry, my Lady. I serve Castle Cerwyn," the maester identified himself.
"And setting aside any personal beliefs regarding resurrection, would you be willing to confirm that a knife through the heart is fatal?" Sansa posed the question with authority.
Maester Rhodry swallowed. "If the wound pierces the heart, there is no doubt about the outcome."
Sensing the need to seize control before Littlefinger could further assert his influence, Sansa took charge of the situation. "I would like Lord Baelish, Lord Royce, Lady Dustin, Lord Manderly, Lord Cerwyn, and Lord Belmore to accompany Jon, Maester Rhodry, and me to the antechamber, where we will examine Lord Jon's injuries," she declared, rising from her seat and nodding to the soldiers who had restrained Jon. "Release the shackles," she commanded.
"But my Lady, Lord Baelish..." one of the soldiers protested.
"I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I preside over this trial," Sansa asserted. "If we are to establish the truth of Lord Jon's purported demise, he must be allowed to disrobe. He cannot do so while bound in chains."
Recognising the undeniable logic in Sansa's words, Littlefinger signalled to the men, who removed Jon's restraints.
Though his hands were unharmed, Jon rubbed them, relieved to be free from the iron shackles. "Thank you, my Lady," he acknowledged as Sansa led him, along with the assembled lords and Lady Dustin, to the antechamber.
"You are welcome, Lord Jon," Sansa replied with a smile, her head inclined as she peered up at him through her lashes. The subtle gesture caught Jon off guard; in his experience, such a move was often a sign of flirtation. Was she aware of the effect it had? He wondered, momentarily thrown by the unexpected display.
As the soldiers sealed the door to the antechamber, memories flooded Jon's mind of the times he and his half-siblings had shared meals and lessons in this very room. Like the great hall, its walls were constructed of dark stone, lending an air of solemnity to the space. A sizeable oak trestle table commanded the centre of the room, flanked by wooden chairs and benches along its length. The warmth of a roaring hearth bathed the chamber in a soft glow, complemented by the natural light streaming in through a large window overlooking the courtyard. It had always been Jon's favourite room, a cosy sanctuary amidst the harshness of Winterfell. But now, it felt suffocatingly cramped and oppressive.
All eyes turned toward him, and Jon suddenly felt acutely uncomfortable, a sense of awkwardness settling over him like a heavy cloak. He had dressed and undressed in front of others countless times, yet never had he felt such scrutiny. Even his intimate moments with Ygritte, though shared in the company of others, was shrouded in a veil of youth and secrecy. When he had died, he had been a spectacle for gods knew how many witnesses, yet this was different. These were high lords, and their presence served as a stark reminder of his place in the hierarchy.
Jon attempted to undo the laces of his doublet, but to his frustration, Sansa had tied them in a manner he couldn't unravel, only exacerbating the situation. Sensing his struggle, Sansa's demeanour shifted, assuming a maternal air as she intervened.
"Come here, let me help," she insisted, her tone bristling with concern. Jon found himself torn between annoyance at her fussing and a peculiar sense of comfort in her attentiveness.
Once freed from his doublet, Jon removed his cravat and lift his tunic, revealing a sight that defied expectations. His chest bore four sizeable, jagged stab wounds, prompting gasps of horror from the onlookers. Save for Littlefinger, Sansa, and Maester Rhodry, whose expressions remained stoic.
"Seven hells, how did you survive that?" Lord Manderly exclaimed, his booming voice echoing through the chamber.
"I didn't," Jon replied matter-of-factly, as Maester Rhodry, his countenance alight with fascination, approached.
"May I examine them?" the maester inquired, his curiosity palpable.
"Of course," Jon assented with a nod.
Over the next fifteen minutes, Jon endured the probing scrutiny of Maester Rhodry, the lords, Lady Dustin, and even Sansa, who had to feign a sense of detachment despite her prior familiarity with the wounds. Each of them inspected the injuries, though Jon couldn't help but wonder if their motives differed.
Sansa appeared to seek reassurance of his vitality, Maester Rhodry approached the examination as a professional duty, and as for Lady Dustin's intentions, Jon dared not dwell on them.
Once the examination concluded, Jon pulled his tunic back over his head, adjusted his cravat, and fastened his doublet himself, lacing it up with practised efficiency. "So, Maester Rhodry, am I dead?" he inquired as he secured the last knot.
"You ought to be. I can't fathom how any man could survive even one of those wounds," the maester declared.
"I was able to cling to life after the first three," Jon explained. "But I was bleeding profusely. It was only a matter of time before I succumbed. The final blow pierced my heart. I saw who struck the blow, but that was the last thing I remember."
"And what came after that?" Littlefinger pressed, his brow furrowed in curiosity.
"I awoke at my desk in my solar," Jon replied. "As for what I saw when I died..."
Jon felt a wave of discomfort wash over him at the question, but he knew he couldn't evade it entirely. "I must have slipped into a dream just before I died," he began cautiously. "I found myself on the road to Winterfell, accompanied by Ghost. In the Godswood, I saw Sansa in tears. That's how I knew where to find her."
Sansa's expression remained impassive, though Jon sensed her disappointment at not being privy to more details surrounding his demise. He had unwittingly betrayed her trust by withholding information.
"How... touching," Littlefinger remarked, his words dripping with insincerity.
"Are we finished here?" Jon interjected, his patience waning. "Have I sufficiently proven my demise to you all?"
"Your death is beyond dispute, Lord Jon," Maester Rhodry assured him, though Jon detected a flicker of unease in the maester's gaze.
Sansa approached the double doors, murmuring something to one of the guards stationed outside before turning back to the group. "Let us adjourn. I believe we have reached our verdict. It's time to inform the rest of our men," she declared before exiting the room, heading back to the table.
The other lords and the maester followed suit, leaving Jon to trail behind them as they made their way to the opposite side of the table.
As they regrouped, Sansa turned to Maester Rhodry with a pointed question. "Can you confirm that the wounds on Lord Jon's chest would indeed prove fatal to any man in this room?" she inquired, her tone firm.
"They would, Lady Stark," Maester Rhodry affirmed.
"And in your expert opinion, is there any conceivable way a maester could have saved Lord Jon from the wound to the heart?" Sansa pressed on.
"He would have perished before hitting the ground," Maester Rhodry asserted. "The stab wound was directly into the heart."
Sansa's gaze swept across the assembled lords and ladies. "Do you all concur with Maester Rhodry's assessment?" she inquired, receiving unanimous nods of agreement. "And as we understand, the Night's Watch vows conclude with death. Therefore, Lord Jon cannot be branded a deserter. Are we all in accordance?"
The responses this time were more subdued. Jon sensed a lingering scepticism; he knew he was escaping on a technicality, and Littlefinger would likely exploit this vulnerability.
Turning to Jon, Sansa locked eyes with him. "Lord Jon, I absolve you of all charges. You are a free man," she declared solemnly.
Jon bowed his head, restraining the urge to grin triumphantly. "Thank you, my Lady. I pledge to serve you faithfully," he vowed.
Sansa gestured to a vacant chair positioned between herself and Littlefinger on her right. "Lord Jon, would you join me at the high table?" Her eyes sparkled with warmth.
"Nothing would bring me greater joy," Jon replied with a genuine smile. For the first time in his life, he took his place at the high table in the great hall of Winterfell.