Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to A Song of Ice and Fire, the books, Game of Thrones, the TV show. I just play about with the characters for fun. I certainly don't earn any money from it.
In the icy-cold, windswept halls of Castle Black, Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, gazed into the meagre flames of his hearth. Despite the logs he tossed onto the fire, the room remained stubbornly frigid, a constant reminder of the looming threat of winter. 'Winter is Coming,' his father's solemn words echoed in his mind, their significance now more palpable than ever. Yet, in the grand scheme of the challenges he faced, freezing to death seemed but a minor concern amidst a growing list of troubles.
Since being elected as Lord Commander, Jon had confronted a relentless barrage of obstacles. The fist was opposition to his authority, manifesting itself in the form of Janos Slynt, whose defiance had cost him his head, cleanly removed by his own hands with the aid of Longclaw. A fate Jon regarded with indifference, considering Slynt little more than a cowardly burden on their dwindling resources. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword., Jon had remembered his father's honourable words.
After Slynt's execution, Jon had found the state of the Night's Watch to be a dire one. Rationing provisions and the looming spectre of starvation cast a grim shadow over Castle Black, exacerbating their precarious situation. The scarcity of essential resources, particularly dragonglass, essential for combating the impending threat of the undead army, only added to Jon's mounting concerns.
Yet, amidst these challenges, it was the decision to grant passage to the Free Folk through the Wall that weighed most heavily on Jon's conscience. This controversial decree had sparked discord within the ranks of the Night's Watch, stoking fury and resentment among its members.
Jon couldn't sit still. His mind churned with conflicting emotions as he paced the dimly lit room. Oil, scarce as it was, barely sustained their glow, leaving the fire as the sole source of illumination. Its dancing flames cast long, twisting shadows across the cold stone walls.
On one hand, Jon was keenly aware of the imminent threat facing the Free Folk from the relentless advance of the undead army. Once dismissed as mere tales of fancy, spun to frighten children, these legends had emerged as a grim reality, poised to unleash destruction upon the living. The Wall and the Night's Watch, long regarded as symbols of vigilance against the wildlings, giants and mammoths, in truth stood as the last line of defence against the encroaching darkness.
Having witnessed first-hand the relentless march of the undead horde during his time at Hardhome, Jon could not shake the haunting memories of the slaughter that had unfolded before his eyes. There, he had beheld the grim spectacle of thousands falling to the merciless onslaught of the Night King's minions.
With a crown of ice upon his brow and cold blue eyes ablaze with an otherworldly light, the Night King had wielded his dark power with chilling impunity. Through the raising of his outstretched arms, he beckoned the fallen from their icy resting places, increasing his numbers with every life he claimed. In mere moments, the ranks of the undead had surged,with a mindless obedience to their master's will. No need for ravens and begging letters. Just mindless slaughter.
In the face of such unrelenting horror, Jon knew he could not, in good conscience turn his back on those in need. Despite the potential backlash from his fellow brothers of the Night's Watch, he could not stand idly by while the Freefolk not only faced annihilation, but would increase the numbers of the undead hoard heading towards the wall. For Jon Snow, duty and honour demanded action, even if it meant defying centuries of tradition and risking the wrath of those who stood in opposition.
However, Jon was keenly aware of the deep-seated fear and resentment held by many of his fellow brothers towards the Freefolk. Raised on tales of wildlings as savages and raiders, they viewed the prospect of accepting them with suspicion and disdain. To ask them to set aside generations of animosity and welcome those they had been taught to hate and fear was, in Jon's eyes, akin to asking the impossible.
Despite this understanding, Jon found himself caught in a quandary. While he recognized the validity of his brothers' concerns, he could not ignore the pressing urgency of the looming threat beyond the Wall. The ancient animosity between wildlings and men paled compared to the existential peril posed by the encroaching darkness of the undead horde.
A distant horn sounded, its mournful cry piercing the icy air, heralding the arrival of visitors. Jon's thoughts were shifted from his worries over the problems of the watch, to the commotion outside. Stepping out onto the balcony, outside his solar, Jon beheld the sight of Melisandre, the enigmatic Red Priestess, making her way through the gates of Castle Black, without her usual air of authority.
Jon approached her with measured steps, he didn't like the woman; she put him on edge. Confidence in her red god and her visions in the fire, had never wavered. Stannis was some mythical Prince that was Promised, her loyalty to the Baratheon King, unyielding. Yet, when Jon saw Melisandre's eyes, all of that was shattered. Instead, her head was dropped, and as he looked into her red eyes, he saw something he had never seen before: doubt.
"My lady," Jon greeted her, his voice tinged with a note of caution. "What brings you to Castle Black?"
"Lord Commander," she began, her words measured and cryptic. "I bring grave tidings from the south."
Jon's heart quickened at her words. He had already suspected the weight of the news she bore. "What news do you bring?" Jon asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing within him.
With a solemn expression, Melisandre recounted the events of Stannis Baratheon's ill-fated campaign to reclaim the North, his army decimated and his cause all but lost. Yet, she remained elusive on the details of Stannis's fate, her words cloaked in veiled ambiguity.
"And what of Shireen and Selyse?" Ser Davos, his voice tinged with urgency.
Melisandre's eyes dropped to the grounds as she shook her head in a display of despair. "They are also lost to us."
Jon's heart sank at her words, a pang of sorrow gripping him as he grappled with the weight of their loss. Yet, amidst the grief, a flicker of determination ignited within him, a resolve to honour their memory and seek justice for their untimely demise.
But before Jon could dwell further on the grim tidings, Melisandre spoke of another matter of pressing concern. "Arya Stark remains elusive," she revealed, her words stirring echoes of hope amidst the despair. "Her fate intertwined with that of Winterfell, where shadows linger and secrets abound."
To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,
You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind, and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see.
Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. His direwolf's skin is on my floor, come and see.
Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed in seven days of battle. I have his magic sword. Tell his red whore. Your false king's friends are dead, as are his wife and daughter. Their heads upon the walls of Winterfell, bastard. Come and see.
I want the false king's red witch. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see.
Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North
The gravity of the letter shook and angered him. Not only did the bastard have Arya, but apparently he held Rickon too, although Jon had been certain of his youngest sibling's demise at the hands of the turncoat, Theon Greyjoy. Now, he wasn't so sure. Yet, amidst the uncertainty, a newfound sense of purpose stirred within him, a resolve to reclaim what was rightfully theirs and restore honour to the Stark name.
"Might be he's telling a pack of lies." Davos suggested, his voice laden with scepticism and wisdom earned through years of experience.
"If I had me a nice goose quill and a pot o' maester's ink, I could write that me member was long and thick as me arm, wouldn't make it so." Tormund interjected, his words laced with jest, though unhelpful in that moment.
"No. There is truth in there." Jon sighed heavily, his expression weighed down by the burden of responsibility and the weight of his family's fate. "He knew about Selyse and Shireen."
"I won't say you're mistaken. What do you mean to do, crow?" Tormund inquired, his gaze steady as he awaited Jon's decision.
Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand, a reflexive gesture born from the burn scars etched into his flesh. The Night's Watch takes no part, he reminded himself sternly. What you propose is nothing less than treason. Yet, the memory of Robb Stark, betrayed and slain, haunted his thoughts, along with the image of Bran, crippled, presumed dead but now potentially alive. Rickon's survival offered a glimmer of hope for Bran's fate as well.
He thought of Rickon's breathless laughter, now silenced within the confines of his captor's walls. Sansa, missing still, her absence a void in their shattered family. Arya, her spirit as untamed as ever, enduring horrors beyond comprehension at the hands of Ramsay Snow.
"I think we had best do something," Jon finally declared. "With me." He led Davos and Tormund to his solar, with Ghost padding behind.
For the better part of two hours, Jon, Davos, and Tormund deliberated, their voices echoing within the confines of Jon's chambers, as they weighed their options and debated their course of action. When the time came to address their comrades, Jon emerged with a solemn announcement: a meeting would convene in the Shieldhall, open to both members of the Night's Watch and the Free Folk.
As they made their way through the halls of Castle Black, Ghost, Jon's faithful direwolf, trailed after them, his silent presence a reminder of the bond between man and beast. However, mindful of the potential for chaos, Jon swiftly intervened, grasping Ghost by the scruff of his neck and guiding him back inside. The last thing he needed was his beloved wolf inadvertently causing havoc amidst their gathering.
The Shieldhall loomed before them, a relic of a bygone era, its ancient stones steeped in history and tradition. Once a grand feast hall frequented by knights of the Night's Watch. Now its grandeur faded and its purpose forgotten. Dark and draughty, with rafters blackened by centuries of smoke, the hall exuded an air of solemnity and antiquity.
Despite its shortcomings as a dining hall, its dim lighting, unkempt appearance, and difficulty in heating, the Shieldhall possessed a sense of grandeur, its vast expanse capable of accommodating a sizeable gathering. As they entered the hall, Jon couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia for a time when the Night's Watch had been a thriving institution, its halls bustling with camaraderie and purpose. Now, as they prepared to address their fellow brothers and allies, Jon could only hope that their words would inspire unity and resolve in the face of impending conflict.
As Jon and Tormund entered the Shieldhall, a low, murmuring hum rippled through the assembled crowd, reminiscent of the distant hum of bees in a summer meadow. The wildlings outnumbered the Night's Watch by a significant margin, their presence dominating the hall and lending an air of anticipation to the gathering.
Fresh torches cast their flickering light across the worn stone walls, illuminating the scene as Jon surveyed the assembly. Recognising the need for comfort and order amidst the tumultuous atmosphere, he had arranged for benches and tables to be brought in, heeding the sage advice of Maester Aemon: "Men with comfortable seats were more inclined to listen; standing men were more inclined to shout."
At the far end of the hall, a weathered platform stood, its timbers bowed with age yet sturdy enough to support their purpose. With Tormund at his side, Jon ascended the platform, his presence a beacon of authority amidst the sea of faces below. Raising his hands in a gesture for silence, Jon sought to assert control over the restless crowd, yet his efforts were met with the humming swelling in defiance.
Undeterred, Tormund brought his warhorn to his lips and unleashed a thunderous blast that reverberated throughout the hall, its sound cutting through the hum of conversation like a clarion call. As the echoes faded and silence descended upon the Shieldhall, Jon seized the opportunity to address the assembly, his voice resonating with authority as he prepared to impart the urgency of their situation.
"I summoned you to inform you of the death of Stannis Baratheon, his army, and of his wife and daughter." He began.
Amidst the sea of faces, a flash of red caught Jon's eye, and he recognized Lady Melisandre's presence at the back of the hall.
"Earlier this afternoon, I received this letter," Jon continued, lifting Ramsay Snow's ominous missive for all to see. Jon read aloud its contents, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the Shieldhall, filling the chamber with an eerie silence.
"As such, I am to ride south to deal with the matter," Jon stated.
The Shieldhall erupted into chaos as Jon's words reverberated through the chamber, stirring a frenzy of emotion among the assembled men. Shouts rang out, fists clenched in anger, and weapons were brandished in defiance. The comfortable benches provided little solace in the face of such fervent passion, as swords clashed and axes resounded against shields in a cacophony of noise.
Amidst the turmoil, Jon turned to Tormund, seeking support in quelling the rising tide of discord. With a resolute nod, the Giantsbane raised his horn once more, its deafening blast cutting through the clamour and commanding attention.
As the echoes of the horn faded and a semblance of quiet settled over the room, Jon seized the moment to reassert the Night's Watch's neutrality in the conflicts of the realm.
"The Night's Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms," he reminded them firmly. "It is not for us to oppose the Bolton bastard, or to avenge Stannis Baratheon, his wife, and daughter," Jon continued, his tone unwavering in its resolve. Yet, he made his intentions clear. "This creature who makes cloaks from the skins of women has sworn to cut my heart out, and I mean to make him answer for those words." he declared, his gaze sweeping over the assembly.
"But I will not ask my brothers to forswear their vows," Jon added, his words punctuated by a pregnant pause. "Is there any man here who will come stand with me?" he asked.
The resounding roar of approval from the gathered men was music to Jon's ears, a testament to the unity and determination coursing through their ranks. As the tumult reached its peak, two old shields tumbled from the walls, a symbolic gesture of the fervour that gripped the Shieldhall.
With a sense of grim resolve, Jon acknowledged the weight of his decision. "I have my swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard," he mused silently, his determination unwavering in the face of the impending confrontation with Ramsay Bolton.
Observing Yarwyck and Marsh slipping away, followed by their men, Jon felt a pang of resignation. Yet, he understood that their absence mattered little in the grand scheme of things. "He did not need them now. He did not want them," Jon realised, his conviction unshakeable. "No man can ever say I made my brothers break their vows. If this is oath-breaking, the crime is mine and mine alone."
As Tormund approached, his gap-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear, Jon felt a flicker of camaraderie amidst the gravity of the moment. "Well spoken, crow," Tormund praised, his jovial demeanour a welcome respite from the tension that lingered in the air. "Now, bring out the mead! Make them yours and get them drunk, that's how it's done. We'll make a wildling o' you yet, boy. Har!"
"I will send for ale," Jon replied distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere as he realised that Lady Melisandre had departed unnoticed. "You must excuse me. I'll leave you to get them drunk."
With a nod of understanding, Tormund waved Jon off, fully embracing the task at hand. "Har! A task I'm well suited for, crow. On your way!"
As Jon made his way out of the Shieldhall, he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he should seek Melisandre. Yet, duty called, and he knew that his immediate priority lay in planning their next move. With a heavy heart, Jon returned to his solar alone, and began writing letters to the northern houses.
Jon continued writing letters to each house, well into the night. He made an internal thanks to maester Luwin for his patient teachings. Although Jon hadn't needed a Lord's education, he shared his lessons with Robb, thus he received it. Now, knowing every house, motto, and sigil, those lessons paid off. Done for the night, he straightened the scrolls scattered across his desk, each one to be sealed and sent by raven on the morrow. Tired, he sat back and pinched his nose, trying to keep himself awake.
He was interrupted by a knock at the door, heralding the arrival of Olly, his young steward.
"Lord Commander. It's one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he knows your Uncle Benjen. Says he's still alive." Olly reported, his voice sounded excited.
Jon's brows furrowed in disbelief as he absorbed the startling revelation. "Are you sure he's talking about Benjen?" he questioned, rising from his seat.
The gravity of the situation was palpable as Olly confirmed the wildling's claim. "Says he was first Ranger. Said he knows where to find him."
Without hesitation, Jon rushed from his chambers, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. "Ghost, stay!" Jon locked the direwolf in his solar.
At the bottom of the steps to the courtyard, awaited the imposing figure of Alliser Thorne, the veteran ranger whose allegiance had long been questioned, but would also be eager to have Benjen Stark returned to them.
"Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome the last full moon," Alliser stated matter-of-factly, his expression unreadable.
Jon's mind raced with the implications of this new information, his instincts warring with the nagging doubts that plagued his thoughts. "He could be lying," Jon countered, his voice betraying a hint of scepticism
Yet, Alliser's response was resolute, a grim acknowledgment of the harsh realities they faced. "Could be. There are ways to find out." He remarked cryptically, gesturing towards the source of their inquiry.
With a determined stride, Jon followed Alliser's lead, passing through the ranks of his fellow brothers, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he caught sight of a sign bearing the damning label "TRAITOR," written in red, a chilling reminder of the divisions that threatened to tear the Night's Watch asunder.
Before Jon could react, he found himself cornered, surrounded by his sworn brothers, their torches casting eerie shadows upon the scene. In an instant, the air was rent with the sound of steel as Alliser's dagger found its mark.
"For the Watch," He said, Alliser's eyes cold, unflinching.
The pain was excruciating.
"For the watch." Came the next blade, at the hand of Bowen Marsh.
Jon was struggling to stand.
"For the watch." Next was Othell Yarwyck.
With each stab, Jon's strength waned, his resolve tested to its limits as he fought to remain upright against the onslaught of pain and betrayal. Yet, amidst the chaos and anguish, his gaze seeking Olly, the young boy he had once taken under his wing.
"Olly…" Jon's voice was a whispered plea, a final attempt to reconcile the unfathomable betrayal that now unfolded before him. But his vision was fading, and from what little he could see, Olly was holding a blade in his hand. "Ghost..." Jon whispered.
But Olly's response was swift and merciless. Jon didn't feel the fourth blade plunging into his heart with a chilling finality.
"For the Watch." Olly declared, his voice hollow without remorse as Jon's lifeblood spilled upon the frozen ground.
Now he was dead, the Brothers of the Night's Watch turned away, their duty fulfilled at the cost of their honour, the group disbanded, leaving Jon laying broken and betrayed. In the silence that followed, Jon's expression remained unchanged, a mask of stoic resignation as the darkness closed in around him, engulfing him in an endless sea of crimson.
For a while, the castle remained silent, then a white wolf howled for his master, disturbing the peace.