As night fell, true to his word, Ser Alliser Thorne and the Night's Watch brothers loyal to him arrived, armed with crossbows and a hammer. They stood poised outside the Lord Commander's solar, where Davos and his allies, faithful to Jon Snow, had taken refuge.
Alliser Thorne approached the door. "It's time, Ser Davos." Thorne declared. "Open the door and the men inside can rejoin their brothers in peace. We'll even set the wolf free north of the Wall where it belongs. Nobody needs to die tonight."
Davos, turned to his companions. "I've never been much of a fighter." He confessed, reaching for Jon Snow's sword, Longclaw, and lifting it from its resting place. "Apologies for what you're about to see." He added, as he unsheathed the grey, Valyrian steel blade from its scabbard.
The other brothers followed suit, drawing their own weapons. Once more, Ghost joined them, ready to defend the body of his fallen master. His red eyes glowed brightly, his white fur bristled as he readied himself for battle.
On the other side of the door, Alliser Thorne directed a Night's Watchman to action, a large hammer raised high. With each resounding blow against the sturdy door, the tension within the chamber mounted. Ghost, sensing the impending clash, snarled, his instincts roused by the danger to his master's body.
Inside the chamber, Davos and the brothers, braced themselves for the inevitable confrontation. Thud after thud, the hammer had almost breached the strong, black, ironwood door, but it suddenly stopped before they broke through.
Suddenly, the hammering on the door stopped, as Ser Alliser and his companions were drawn away from their attempt by a resounding thud echoing through the courtyard. They turned to face the source of the noise, only to witness the main gates of the courtyard give way under the forceful assault of Wun Wun, the towering giant. Once the gates were breached, a horde of wildlings followed, with Tormund and Edd at their forefront.
The Night's Watch loyal to Alliser Thorne, stood their ground, bows drawn and poised for battle, but a palpable tension hung in the air as they hesitated to unleash their arrows upon the oncoming horde. Slowly, they backed away, their resolve faltering in the face of the overwhelming force before them.
"Attack!" Alliser Thorne commanded, his voice cutting through the chaos as he drew his sword, rallying his men to action. In response, a Night's Watchman charged towards Tormund, only to meet a swift and fatal blow from the Wildling leader's blade.
"Fight, you cowards!" Alliser Thorne bellowed in frustration as he watched his men falter, their loyalty crumbling under the weight of the unfolding onslaught.
From a distant balcony, a Night's Watchman took aim with a crossbow, firing a bolt that struck Wun Wun in the shoulder. Enraged, the giant turned towards his assailant, seizing him with his immense strength before smashing his head against the grey stone castle wall, and flinging aside his lifeless body, landing at Alliser Thorne's feet.
One by one, as the Night's Watch members allied with Thorne dropped their weapons in surrender, Tormund and Edd approached the defeated commander, their swords drawn and ready for justice.
"You fucking traitor." Alliser Thorne spat at Dolorous Edd, his voice laced with venom and defeat.
"The only traitors are those who shoved their knives into their Lord Commander's heart." Edd spat back.
"For thousands of years, the Night's Watch has held Castle Black against the Wildlings." Alliser Thorne proclaimed defiantly, clinging to the remnants of his shattered authority.
"Until you." Tormund mocked.
In a final act of defiance, Olly charged at Tormund with his sword. However, his futile attempt was swiftly thwarted as Tormund effortlessly disarmed him, leaving him at the mercy of his captors.
"Throw them into the cells where they belong." Edd commanded, as the defeated traitors were dragged away, their reign of treachery coming to a bitter end amidst the resounding echoes of battle.
Tormund Giantsbane, followed Edd and Davos through the dimly lit corridors of Castle Black, to the chamber where Jon Snow lay, his body cold and lifeless upon his rough-hewn wooden desk.
The three men entered the room, their expressions sombre, as they gazed upon the fallen Lord Commander. Tormund, his wild red hair framing his weathered face, spoke first, his voice gruff with grief. For this was the first time he had witnessed the fate of his friend and saviour of his people.
"Took a lot of knives," he muttered, his eyes lingering on the cruel wounds that marred Jon's pale skin. "I'll have my men get the wood for a fire. Bodies to burn."
As Tormund turned to leave, leaving Edd remained rooted to the spot, his usual morose demeanour deepening in the face of their loss. Since the threat of confrontation had passed, Ghost now lay curled up in front of the burning fire, content his master's body was safe for now. Feeling unsettled, Davos followed Tormund, but instead of searching for firewood, he returned to his chambers to think.
Davos perched on the edge of his cot, his weathered face reflecting the weight of his thoughts. With elbows resting on his knees, he gazed into the dancing flames, half-wishing for the elusive presence of the red god. If only there were some divine guidance to navigate the troubles, they found themselves in.
Despite the recent downfall of Ser Alliser and his cohorts, Davos still harboured deep concerns. Whispers of unfathomable creatures, tales that defied reason, swirled among the men. These tales, strangely aligned with the beliefs of Stannis and the Red Woman, raised unsettling questions. If indeed the red god held sway, a notion Davos doubted, why had fate led them to the frigid confines of the Wall? What grand design lay behind their arrival?
Only one bleak possibility emerged from the murky depths of Davos contemplation: they were to confront the looming threat of the army of the dead. Yet, what role could a humble smuggler and one woman steeped in mysterious powers play in such a dire conflict? Davos couldn't even vouch for the Red Woman's loyalty; her once-certain visions now shattered by the reality of Jon Snow's lifeless form lying cold in his chamber.
In all of this chaos, after the death of Stannis, only one beacon of hope had remained: Jon Snow, the natural leader, who was now also lost to them in death. Without his steady hand at the helm, what chance did they have against the encroaching darkness?
What if her visions held truth? What if the chance existed for him to stride into Winterfell once more, to wrest the stronghold from the grip of the Boltons? Ramsay Snow, that loathsome creature, offered no hope for the North. What was needed was a rational guardian of the realm, one who could reclaim Winterfell with a more legitimate claim than the Bolton bastard, that was for sure. Again and again, the roads led back to Jon Snow.
Why did every path lead back to the fallen Lord Commander? Because victory in the looming conflict seemed impossible without him. Despite barely knowing the man, Davos clung to this certainty. How he knew, he couldn't tell. It was a gut instinct, one which had served him well over the years. So why ignore it now? If only Jon weren't lying cold in death's embrace. But did Jon's death truly need to be permanent?
Davos gaze drifted to the door of his chamber. Should he seek her counsel? Whispers spoke of another red priest who had wrought resurrection upon Beric Dondarrion. If that man could be plucked from the grasp of death, then why not the Lord Commander, arguably the realm's second most pivotal figure, after King Tommen? The Red Woman wielded magic; if the red god intended them to confront the Long Night, why should Jon Snow not be returned to them?
With resolve firming in his heart, Davos rose from his seat and flexed his gloved fingers. He pushed open the door, setting forth on a determined path toward the quarters of the Red Woman.
The night enveloped Winterfell in its chilly embrace, a shroud of darkness pierced only by the wisps of smoke that escaped Jon's breath. Despite the biting cold that nipped at the exposed skin, Jon found himself strangely impervious, clad only in his customary Night's Watch attire: a black leather jerkin layered over a matching doublet, the scars of betrayal etched into the very fabric. The frosty tendrils of winter failed to penetrate his defences, leaving him oddly insulated from the elements.
Within the walls of his ancestral home, Winterfell, Jon faced a grim image, vastly different from the one etched in his memories. Ravaged by the onslaughts of Ironborn raiders and the cruelty of the Boltons, the once-proud stronghold stood battered and broken. Charred remnants bore witness to flames that had devoured halls once teeming with life, while decay gnawed at wooden structures left to moulder Even the grandeur of the library had succumbed to the inferno long before the fall of his noble father, Eddard Stark, though Jon stood too far from its ruins to discern their ashen silhouette.
The pungent tang of smoke mingled with the sickening scent of burning flesh assailed Jon's senses. Despite his instinct to investigate the source of the turmoil, an inexorable force drew him toward the crypts. He had often dreamed of visiting the crypts, then turned away, deemed to be a stranger in this ancestral sanctum, denied by his name, not his blood. Yet in death, he found himself welcomed by unseen voices, beckoning him.
Momentarily, he stopped short, a thought lingered like a shadow in his mind. Was Arya the source of the stench of burning flesh? Jon glanced around the inner courtyard, trying to find smoke trails to lead him to the Bolton bastard's victim. But none could be seen, and the smell disappeared in an instant. Was it Arya? All Jon had, was hope that his beloved sister Arya remained among the land of the living.
The crypts called to him once again. Jon descended into the subterranean depths, where flickering torchlight danced upon the damp stone walls. Despite the eerie interplay of light and shadow, he held no fear of the dead that lay in these vaults. How could he, now that he too had entered the realm of the dead?
Passing the statue of his aunt Lyanna, her hand forever poised with a feather, Jon's gaze drifted to the vacant alcove where the statues of his father and brother should have stood. Yet their tombs remained empty, their bodies having never been returned to their rightful place.
Once again, dread coiled like icy tendrils around Jon's heart. Was Arya's fate sealed within these walls, just like his own?
"Arya!" His voice echoed off the stone walls, swallowed by the oppressive silence that enveloped him. "He tried to call out again, but his voice was caught in his throat. Instead, he released a mangled cry.
Jon ventured further into the crypts, where the kings of winter lay for all eternity. Here, the dim illumination of flickering torches offered scant solace, and the air hung heavy with the scent of damp decay. Iron swords, rusted with age,lay upon the knees of the slumbering monarchs, their once-proud blades now brittle and fragile. Even the slightest of breeze would leave them scattering in the wind.
At last, Jon stood before the tomb of Torrhen Stark, the legendary figure who, three centuries past, had knelt before the might of Aegon the Conqueror. Yet instead of the stone sepulchre, he found himself confronted by a living man, bearing the unmistakable features of House Stark: steely grey eyes, dark locks cascading over a noble brow, and a long face, much like his own.
"Lord Stark." Jon inclined his head respectfully, his voice hushed in reverence.
The man, who Jon believed to be Torrhen Stark, knelt before him, a gesture of deference mirrored in his own bearing. "Your Grace. Winterfell and the North are yours to command."
"Long live the King." Echoed the spectral voices of past rulers, their ethereal chorus a haunting refrain in the chamber.
Perplexed by the unexpected homage, Jon urged the man to rise. "Lord Stark, you honour me, but I fear you mistake my identity."
The man's gaze met Jon's with unwavering solemnity. "You are the blood of the dragon, Your Grace. Ours is the pact of ice and fire."
Jon's brow furrowed in confusion, his thoughts swirling with uncertainty. "But I am not... I am not the king you seek."
Torrhen Stark's smile held a sombre wisdom as he addressed Jon, his words laden with the weight of centuries past. "Your protestations hold no sway, Your Grace. Yours is the blood of Old Valyria. And I, Torrhen Stark, kneel and give you the north. However, although, bestowed upon you is the mantle of Winterfell and the North, the sanctity of the crypts remains beyond your reach. They are the sacred resting place of the Stark kings of winter, and you, do bear not the name of Stark. Without it, you shall find no solace within these hallowed halls."
Jon's heart hammered against his chest, panic coursing through his veins like wildfire. "But how can I take the Stark name? I am dead, nothing more than a ghost."
"Then return to whence you came." Torrhen's voice resonated with muted authority.
Desperation clawed at Jon's soul as he pleaded. "But how? Tell me how I may undo what has been done."
Torrhen's gaze remained unyielding as he delivered his final decree. "Leave this place, for you are not a Stark. You do not belong here."
With a lump lodged in his throat, Jon turned on his heel and fled, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the ancient stone. He dared not glance back, lest the weight of his failure consume him whole.
Once Jon was outside the crypts, the doors swung shut with a loud bang. The sun now shone brightly in the blue skies, reflecting off the snow, which was almost blinding. Jon placed his hand to his forehead to block out the glare. Across the small courtyard was a gate, leading to the Godswood. The lure of the natural sanctuary was as appealing as the crypts were earlier. The air was now clean, the acrid smell of burning flesh had disappeared. A humming sound came from the Godswood, pulling him inside.
Newly fallen snow crunched under Jon's boots as he made his way through the Godswood. A place where ancient trees stood over the sacred ground, a dense canopy of foliage, casting shadows upon the old, packed earth below. Ash, chestnut, elm, hawthorn, ironwood, oak, sentinel, and soldier pines intermingle, their gnarled branches reaching skyward.
A meandering snow covered footpath of cracked stones winds its way through the grove. At its heart stood an ancient weirwood, its weathered white trunk bearing a melancholy face carved into its bark.
A pool of cold black water lay at the foot of the weirwood, reflecting the twisted branches above like darkened mirrors. Now that it was winter, the Godswood was blanketed in snow, a stark contrast of white with bright red leaves, against the dark wood creates a hauntingly beautiful vision.
As he closed in on the weirwood, the humming turned into that of a woman's mournful chanting. The words were foreign to his ears, yet they held an aching familiarity which tugged upon the fabric of his being.
Another sound reached his ears, one of a woman sobbing. Jon made his way around the tree and saw a woman, her back to him, with a hand upon the trunk of the heart tree and her head bowed down, so he could only see the back of her head. The woman's hair was a river of autumn leaves, each strand a flame of copper and gold that danced in the breeze like embers in a hearth. Kissed by fire, Jon thought. He could make out she wore a grey woollen cloak, adorned with a white rabbit-fur collar.
Jon didn't know who the woman was, not without seeing her face. He knew she wasn't Lady Stark, as her hair was the wrong colour, and she was much too old to be Sansa. Then she spoke.
"I'm sorry I was too late. I wanted to write to you, to apologise for not treating you as you deserved. You don't know this, but you guided me through the last year. The closest I've had to a true hero. I wish I knew why you did what you did. I don't care what the letter said. They killed you, and you had your reasons to let them through the wall. I want to support your decision, but how can I if I don't know why you did it?" The woman burst into tears once more, and Jon's jaw dropped. She must be talking about him.
"Sansa." Jon said, but she paid no attention. Jon knelt beside her. "Sansa I'm right here, beside you."
"I need something, a sign. Help me help you in whatever you were trying to do. I know it wasn't for power or glory. So you must have had a good reason." She sobbed.
As if the gods were listening, movement beyond the tree caught his attention. Sansa finally lifted her head, she had caught wind of it as well. A white figure made its way out of the woods, red eyes shining bright.
"Ghost." Sansa cried, as Jon's enormous white direwolf padded over towards her.
As the wolf came closer, the chanting got louder, and was hurting his head and chest. Pain seared through his abdomen where the knives were driven into his flesh. Jon looked back to Sansa, who had her arms wrapped around Ghost, them both finding comfort with each other.
At least they have each other. Was Jon's last thought as the pain took over, and everything went black.
Jon was convinced he was drowning, yet he wasn't wet, instead he was swimming in a sea of fire. Everything around him was dark and bright simultaneously. The flames licked at his body, yet they didn't burn him. He tried to swim to the surface so he could breathe, his arms flaying about, desperately trying to survive.
Finally, he felt cold air hit his face. Jon took a deep breath and opened his eyes. This time he knew was alive, because he was naked and freezing cold.
