CHAPTER 9

Jon at Hardhome

The winter sun rose lazily behind Seawolf, illuminating the great grey cliffs ahead. Chunks of floating ice crunched and scraped against the bough of the ship, causing the decks to tilt back and forth uncomfortably. The crew had gathered around the helm in anxious silence. As they drifted closer, Jon Snow spied hundreds of cave mouths dotting the cliffs. Beneath, dark wooden towers and palisades snaked along the coast. There were also many thatched huts and halls, barely visible beneath the snow, and a series of broken docks stretching into the bay.

"Hardhome," he whispered. The word was a cloud of air quickly snatched away by the surrounding mists. Maester Samson broke the sombre mood by stumbling to the railing and vomiting loudly.

"Bear left," Roggon rumbled. One of the sailor's twisted the wooden helm, edging Seawolf past a frozen shipwreck. Jon moved up beside Master Samson to get a closer look at the vessel. It was half-submerged in ice and its mast was snapped. On the deck, however, he could make out the Night's Watch sigil stitched upon a crumbled banner.

This was part of Cotter Pyke's rescue fleet, Jon realised. This ship carried Black Brothers to their deaths… on my orders. They passed more idle Night's Watch ships—some capsized, some torn in half—all empty. Are we destined for the same fate? Jon pondered to the mist.

"Land ho!" Roggon boomed at last. "Lower the anchor." As the sailors set to work securing the ship, Jon strode to the upper decks to speak to his party. He looked down upon pale, huddled faces.

This is a sorry lot, Jon observed. They'd rather be anywhere than here. "Take heart, lads! Few men can say they have survived the Shivering Sea during winter and set foot upon the Lands Beyond the Wall. Our long voyage is over. Soon, we will set foot upon solid ground and fill our bellies with roasted meat and warm ale." He noticed some nods and grumbles of approval. "You have shown great courage, and your families and king would be proud.

"As you know by now, battles are raging in the south—at the Bridge of Skulls, in Hurrick's Perch, and soon, I fear, at Winterfell. If the north should fall, the enemy will sweep across all of Westeros." Jon paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. In the distance, wind was howling. He glanced over at Melisandre. Her red ruby was glowing. She held him with her eyes and offered the faintest of nods.

"The queen," he gestured his arm towards her, "has ordered that this settlement be taken and garrisoned in the name of King Stannis. From here, we will guard the roads to East Watch. From here, we will aid in the reconstruction of the Wall—with timber or manpower or whatever else is needed. From here, we may eventually launch our counterattack upon the enemy and drive them back into the Lands of Always Winter."

"Do not fear," Melisandre added. "For you are children of R'hllor. The Lord of Light has blessed this mission and carried you all safely to our destination. So long as we remain devoted to the one true god and the one true king, we cannot be defeated."

"Praise his name!" a man called out, throwing himself at Melisandre's feet.

"Cast your light upon us!" cried another. "Deliver the ice devils back to hell."

Melisandre raised her hands and spoke to the heavens, "Lord of light, grant us strength. We will light your flame in Hardhome, for all the world to see—a flame that will never be extinguished!"

Further declarations of piety issued from the men on the decks. The more dangerous the world becomes, Jon observed, the more fiercely they cling to a higher power. His mind wandered then back Winterfell's godswood and to the promises he'd made to Arya and Bran. As the clamour continued, the wildlings glancing back and forth nervously.

"My queen!" Jon's voice cut through the din. "We will light your fire. But first we must needs take the city. Hardhome appears abandoned. The wights that attacked Cotter Pyke's fleet are likely gone by now in search of fresh victims, and all reports indicate that the enemy's main force is concentrated south of the Wall. But there may be a few stragglers. Our soldiers will land by boat and search the lower settlements in two groups, one lead by me and the other by Ser Merrick. Twenty of the free folk survivors from the slaver's galley have agreed to join us as scouts and we will be following a map they have provided. The rest of the free folk will stay onboard with our sailors, builders, and cooks. After the docks and lower dwellings have been cleared, we will search the upper dwellings and halls, then the forts and stockades, and finally the surrounding forests. Once Hardhome is secure, we will set to work repairing and reinforcing the walls with wood from the forest and iron from the ship. Are there any questions?" The sound of waves was heard as Jon cast his gaze across the crowd.

"You say the dead things are gone," a sailor grunted. "I admit the city looks empty enough, but what if they're just hiding… waiting for us to wander into their den?" An anxious murmur rippled among the crew.

"The kneeler's not wrong," an older wildling woman rasped. "The white walkers are evil and cunning. I've seen them lay traps before." A little wildling girl began to cry nearby.

Jon nodded. "It is a risk. That is why we will need to be careful and cautious. Ser Merrick, Roggon and I all have horns to signal a retreat if needed. We will station a host of archers and spearmen along the docks to guard our exit, should we need it."

"The city is empty," Melisandre declared. "I have seen it in my fires." The sailor gave her a long look and then nodded.

"Lord Snow," the ill-looked Maester Samson said. "Am I to stay aboard as well."

Jon shook his head. "No, we will need you with us in case of injuries."

"Yes, my lord," the master said in a disappointed tone.

"Alright," Jon said. "If there's nothing else, arm yourselves and board the rowboats." As each man scaled the rope ladder down the side of Seawolf, Melisandre handed them a lit torch and blessed their sword.

"Will you receive my blessing, Lord Snow," she asked, placing her hand on his sword hilt as he approached the ladder.

He allowed a small grin to escape his lips. "If I survive, you can bless me tonight," he whispered back. Her eyes shone lustily. As Jon rowed, he could still feel the warmth of her touch radiating from his weapon.

The party's trek into Hardhome went much as Melisandre had predicted. The currents delivered their eight rowboats gently to the docks, at which point they separated into two parties and began searching the buildings. It was clear from the broken doors and smashed windows that something bad had happened here. The wooden walls of the houses were dark with blood spatter, while broken pots and furniture littered the ground. To Jon's consternation, however, there were no bodies or bones to be found. Where are the dead? He wondered.

"Someone help me with this cupboard!" a soldier called. Jon and a scarred spearwife moved quickly beside him and pulled until the frozen doors wrenched open. Inside was a half-stocked pantry. Most of the bread was blue with mould but would be useful for treating wounds. There were, however, some crates of turnips that looked edible. The spearwife snatched one of the vegetables, took a bite, and kept walking.

"These wildlings," the black bearded soldier said to Jon in a low voice. "Are you sure we can trust them?"

"We rescued them from slavers," Jon replied. "Do you really think they'd repay us with daggers?"

"Is slavery to Tyroshi merchants really that much worse than slavery to the Others."

Jon considered this for a moment. "I trust… I trust that we either band together or we'll die apart. There is no middle ground anymore."

The soldier shrugged. "I suppose that's true."

They discovered their first wight in a cellar. It was a child, more bone than skin, and it dragged itself meekly up the wooden stairs and across the snow. It snapped its black teeth at Jon, until he licked its face with the the end of his torch, dissolving the creature in a puff of fire and smoke. More food was found in some of the other houses, included beats and squash, some jerkey, and even some rock-hard oatcakes. They also found some rusty swords and spears and a cache of gemstones. The biggest prize, however, was a crate of obsidian arrowheads and daggers discovered at the forge.

At the centre of Hardhome, they found an empty noose dangling from a spike.

"Some Thenns hanged Mother Mole from that rope," a gaunt wildling man informed Jon, "once they realised her vision had been a lie. There was no recue ship. Only slave ships."

"I ordered a rescue from East Watch," Jon said, "but it failed."

"Aye," the man said. "The crows who came were overrun by sick free folk and hungry wights. Many of use fled back into the forest, but there was no food to be found anywhere. Eventually, we returned to Hardhome to find it empty and crow ships destroyed. We waited and waited, expecting the wights to return any day. Instead, another ship arrived. The coloured men on board said they'd been sent by the king to rescue us. We thought they meant Mance, so we went with them." He spat angrily.

"Mance is still alive, you know," Jon replied. "He's fighting the White Walker army in the south."

The man nodded. "He was always a brave man, our king. Foolish but brave."

Ser Merrick's party discovered two more wights down a well and dropped some burning lantern oil onto them.

Eventually, Jon's party scaled the parapets and looked out onto the vast tangled forests and the massive cliffs above. Suddenly, a scream rang out. Jon ripped his sword from its scabbard.

"Calm yourself, King Crow," the scarred spearwife grunted. "It's just the caves." She pointed up to the jagged openings that pockmarked the cliff face. "Ever since the Doom found Hardhome, the caves have screamed. They say ghosts and demons haunt those cliffs."

Jon sheathed his blade. She was right. As the cold wind entered the cave system, it produced a high-pitched keened that sounded almost human.

Below the parapets, Jon could see that many of the trees had been uprooted or split apart. Human bones and skulls were arranged among the branches like profane fruit. Most disturbing of all, however , were the strange glyphs that had been carved into the trunks.

"Ever the artists," a blue-eyed wildling lad remarked scornfully.

"Lord of light, protect us," a portly soldier breathed.

"Bones and scratchings cannot hurt us," Jon declared. "Nor can the babbling of stone. Send word to the Seawolf that Hardhome is ours. We need all able bodies ashore with axes, shovels and carts in tow."

They worked all day. Jon supervised the felling of trees, while the builders managed repairs to the main gate and outer walls. The cooks distributed hot bowls of vegetable stew to all the workers, while the sailors scouted the bay in the rowboats, charting the landings and hazards. The queen lit torches all along the parapets and in all ten hearths of the great hall. For hours, all Jon could hear was the sound of Melisandre's hymns, the chopping of wood, and the screams of the caves. They collected thousands of bones throughout the forest and piled them in a mass grave half a league to the west. By the time dusk came, Jon was so tired he could barely stand. They all gathered in silence in the great hall—"Bael's Hall," the free folk called it—collecting their trenchers of roast boar and tankards of ale, and then collapsing into wooden chairs that had been arranged around the large oaken table.

Jon glanced over at Melisandre, who was seated above them at a separate table on the dais. Weary-looking Baratheon guards teetered on either side of her. She held a goblet to her mouth, and when she placed it back onto the table, Jon could see the dark red wine still clinging to her lips. His lips. The wolfblood stirred within, and suddenly, Jon was not so tired. She caught his eye and smiled. He looked away. The soldiers and free folk wolfed down their meals and then retired to beds of hay and woollen blankets that had been prepared in nearby halls and huts.

Jon began trudging his way down the hill to find a vacant house to spend the night. However, he soon found his legs scaling the stockades again. When he had reached the top, he surveyed city. They had achieved much in a single day. This morning, Hardhome was an abandoned ruin. Now, smoke billowed from a third of the city's chimneys and over a hundred torches flickered along its parapets. Large holes in the outer wall had been covered with wood, rock and mortar, and the main gate had been strengthened with iron. Banners bearing the fiery stag of Stannis Baratheon fluttered from three of five forts, as well as from Seawolf, which bobbed proudly in the bay.

They were two-hundred-and-sixty-six souls in total—and every one of them relied on Jon to lead them to victory. He wandered south for a while, running his palm over the centuries-old spines of wood that ringed the city. He gazed out across the dark, swaying treetops, and offered a small prayer to the old gods that they were not the only living souls left north of the Wall. Jon had sent Leathers and his company of free folk, giants and mammoths to Hardhome by land and to gather any survivors in the eastern woodlands. He had hoped to guard their approach from the sea, but they had lost sight of the company during a storm.

"Please be safe, Leathers," Jon whispered. "I need you with me. I need all the friends I can get."

Just then, Jon heard the scrape of boots upon the walkway and whirled to meet whoever was approaching.

"Lord snow," the guard stammered, stepping back. "I am sorry to disturb you, but Queen Melisandre has requested your presence in her tower."

Jon released the hilt of his sword and straightened up. "Of course, Ser Arlow," he nodded. "Please lead the way."

Ser Arlow was one of the queen's personal guards and one of the most pious followers of R'hllor. His armour was painted red and orange, and his cape bore the sigil of the fiery stag. He led Jon down the parapet steps and up to the highest floor of the central tower. The building was the best-preserved of all the structures in Hardhome, and Melisandre had claimed it as her own. The two men ascended the inner staircase in silence, and upon reaching the summit, Ser Arlow gave the double doors a sharp knock.

"Enter," the queen's voice called from within.

Ser Arlow looked at Jon and nodded sheepishly. "I take my leave."

"Thank you, ser." Jon watched him descend into the shadows and then pushed open the doors. There she was. Melisandre sauntered towards Jon in a tight red silk dress, stretching a goblet of wine towards him. Large hearths blazed along two of the walls, and the fire light washed over her cheeks and lips and chest.

"Come Lord Snow, drink with me." She smiled. "We have much to be thankful for."

He lunged at her. The goblet clattered to the ground as he pinned her to the bed. She squirmed sensually between his thighs, raking her nails along his back.

"Ah!" Jon winced.

"Naato sowen Azor," she moaned, her eyes squeezing shut. "Naato sowen Azor."

Mad with animal lust, Jon ripped the dress from her body and plunged his mouth onto hers. The heat and smell of her skin was intoxicating. The closer he came to death, the more he craved life. Melisandre's followers had her blessings and her prayers… but Jon had her body and her soul.

He ran his lips over her soft neck and breasts and belly, and down to the sweet nectar between her legs. She ground her hips against his face, pulling furiously at his hair and then mashing him deeper into groin. Once her thighs were slick with sweat and pleasure, Jon rose, slid his breeches halfway down, and plunged into her. Drunk and dizzy with desire, he barely lasted a few thrusts before draining himself into her womb.

Jon collapsed onto Melisandre's heaving chest with a defeated grunt. Panting, she nuzzled lovingly at his ears. "Azor, azor, azor," she whispered.

"That… was reckless," Jon said after a few moments. "Apologies, your grace. I forgot myself."

"The prince does not apologise for taking his woman," she rebuked, "no more than the wolf for hunting his prey."

"Is that what you are?" he asked. "My woman?"

She smiled coyly. "I think I have made that clear."

"Do you think your guard heard us?"
"No, and if he did, it matters not. Ser Arlow is sworn to me and will keep my secrets."

"If Stannis finds out the truth," Jon shook his head. "He will have us both executed, probably after a healthy dose of torture and likely my gelding."

"You needn't fear King Stannis," she said with a careless shake of her hand. "He is many leagues from here."

Jon frowned. "I wish I shared your confidence."

"Save your fear for the Great Other, Lord Snow. We will meet his children sooner than we'd like."

Jon groaned as reality came flooding back into the room. "Well?" he grumbled. "What have your fires shown you? Where is this weapon we came for?"

"Its precise location is unclear," she raised her hand and inspected the flickers of light and shadow that danced across it. "But Lightbringer is here. I can feel its power trembling through soil and stone and ice. Our voyage has not been in vain. R'hllor has assured me that this weapon will decide the outcome of the war."

Jon stewed on this for time and then thought of another question. "What of Leathers and the free folk. Do you know where they are?"

"They are still alive," she said. "I have seen the giants and mammoths trudging along the coasts. They are tired but determined."

"How far away are they?"

"A day, a moonturn, a year—I cannot say."

Jon scoffed. "Sometimes your god is as reliable as a one-winged raven."

"Do not blaspheme," she snapped. "He has protected us this far."

"You're right," Jon said sleepily. "I'm sorry."

They drifted into silence then, lulled by the sound of the wind outside the window. Jon nuzzled into the nape of Mel's neck.

"What did the bones mean?" He yawned. "The markings on the trees…Are they trying to send us a message?" The room was starting to blur.

Melisandre shook her head slowly. "I do not understand their minds. The Others worship death… Beyond that, we cannot fathom… Nor should we try…"

"I wonder…" Jon mumbled, but he was asleep before he could finish the thought.

In his dreams, he was floating in the Shivering Sea beneath a starless night sky. The shadows of monsters swum in the depths below.

…

The second day at Hardhome was much like the first. The new inhabitants rose, worked until they could barely stand, and then gathered in Bael's Hall for a hot dinner. A third day passed, then a fourth, a sixth, a ninth. There was no sign of Leathers but thankfully no sign of the Others either. Yard by yard, the wall was repaired and then strengthened, until Jon and his builders were confident it could withstand an infantry siege. Next, they began digging lines of trenches outside the walls and raising rows of spikes tipped with sharpened obsidian. They also stationed pots of oil along the parapets—either to boil and pour over intruders or to ignite in the heat of battle.

Ser Merrick was placed in charge of preparing the soldiers and able wildlings for siege warfare. He spent every morning instructing them in spear work and archery, and every afternoon running them up and down the stockade steps to build their stamina. The old and infirmed wildlings were tasked with mounting the obsidian arrowheads and distributing the obsidian daggers to everyone in the city. The sailors reported no signs of life or living dead along the eastern coasts, but they discovered a flat plateau two leagues southwest of Hardhome. It had a good view of the bay and the forest, and Jon commissioned two builders and five men to raise a watchtower there. Within days, a thirty-foot structure had been erected with a large alarm bell fastened to the top. Soldiers manned the tower in four-hour shifts.

Melisandre roamed the walls and streets of Hardhome with her gaggle of guards and followers, keeping the torches and hearths lit, praying and singing, and blessing the men she passed. Beyond keeping them warm, her efforts kept morale high. Jon knew she was also searching the city for clues of Lightbringer. The walls and neighbouring cliffs worked wonders in keeping the icy winds off their backs. Hardhome was a huge improvement over the Shivering Sea, and the more they rebuilt, the happier the inhabitants grew. During the evenings, Jon could even hear laughter and singing from some of the huts.

He estimated that they had three more weeks of food left and ordered the sailors to construct fish traps and to start trawling the bay for salmon, eels, crabs, and sea lions. Eventually, scouting parties would need to be formed to chart the surrounding forests and to forage for fruit or game, if there were any to be found.

Occasionally, Jon's thoughts wandered to Arya and Winterfell, but most of the time, he was so busy with work or plans or sleep that his mind was occupied. What little free time he had was spent in Melisandre's arms.

On the fourteenth evening since their arrival, Jon entered Melisandre's bedchamber to find her kneeling by a fire, deep in prayer. He rested a hand on her shoulder. She looked up, startled.

"I know where it is," she gasped.

…

The next morning, Jon and the queen made their way to the main gate. Two soldiers—both named Erik—stood guard on the parapets above.

"Your grace," one of them nodded. "My lord."

"Anything to report?" Jon called up.

"Not really," the other man replied. "There is a black storm brewing in the southwest, near Craster's Keep. But no signs of life anywhere in the forest."

"Lord Snow and I will be leaving the city for a few hours to inspect the cliffs. We will return at midday. Please open the gates."

The soldiers eyed each other hesitantly. "Forgive me, you grace," one said "but is that wise? We have yet to explore the caves and do not know what they contain."

"At least let us send a larger force to accompany you," added the other.

"Lord Snow will keep me safe, as will R'hllor. Please do as your queen commands."

"Yes, your grace." The men descended the parapets, unlocked the gates, and pulled them open with a mighty creak.

Jon and Melisandre trudged through the fresh layer of snow that had fallen during the night. She held a lit torch in one hand and was deep in thought. "What are you thinking?" Jon asked.

"Your brother… Bran," she replied. "He called it 'the sword of the evening… made from a falling star…' Has he spoken to you since that vision on the Seawolf?"

"No," Jon shook his head. "I'm worried about him. I wish I knew where he was. I wish I could hug him again." Jon gazed instinctively to the south, as he had so many times while at Castle Black. "Bran was unconscious the day I left Winterfell to join the Night's Watch." He looked at Melisandre. Her eyes seemed pale and unseeing. "Do you have any family… back in Asshai?"

"No," she replied quietly. Her face looked pained. "I'm all alone."

"You're not alone," Jon said. "You've got me." She nodded but did not smile.

The screams of the cliffs grew louder and louder as they trudged, until they could hear nothing else. Jon helped Melisandre up to the edge of the base opening and then scrambled after her. He saw that she was whispering something to the end of her torch, and the flame grew abruptly larger and brighter. It splashed against the cave walls, tracing the wrinkled stone as is curved deeper into the earth.

"This way!" Melisandre called above the winds. They walked down the tunnel. Gradually, the screaming lessoned, and after an hour or so, all they could hear was the crunch crunch crunch of their boots. At each fork they encountered, Melisandre sketched an arrow using some black powder she kept hidden under her cloak. They seemed to be climbing uphill for a period, then downhill for twice as long, and then they seemed to turn around and start walking back to Hardhome. Jon couldn't tell if they were above sea level or below it. All the tunnels looked the same, and sometimes their path branched into four or five different options. But Melisandre never hesitated on where to go, and Jon trusted her.

Finally, they heard flowing water, and the tunnel expanded to reveal a narrow, slow-running stream that flowed from a source in the darkness high above their heads. The water ended at a paltform of raised rock, at which point it seemed to drain into cracks along the ground. Jon leaned down to inspect the water. It looked cold and clear, with no signs of life growing beneath. He scooped some into his palm and drank deep. It was cool and delicious, and he helped himself to several more mouthfuls. Melisandre took a seat on the platform. She looked worried.

"Is something amiss?" Jon asked. She seemed not to hear him, and he was about to repeat the question when her head finally turned.

"My body…" she said. "It holds a new life."

"What?!" Jon gasped. "How!" But he felt foolish as soon as the question left his lips. They had coupled dozens of times since departing Karhold. How could it not be so? He sat beside her and lay his hand on her belly. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I didn't think it was possible. The Red Priests… they said my wound was damaged…"

"I never imagined it either. I swore an oath to father no children." Jon looked into the swirling dark currents. "What will we do?"

"I am Stannis' queen," she shrugged. "What choice do I have but to call the child his? If I were to tell the truth, all three us would be put to the sword. But if I lie… your son may inherit the Iron Throne."

"My… son…?" The thought of fathering a bastard raked across Jon's heart. But then, it wouldn't be a bastard, would it? It would be King Stannis' trueborn heir and a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

"You're right," he admitted at last. "The honourable choice is to lie. It shouldn't have to suffer for our sins." Jon thought of his father then and felt tears sting his eyes. He stood and paced across the ground so that Melisandre couldn't see his face. "Stannis gifted you a son before you left Winterfell," he declared, as though it was a historical fact. "The realm needs an heir and you have borne him one. Only… promise me you'll keep the child safe. Promise me you'll teach him to be brave and kind and strong. Promise me… you'll guide him a better world than we were given." He felt her hand rest gently on his shoulder.

"I promise," she whispered. "I promise… Jon." He turned to face her and saw the tears on her face as well. They held each other close, their sobs echoing off the walls of the cave.

Eventually, their search continued. Melisandre ran he torchlight over the walls on either side of the stream. "Look at this," she said.

Jon moved up beside her and stared at the illuminated stone. "More carvings," he said, a sense of dread growing in the pit of his belly.

"Yes, but these were not made by the Others. Look."

She was right. Jon was able to comprehend these pictures. They seemed to show children, painted in green ochre, with leaves growing from their backs. "Children of the Forest," he realised. Next to them were tall slender beings painted in white clay, with thorns protruding from their arms and feet. The two groups faced each other with spears outthrust. "The Others," he said. Above the figures, a winged serpent was also painted in white.

"Khu'raak," Melisandre added.

"But where is the last hero?" Jon asked, recalling Old Nan's stories, "or, Azor, as you call him?"

Melisandre cast the light back towards the waterfall. "Here," she gestured. Just on the water's edge, Jon could make out a squat figure painted in soot, holding a short sword and round shield. Next to it stood a large wolf. "Ah!" she gasped. "Look—behind the water." Jon squinted, then realised that there was an opening concealed behind the liquid curtain. "That is our path."

Jon nodded and stepped through the stream, bracing against the icy needles rushing through his hair and cloak. The tunnel ahead was so narrow that they were forced to hug the walls to pass through it. Melisandre's flame seemed to be shrinking, and Jon could hear her reciting incantations in a feverish whisper. The stone ceiling lowered, forced them to hunch over and eventually get onto all fours. As they shuffled down a steep incline, Jon imagined falling rocks or the floor collapsing beneath them. He was about to suggest that they turn back, but just then, the tunnel spat them out into another clearing.

The walls in this part of the caves were different somehow. They glittered, as though the stone was mixed with sapphires. Stranger, however, the walls seemed to hum. Jon strode forward, puzzled and intrigued. "What is this place?" he asked over his shoulder. "I've never—" Jon froze.

Directly ahead of them, no more than six paces, was a golden longsword. The weapon stood upside down, its blade half-sheathed in a glossy black boulder. The hilt of the sword bore the likeness of two curved falcons with diamonds for eye. The grip was stained with glowing flecks of red.

"We found it!" Jon said excitedly, hypnotised by the object's beauty.

"I don't…" Melisandre replied shakily. "I don't think this is right…"

"What are you talking about?" Jon laughed, moving closer to the prize. "This is Lightbringer. Look at it. It's perfect."

"This isn't what R'hllor showed me in the flames."

Jon closed his hand around the hilt and felt its power. The cave walls hummed louder. "The sword of the evening," he whispered, a golden reflection staring back.

"Jon, let's go back," she said meekly. But he could not hear her.

He placed his other hand around the grip and pulled. The blade slid out with a satisfying sigh.

Jon raised the tip to eye level to admire its bite… And it began to bead with water.

"Wha—" he exclaimed. Vapor emanated from the blade and the liquid trickled down the edges to pool along the hilt. It dripped across Jon's hand, burning with cold. "Ah!" he winced, dropping the weapon. It shattered into crystal fragments on the floor.

"No…" Jon heard Mel whimper. He looked up just in time to see a white blade explode through her chest. Her face twisted with pain and grief. "Jon," she mouthed, before collapsing onto the ground.

Behind her stood the Other. Its ice blue eyes burned in the darkness. It moved towards Jon with long purposeful strides, alien armour shifting from pink to purple to green as it caught the light of Melisandre's dwindling torch. Mist filled the cavern. Jon stepped backwards, tripped, and fell onto his backside with a thump.

He sat there, paralysed with fear. The Other loomed over him, and without a word, it lifted its long lance of ice and plunged the point at Jon's chest.