CHAPTER 2

Jon rises from the Flames

When Jon awoke, he found himself surrounded by darkness. Hard, flat stone pressed against his chest and paws, and he could make out a faint dripping somewhere in the distance. The air around him was stale and cold, but it was almost welcome compared to the harsh chill of the Wolfswood. As his wolf eyes adjusted to the dark, he found himself within the depths of man-caves. Narrow black rock encased him almost entirely, save for a single wall of metal teeth. He approached them, and pushed his snout through the bars. "Sister," he whispered, but she did reply.

"You awake doggy?" another voice spoke. "Gods, you're a big one." Jon growled, and looked around quickly for its source. On the far side of the room were more black caves, just like his, each with their own set of teeth. Jon shook his wolf thoughts away, and strained to see the world through the eyes of a man. Not caves, Jon scolded himself, cells. I am in a dungeon.

"Over here, pup," the voice called again. Jon pushed himself further through the bars and spied someone several cells up. It was a woman, a young woman, with short black hair tangled over her pale brow. Her skin was rough and freshly bruised, though there was something wild and beautiful about her smile. "They put you in that cell yesterday. I thought you were dead, until I heard you growling in the night. I guess even direwolves can dream." She chuckled.

Jon kept staring at her, not daring to move. "Me, I've been in this cell for… Well, I couldn't say how long. Maybe a fortnight. Maybe two. Hard to tell time when you can't see the sky. At least I needn't talk to myself anymore. Any company's welcome when you're alone this long, even if it is a mangy beast. Still, you can't be worse than the mutt's Stannis calls knights." She brushed her long fingers against the purple blotch on her face. "Courtesy of Godry Gooseslayer. I can't tell if he hates women, or just Ironborn." Stannis, Jon thought. I know that name. Stannis! Stannis! Stannis! they were shouting, as arrows soared overhead and a fiery stag galloped above ice-clad trees.

"The red priestess tells me you're really a boy, trapped in a wolf's body. Perhaps if I kiss you, you'll transform into a prince, and we can ride off into the sunset together." She gave a mocking laugh. "Not that you're like to find any sunlight in this frozen waste. Gods below! How could my father have ever hoped to hold onto this place once winter came? Well, that's the Greyjoy's for you… more courage than sense."

Just then, memories began flowing back into Jon's mind. He remembered the Weirwood with its hanging bodies, the Others riding. He remembered seeing his brother Bran in the trunk of the tree. Seek the sword of the evening, he had told him. In the city beyond the Wall… Hardhome… And then the men attacked him, driving their cruel barbs into his flesh, binding him with rope and iron. After that it was all a blur. Where was he? A castle? The Wall?

"Who are you?" Jon barked. "Where is my sister?" He tried to speak her tongue, but all that came out were the growls of a wolf. Then Jon heard a whimper from the cell next to his.

"Looks like your girlfriend's awake," the young woman snickered. "I'll have to fight her for you, to prove my love."

"Little sister," Jon called. "Are you hurt?" Jon's own wounds seemed to have healed, but Nymeria had been stuck with a spear.

"Brother," she whispered. "My belly… It hurts…" Jon lunged at the rock wall, scratching at it furiously. It was no use though. He was in the halls of men now, and once his claws were chipped and bloody, he collapsed on the stone floor, panting. "It's okay, little sister," he yelped. "I'll get you out of hear."

Then Jon heard footsteps and watched as a swaying light descended from the far right end of the dungeon. "What the fuck is all that noise!?" A gruff voice bellowed.

"The red queen's pets are awake," the young woman called back. "And my chamber pot needs emptying." The light faded away and Jon heard the man cursing as he climbed back up the stairs. Nymeria was whimpering close by, but all Jon could do was a grind his teeth and plot how he would tear these men apart if she should die.

Soon, the swaying light returned, but this time many men came with it. They were all cloaked in suits of armor, and they held chains, knives, and straps of leather in their hands. The biggest one held a bar of iron, with a large block at the end.

"Alight," he said. "The grey one doesn't look like she'll do much damage, but this one has some mean bark on him. Garred, you be ready with that sack and chain." He then positioned himself in front of Jon. A long, shiny sword hung by his waist, and at its tip sat the head of a wolf. Jon stuck out his snout and growled. "Orin, open the cell." The metal teeth swung out, and Jon lunged at the tall one. The man stepped back and heaved his bar forward. The metal block landed against Jon's neck with a sickening crack and everything became slow and blurry. The shadows converged on him and he felt iron clasps bind his legs. A cloth fell over his eyes.

Next thing he knew, Jon was bouncing up and down. He thrashed and growled, but he was locked in place. He couldn't see anything through the grey clothe, but he could hear the men all about him. One of them gave him a sharp jab. "Shut up you filthy mutt!" Jon fell unconscious again.

…

When the sack was finally lifted off him, Jon found that he was outside again. It was night, and for the first time in a long time, he saw stars above him. He glanced back and forth frantically, seeing men all around him, hundreds of them, thousands even. Behind them, thick stone towers rose to kiss the sky. Large bolts of cloth fluttered on the walls. Some bore Stannis' fiery stag, while others showed the head of a wolf against a white field. Stark, Jon remembered. The wolves of the north. And stag… of the south.

Jon tried to run, but his legs were still bound with cold links. Then he saw his sister twitching beside him. Her paws were tied together with a large chain, leather straps holding her jaws tight. She lay upon a mound of sticks and straw and tufts of dry hay. She turned to Jon and made a sad groan. Her eyes were so full of fear, just like the deer they had killed together. It broke Jon's heart.

Jon looked out at the crowd of men, their faces stern and silent. Some were cloaked in armor, while others wore the skins of wolves and deer. And then Jon felt it, the warm tongues of flame, curling towards him through the cold night air. A red woman had emerged from the mob, and she was walking slowly towards him. Everything about her was alive with the taste of fire. Her clothes and hair flickered crimson in the wind, and a great warmth wafted off her skin like fresh blood upon on ice; it was almost as hot as the torch she held before her.

As she moved closer to the wolves, the men began to chant as one. "LORD OF LIGHT, PROTECT US! LORD OF LIGHT, DEFEND US! LORD OF LIGHT, GUIDE US!" They were all standing now, with their swords and their spears pointed at the sky. "FOR THE NIGHT IS DARK AND FULL OF TERRORS!"

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," the red woman repeated alone. All was silent again, and the men lowered their steel in reverence. "Oh R'hllor," the red woman sung out. "Hear our prayers, lord of light… Reach into your fiery heart and grant this Son of Stark life once more."

Jon heard footsteps then, approaching from behind. Two cowled men appeared in the corner of his eye. They were carrying a long, thick bundle of cloth. They placed it gently on straw beside Jon and began to unwrap it slowly. Inside the rug was a young man with dark brown hair and a short-cropped beard. He was cloaked and hooded in black furs, stained with red marks across the chest. The man's eyes were closed and his skin seemed as pale as a corpse.

With a flash of horror, Jon realised whose face he was looking at. It was himself, or rather, the man he been in his first life, before he took his wolf form. It felt so long ago, yet the knife-marks in his chest seemed to burn hot and fresh, as if they had just been made. Jon snapped and growled at the men, desperate to get free. He turned to Nymeria. She had also seen the body and was afraid. Jon howled as loudly as he could, and his sister joined him, but the chains would not budge. The men would not flee and the corpse still lay there.

The two cowled men disappeared into the crowd. Everyone seemed to have fallen back several paces. All except the red woman, who moved even closer to Jon. Her eyes flickered, like candles in a wild wind. The light of her torch seemed to grow and shift shape and even change colour. As Jon gazed into its bright heat, he seemed to see himself, cowering under tufts of dry grass.

"Oh divine one," the woman called out above the howls. "Keeper of light and flame, we beseech you from our humble hearts. Draw the soul of a warrior from this savage beast and return it to its rightful vessel." Jon did not understand. What was this red witch doing? "We offer you these mighty direwolves in sacrifice… to do as you will."

"No!" Jon roared, thrashing against his chains. "Don't do it! Please, stop this madness!" The branches and hay crunched beneath his heaving chest.

"It's alright, brother…" Nymeria whispered. "Do not be afraid… You are a wolf, they are men… This is the way of things…" Jon stared into his sisters eyes. A deep calm wash over him. His restraints were no longer cold and hard, but warm and familiar, like his mother's embrace… so many years ago. The noise and fury melted away, and then there were just two direwolves, together at the end. Jon wanted to cry, but he knew he had to be strong.

In the distance, he heard the chanting again—"…Lord of light, protect us! …Lord of light, defend us! …Lord of light, guide us!"—and he saw the red woman kneel, pressing her fiery barb into the tufts of straw. A white, searing flash consumed Jon's senses. Flames roared all around him, lashing at his flesh. He howled again; a long, sorrowful song that spoke of all he had lost. The fire consumed his pain, wrapping itself around the white wolf. He could feel his fur burning, his flesh blistering, his innards roasting, his vision fading…

"Fire!" a man's voice roared and a hundred shards of pain slid into the wolf's hide. "Fire!" More shards, but less pain. The world seemed to melt and shift and slow to a crawl… "Fiiii…irrr… rreee…" And then Jon slipped out of his iron clasps, and out of his wolf skin, and soared into a white hot abyss.

Jon was underwater now. He could taste salt and smoke. When he gazed up, he saw the shadows of enormous warships, colliding in a plume of yellow and red. The bodies of a hundred men were cast into the waves, and as they thrashed about, cold, dead tentacles coiled around them and dragged them into the darkness. They tried to scream, but their lungs were filled with seawater, and they died with horror in their eyes.

Then Jon was somewhere else, a thousand leagues from the ocean. He gazed out and saw a pale girl, with flowing silver hair. She sat upon a monstrous throne with huge bat-like wings and a long serpent tale. And as the monster roared, a river of flame erupted from its barbed jaws, pouring out across a sea of red grass. A thousand horses swayed and shivered below the silver goddess, and as the fire consumed them, they fell to their knees, and bound their strength to hers.

Now Jon was far above the earth, his spirit burning with ice and fire. A plunged against a frozen shore, erupting in a flower of white death. And then the flower sunk and sunk and sunk, deep into the earth, its form twisted and melted, and then hardened and glistened and sharpened and glowed. Jon saw a white sword, and as it sliced through the air, the wind screamed like a dying beast. The sound was so great and so terrible that it made his skin burn.

Jon stumbled out of the burning pyre, growling and weeping. He collapsed into the dirt with a wet thump. He gazed through his man-eyes and saw the bodies of two direwolves roasting in an enormous orange flame. Their howling had ceased, and their eyes had grown pale and empty. No, Jon thought, tears flowing down his cheeks. No, don't leave me Ghost. Don't go Nymeria. I need you. You are my pack. And Jon realised he now stood taller than any wolf, with long arms and legs, and no fur to guard him from the bitter cold. His black cloak had crumbled in flames, and Jon was left naked and bleeding. The fire had not burned him, but his old wounds had opened up, and were leaking red into the dirt.

Then the memories of his first life came rushing back in all at once, and he vomited. The men of Stannis Baratheon were still chanting their awful prayer to the Red God, and the fire was still burning large. Jon's wolves were dead now: two black husks of meat and bone. Yet cruelly, he still lived. Lady Melisandre stood over him with her flaming torch, singing her evil song to R'hllor.

Jon staggered to his feet at last. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It had been so long since he had fashioned words from his tongue. "No-oh," he spluttered at last. "Out… puttit o-ut!" The red priestess turned back to the crowd and cast her eyes up to the castle balcony. A caped man stood, stern and silent. He nodded slowly, the orange flames glistening in his iron crown. Several men rushed forward with buckets in hand and cast water onto the pyre. The flames sizzled and wavered, and after a few minutes, relented in a great puff of ash and smoke. Naked, Jon staggered onto the scorching coals and collapsed against his two burnt direwolves. He held them tightly and wept, "No. How could you?"

"Jon Snow," Melisandre called out. "You died a bastard of the Wall. Rise now, as a warrior of light and flame." The last few flecks of ember died down and the soldiers ceased their praying. Jon raised his head and stared at the men. Their faces seemed almost frightened now, save for King Stannis, who stood upon the platform, his expression revealed nothing. Lady Melisandre's curved figure towered over the blackened expense. Her red gown was covered in soot and yet she looked more beautiful than ever. Jon drew himself to his feet. It was strange to be standing on two legs again. He stood taller than Ghost ever had, and yet he felt so much smaller.

"Tell me, Lord Snow," Melisandre said. "What did the Lord of Light show you in his flames?" Jon stared at her, long and hard. The castle yard had grown deathly silent now. Finally, he spat a hunk of black drool onto the ground and turned his back to her. He knelt beside the two dead direwolves, placed a muscled arm over each, and with a strength he'd never had before, lifted them off the ground and walked away.

"Lord Snow," a man's voice called. It was Stannis Baratheon, perched up on his father's balcony. "Where are you going?"

Jon stood for a while, forming the words in his mind. At last he replied, "To bury… my pack… your grace," he added in acid tones. He kept walking, and Lady Melisandre and her followers continued their twisted chants.

Jon felt rage and grief coursing through him all at once. As he trudged beneath the shadow of the inner wall, it dawned on him that was back in Winterfell. It seemed Stannis had taken the castle from Lord Bolton after all, and yet there was no victory to savour. A year ago, the prospect of returning home might have filled him with joy, but now all he could taste was bitter ash. For what had changed? His brothers had betrayed him at the Wall and left him for dead. And everyone he had ever loved or cared for was gone. Winter had swallowed up the world, and left an empty, soulless abyss in its wake.

Jon made his way to rear of the castle stables, where they had buried Lady, his sister's direwolf, all those years ago. He placed Ghost and Nymeria gently on the ground, pulled a shovel from the stalls and began to dig angrily.

As he worked, the chanting faded, and Stannis' soldiers seemed to retire for the night. From where the moon sat, Jon reckoned that it was almost midnight. More and more memories flowed back into him. I am Jon Snow… a Son of Winterfell… and a brother of the Night's Watch. His wolf thoughts seemed to melt away like the remnants of a fading dream. Perhaps he had always been a man and the fur had only ever been a coat to last the cold. Ghost had kept him alive these past months; he'd kept him company, taught him to survive in the wild, and even lead him back to his sister, Nymeria. Ghost had done all this, and his reward was to be burned alive, frightened and confused. He was Jon's last friend in the world, the last of his pack, and now he was gone. Perhaps he was Jon Snow again, but the wolf blood had stayed with him, hot and angry, and eager for flesh. He could still feel Ghost inside.

…

By the time Lady Melisandre found him behind the stables, Jon had dug a hole that could have housed five direwolves. "You are angry, Jon Snow," she said gently. "I can see it in your eyes and feel it in your words." When he did not look at her, she moved closer. Jon could feel the heat of her skin. "Do you hate me Jon Snow?"

He threw the shovel aside. "I loved the ones you killed," he growled, looking her dead in the eyes.

"I am sorry for your wolf's passing, Jon Snow. He was a loyal beast, and he loved you well. But had I waited any longer to perform the ceremony, you would have been lost to us. Your spirit and Ghost's were too closely tangled. Only one of you could have been saved. Had Ghost lived, Jon Snow would have melted away forever… Only death can pay for life."

I wasn't worth one of Ghost, he thought bitterly. Jon lifted the wolf gently and placed him into the hole. "And Nymeria…?" he whispered.

"The she-wolf would have died regardless. Her wounds went too deep."

"Wounds your men made," he shot back, placing his wolf sister into the grave next to Ghost. Jon picked up the shovel again, and set to burying. "They were all I had left," he said, tears rolling down his mud-soaked face. "The last of my pack…"

"That is not true, Lord Snow. Your sister Arya lives. She misses you terribly and will be happy to know that you are alive."

Jon stopped suddenly and looked up at Melisandre. "Arya," he repeated. Could it be true? She told me to meet her at the Wall… Jon suddenly recalled, but surely that was only one of his wolf dreams. "She's alive… truly?"

Lady Melisandre nodded. "While you were prowling the Wolfswood these past months, your sister has been cloaking herself in glory. It was she who asked me to escort your body home, to be buried in the crypts beneath Winterfell." He tried to picture Arya in his mind: her tangled hair, her wild smile, her hands always stained with mud. Little sister, he would tease and muss up her hair. How sweet it would to see her again, to hug her tightly.

The red priestess was holding a large, black cloak in one arm. She pressed it against Jon's bare chest. "You must put on some clothes, Jon Snow. You will freeze otherwise. Even my powers tremor before the chill of these Northern winds." Jon took the cloak slowly. It was black and lined with fur, like the one he'd been wearing the day he died, like the one that had burnt up in the flames. There were no blood-stains on this one. Suddenly, Jon realised just how cold it was against his naked felsh. Hhe threw the furs over his back and hugged them to his chest.

"Thank you," he said at last. She nodded, and for once her smile seemed sincere. Jon finished burying his two friends, as Lady Melisandre prayed in silence. I'm not dead… Nymeria had told him once. You're not dead… The pack survives… For the first time in a long time, Jon's heart felt warm again, and he remembered that he was a man.