CHAPTER 4
Jon and the Weary Raven
The Weirwood tree gazed down at Jon Snow. Its expression was stern and sullen. Mountains of dry leaves were piled above its ancient roots, while naked branches swayed to the wind's gentle song. Its eyes seemed sad, as though they carried a lifetime of anguish.
Jon was kneeling by the black pool, listened to his heartbeat. The still silence of the Godswood was a welcome refrain compared to the fire and fury of the great keep. Jon had never been that devout in his former life—such piety was not demanded by the Northmen—yet he'd felt strangely drawn to the tree these past few days. Something had happened while he'd been in his wolf form. The Old Gods had spoken to him, yet their words were now lost to his human thoughts. He prayed for some sort of guidance, some sense of how to proceed next. He could sense danger and treachery all about him and feared where the path Stannis had laid out for him may lead. But the old tree offered no answers, only the rustling of leaves.
Jon allowed his thoughts to wander to little Arya. He was beginning to worry about her. She had been expected to return to Winterfell weeks ago, yet she continued to linger in Castle Black, with no word to Stannis about when she might depart south. Ravens had been sent in the night, but none were returned. Jon prayed Mance Rayder was keeping her safe. The half-composed letter he was writing for her still lay upon their father's wooden desk. Does she even know that I'm still alive? He pondered. Can she sense that Nymeria is not? He was beginning to suspect he would need to travel to Castle Black himself, if they were ever to be reunited.
Suddenly, Jon felt the moist air grow warmer, and he knew that she approached, even before he heard her footsteps. "Lord Snow," Queen Melisandre called in a throaty voice. "I have warned you against praying to these devil trees. I have a mind to offer them to the Lord of Light… but my King forbids it."
"A wise man," Jon replied, opening his eyes and squinting through the dawn light. "Snap one twig on this tree and R'hllor himself could not save you from the Northmen's fury. Compared to the Old Gods, your Lord of Light is but a child."
The Red Queen gave a mocking laugh. "You know nothing, Jon Snow. R'hllor was present at the world's birth." Jon turned his head and met Melisandre's eyes as she moved towards him. Her figure was reflected in the pool, and for a moment she almost seemed to be floating. Gods, she is beautiful, he thought spitefully. Jon rose with a grunt, brushing the dirt from his breeches.
"Have you brought me word from my sister?"
"I am afraid not. Our little wolf girl has not made contact with his grace. The entire Wall has remained silent for weeks. I cannot even see it in my flames." That worried Jon, but he would not give her the satisfaction of knowing it. Every time he looked at Melisandre, he remembered his direwolves burning on the pyre, and his hatred was renewed.
"Why have you come then? To mock my father's gods?"
"The King's court will soon commence. Your presence is required."
"Hardly," Jon snorted. "Stannis might as well prop a scarecrow in my seat for all the good I do." Jon knew his seat among the northern lords was purely symbolic—a baseborn place-holder, until his trueborn sister arrived—but it made his silence no easier to bear. At the Wall, I had power. I had friends and men loyal to me. Down here, I am just a bastard boy again, easy to dismiss and even easier to ignore. He could feel a headache coming on. "I have no taste or talent for statecraft, your grace. I will not deny that Stannis would likely serve the realm better than some 8-year-old Lannister whelp, but my place is with the Night's Watch, away from all of this… scheming and proselytising."
Melisandre gave a wry smile. "Ah, Jon Snow, but does the Night's Watch want you back? Your brothers have replaced you with Lord Commander Mallister and death has relieved you of your sacred duties."
"Then I will retake my vows." He was growing irritated and could feel his wolfblood simmering.
"Unless they are taken before the Lord of Light, they are meaningless anyway." She gazed into the black pool for a moment, watching her reflection ripple along its surface. When she looked back up at him, Jon noticed her expression had softened. "You are growing restless in Winterfell… like a wolf in a cage, yes?" He nodded, hesitantly. "These past nights, my fires have burned red with your anger. Your dreams gnash at me like hundry serpents, yet as you wake they seem to fade into dust." She pulled off her gloves and held out her palms to him. They were cracked and bruised, with black welts formed over the fingers.
"My lady," Jon gasped. "You're hurt."
"Oh, these are nothing but curds of the flesh. I have my potions enough to heal them. No, Lord Snow, what truly worries me… is you."
Jon gave a heavy sigh. "I'm… I'll be alright, your grace. It's just hard for me to look at you, without thinking of… of…"
"Ghost," Melisandre finished. There seemed to be a glint of sympathy in her eye. "The beast loved you well, and he will dwell ever inside you. But if you are looking for someone to blame, then blame the Lord of Ice and Shadow, who twisted Bowen Marsh against you."
"Believe me, I do," he whispered darkly.
"But there is something else," the Queen added, moving towards him. "Something that paws at your thoughts, cloaked beneath a veil of rage and fear… Something you witnessed in your wolf form… I can sense it… wriggling…"
There was silence then, and all that could be heard was the rustling of the Weirwood. "I know," Jon whispered eventually. "I can sense it too. I try to remember, but… it hurts too much." Jon would see flashes of it in his dreams… A tree of dangling corpses… The strong smell of spice and cloves… A hart tree, whispering in some familiar voice… "The Old Gods spoke to me…"
Melisandre furrowed her brow. "It may be the taunting's of the Great Other. Of late he has filled my hearth with nightmarish visions, war-cries too dreadful and ancient to decipher." She placed a burned hand on Jon's shoulder. "He seeks only to frighten and deceive, so that the moment of his attack will go unrequited." Snow, the Weirwood seemed to whisper. Snow…Snow… Snow…
"It has something to do with Hardhome," Jon mumbled, deep in thought. "I just know it does. Cotter Pyke said there were dead things in the water and dead things in the woods. The wildlings were gathering there, seeking some sort of salvation, and yet there has been no word of them or my men. Likely they are all dead… or worse."
"The Others have enslaved every living creature beyond the Wall. Soon, they will be ready to breach the realms of men. Perhaps Hardhome will be where their attack will begin."
"Perhaps," Jon agreed warily. "But too much remains uncertain. We've heard nothing from the Wall in weeks. What if something terrible has happened? What if Arya is in danger? Will your king listen to me then?" The Queen gave no response. "I need to return to the Wall, sooner rather than later. You and Stannis can play your game of thrones, but it will be all for naught if the Wall is breached."
She nodded. "On that we can agree, Lord Snow." A cold breeze rushed through the Godswood and Melisandre slid her white gloves back on. "I can help you remember," she said. "I have ways of gazing into the mind… if you so desire."
"I do desire," he replied, "but not right now. We don't want to be late for court." She smiled, gesturing for him to take her hand. They made their way back to the castle walls, arm in arm.
…
As with most mornings, the Great Keep of Winterfell was packed to bursting. All of King Stannis' lords and knights were in attendance, along with the Queen's fervent followers, dozens of maesters and squires, and half a hundred envoys waiting impatiently at the back of the room. As Jon entered the hall in a fresh cloak and boots, he felt a wave of heat wash over him. With all twelve hearths ablaze, and so many voices clambering for the King's ear, the room was practically sweltering.
He jostled his way through the sea of bodies, to take his seat among Stannis' northern bannermen. Lord's Cerwyn and Ryswell smiled and nodded at his approach, while Whoresbane rose to feet with a mug of ale in hand. "Warm enough for you, my boy," he guffawed loudly. "It's not the fires, mind you: it's all of this hot air the southrons have been spreading." Jon chuckled and took his seat beside Lady Dustin, who offered him a curt nod, as was her custom. Jon had been surprised how welcoming all of the northern lords had been during his stay in Winterfell. Bastard or not, he thought. I am the closest they're going to get to a Stark until Arya arrives.
Opposite them, on the other side of Winterfell's throne, sat the proud southron lords, with their big, colourful banners and shiny new armour. "Nary a scratch on them," Torghen Flint would often remark. "I doubt these southern fairies have been within ten leagues of a real battle." Ever since a fist-fight had broken out between Whoresbane and Ser Godry, Stannis had placed his southern and northern bannermen at opposite sides of the room.
As they waited for the King to arrive at court, Jon peered around the hall, examining the hundreds of arms and sigils that now lined its walls. He was glad to BE back in Winterfell, but it no longer felt like home. For, where were the people who had made it a home, laughing and playing and feasting? Where is Maester Luwin teaching Bran his sums? And where is Septa Mordane, scolding Arya and praising Sansa? Where is Old Nan, sitting in her little rocking chair by the fire, with simple Hodor at her side? And where is father, with his weary smile, at the head of the table? They were all gone, all of these people Jon had loved, lost to the world and replaced by strangers. Winterfell was overflowing with bodies, and yet to Jon it felt utterly empty.
Soon enough, the large oaken doors of the Great Hall creaked open, and a hush fell over the room. A herald's voice rang out. "All hail his grace! Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm." The King and Queen entered the hall and began their way down a red and gold carpet. "All hail his Lady Wife," the herald continued, "Melisandre of Asshai, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and High Priestess to the Lord of Light." Onlookers bowed as the royal couple passed them by.
Stannis wore a solemn expression beneath his iron crown, with gleaming black armour and a red cape around his shoulders. Melisandre moved elegantly at his side, her dark red hair cascading down a silken gown that billowed about her ankles. She seemed to float across the hall, nodding graciously at her kneeling subjects.
As Stannis took his seat, the courtiers rose to their feet again. The herald made his way swiftly to the King's side, with parchment in hand. He was followed soon after by Maester Lorrik, several armoured knights, and lastly, the Queen's squire, Ser Devan Seaworth.
"Now commences the royal court of King Stannis Baratheon," Melisandre's throaty voice echoed down the hall. "May the Lord of Light bless these proceedings and shine his wisdom down upon us." She paused as her followers repeated the words back to her, before nodding to the herald.
"His grace calls Ser Harold Rainwood, captain of the Red Storm!" A silver-haired knight approached the King's throne in full armour, bowing with a laboured grunt.
"Ser Harold!" the King boomed. "What tidings have you brought me from the west?"
"Good and ill tidings, your grace. I am pleased to report that Saltgard, the last fortress held by the wretched Ironmen, has been recaptured. We have acquired ten new hostages, two of them noblemen, and placed them within Winterfell's dungeons. Furthermore, our men at Sea Dragon Point have sent word that, after a minor skirmish, the last fleet of Ironborn war-ships has sailed south."
"Heading for the Reach, no doubt," Stannis replied contemptuously. "Treasonous whoresons."
"Indeed your grace," Ser Harold continued. "The Ironmen are currently using the Shield Islands as their base of operations against the Tyrells. The Crow's Eye… er, that is, Lord Euron Greyjoy, has declared himself King of the Isles and the Reach, and after a protracted siege, has managed to capture Oldtown and take the Archmaester hostage." Maester Lorrik let out a long gasp.
"That would give them a clear warpath to Highgarden," Stannis replied with a furrowed brow. "The Tyrell's must be furious."
"Indeed your grace. All Tyrell forces in King's Landing have been deployed west to fortify Highgarden and retake Oldtown. They will be joined by Tarly men on their march through the Riverlands and Lord Redwyne's fleet sails north, to rend back the Shield Isles."
Lord Driftwood was shaking his head in amusement. "The Ironmen will be trapped between three armies. Their position is hopeless. What fools these squids are."
"Fools they may be," the Whoresbane replied. "But they are brazen in their folly and without fear of death. It was foolish of Balon Greyjoy to seize the Stony Shore, but he did it anyway and look how many years it took us to reclaim it." He drained the last of mug, motioning to a serving boy to refill it. "If King Squid was to seal himself up in Oldtown and set the surrounding farmland to the torch, there's no telling how long he and his men could hole up in that city, especially with hostages as valuable as the High Maester. Meanwhile, the Tyrell forces will be spread thin, giving the Iron Fleet free plunder across the Reach's exposed coastline." Just then, a horrible thought occurred to Jon. Sam had sailed to Oldtown almost a year ago. What if he'd been in the city when it fell to Lord Euron. No, he said he would visit his family in Horn Hill. He has to be safe. He just has to be.
"It doesn't matter," Stannis said. "Whatever chaos is allowed to fester in the south only strengthens my claim for the moment we invade. House Lannister is crippled after the death of Lord Tywin and Ser Kevan. The Tyrell's are the true power now. If they are forced to tussle with the Ironmen, and stretch their armies across two cities, then so be it. It only weakens their grip on the Seven Kingdoms. So long as the North is made strong and whole once more, I welcome the bloodshed of the South." This is cold man, indeed, Jon thought.
"Hear, hear!" Ser Axell Florent exclaimed. "There is only so much death and destruction the good people of the south can endure, before they demand the return of their rightful king."
Stannis nodded. "Speaking of which, what news is there from that cesspool King's Landing?"
Maester Lorrik stepped forward and offered a small bow. "More treachery, I am afraid. The disgraced queen, Cersei Lannister, has been found guilty of treason, murder and fornication. Her fate was decided in a trial by combat, in which Ser Robert Strong, a member of the Kingsguard, was defeated and killed by a Warrior of the Faith."
"What warrior?" the Whoresbane scoffed. "That he would fight for a septon rather than a King."
"A cowled monk," the maester replied, "known only as 'Stranger'. As for his true identity, I could not say. Regardless, Lady Cersei has been imprisoned in the Black Cells and Olenna Tyrell named Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms."
Lady Dustin seemed confused. "If Cersei was found guilty, would that not be proof of Tommen's illegitimacy."
"You would think," Maester Lorrik said, "but it would seem that Jaime Lannister was omitted from her list of accused lovers at the last moment."
"No doubt at the Tyrell's request," Lady Dustin replied. "I smell Lady Olenna's fingerprints all over that one. After all, her entire power rests on Tommen's golden locks. I am sure Queen Maegery has been found innocent of all charges."
"She has," the maester confirmed. "Such corruption," he sighed, shaking his head.
"Hmm," Stannis pondered. "Perhaps the Tyrell's are less vulnerable than I had presumed. Their grip on King's Landing remains firm, and if they are able throw the Ironmen back into the tide without too much fuss, they may still hold the southern kingdoms intact." He paused for a moment, massaging his forehead. "No, what we need is chaos. Chaos until we are ready to launch our attack. Ser Massey needs more time to muster our armies in Braavos. More time…"
A tall, thin man that Jon did not recognise approached the throne then. He was garbed in a black, silken robe, and he bowed low with a wide sweep of his arm. "Lord Connington has given us time, your grace, as well as chaos. The rumours are true. Storm's End has fallen to the Golden Company."
"Impossible," the King exclaimed.
"Impossible, but true," the man replied. "And my spies in the south tell me that Dorne moves to support him."
"Who is that?" Jon whispered to no one in particular.
"Lucas Farrow," Lady Dustin replied. "The King's Master of Whispers. He hails from Bravos, sent by the Iron Bank to aide in the King's claim."
Stannis considered Master Farrow's words carefully, before taking a sip of wine. "Lord Arryn always suspected Dorne of being a hotbed of Targaryen loyalists, but Prince Doran has proven himself a calm and cautious man. Surely he is wise enough not to believe these false tales of baby Aegon returning from the dead. The boy was slain before his first name-day by that man-beast Gregor Clegane."
"Lord Connington claims otherwise," Farrow insisted. "And if words fail him, he has an army of ten-thousand men to argue his point."
Lord Peasbury was starting to look worried. "If Dorne were to join him, that number would triple."
Stannis' face remained a mask. "The Lannisters and Tyrells still outnumber them. Let them fight to their hearts' content. Whichever side is still standing at the end will be too exhausted to oppose us."
"Hear! Hear!" Ser Axell chimed in again.
"As you say, your grace," Farrow gave another prosperous bow. "So long as our enemies are at each other's throats, we are given ample time to strengthen our forces and gather our friends for the coming fight."
Ser Axell raised his wine cup in triumph. "You shall sit the Iron Throne before the year is out, your grace." His words were starting to slur. "Brightwater Keep stands with you! And soon stag and fox shall prance through the Red Keep in victory."
Farrow shot Ser Axell a side-ways glance. "The Iron Bank stands with you as well, sire… so long as certain remunerations are gratified."
The King was not amused. "I gave your bosses my word, Master Farrow. The Iron Bank will have its due, but speak to me like that in this court again… and you will wish you hadn't."
"Of course, sire. Ten thousand apologies. I only meant—"
"Your grace," Ser Manderly interrupted, eager to calm the situation. "More friends flock to your cause every day, not just in the North, but the Riverlands as well. House Mallister has pledged their swords for you, as have House Blackwood."
"Have they?" The King grunted. "How nice of them." That amused Jon. A year ago, you'd have given your left arm for such allies, but now they are just another arrow in the quiver. Stannis' star was truly beginning to rise.
"Indeed, sire. Their allegiance has not been made public of course, but they have promised to wed their strength to yours, the moment you march south. Ser Brynden Tully has bent the knee as well. He has raised an army of outlaws, as well as Stark and Tully survivors from the Red Wedding. He plans to march south with us, to retake Riverrun for his nephew Edmure."
"I would sooner hang such outlaws than drape my banner around their necks, but if they want to slay Freys, I'll not dissuade them."
The Whorsebane drew his sword. "So long as they leave some for me!" A cry went up from the Northmen, and there was much banging of fists and stamping of feet.
"Silence!" The King boomed. "I'll not have my court turned into some five-copper bawdy house." He gestured to Maester Lorrik. "What's next?"
The maester reached into his robes and produced a piece of parchment. "There was a letter from the Vale. It arrived during the night." He unfurled the parchment. "Lord Petyr Baelish has requested his and her grace's presence… for the wedding of Harrold Hardyng and Alayne Stone. The ceremony is to be held at the Bloody Gate." A charming proposal.
Stannis snatched the parchment from the maester and read it again. "Why in R'hllor's name should I care about the wedding of a minor lordling and a bastard girl?"
"The bastard is Lord Baelish's own daughter," Lorrik replied. "And the lordling is second in line to the Eyrie."
"What is Littlefinger up to?" the King murmured, reading the letter a second time. "Is there no end to his scheming? I've never trusted the man. He cares only for money and whores."
"The man has bolstered considerable wealth, your grace. Perhaps it would prove a profitable friendship."
"And why should I want a friend like him, some up-jumped sheep-herder turned brothel-owner. He'd have been run out of the city if I'd had my way."
Master Farrow stepped forward again. "Whatever he may have been in King's Landing, the man is now Lord Paramount of the Trident and Lord Protector of the Vale. Baelish has invited you, your grace. Not King Tommen, not Lady Olenna, but you… Don't you see, he means to support your claim." Farrow let the King absorb that. "My humble advice is to accept his offer of friendship, if only to deny his wealth and power to your enemies."
The King thought on that for a moment, stroking his black and silver beard, as the court sat in silence. "I'll consider it," he said after a while, returning the letter to Maester Lorrik. "What else is there?"
As it turned out, there was a lot "else". Most of the discussion concerned grain supplies, the feeding and arming of troops, and the fortifications of the Stony Shore and Sea Dragon Point, lest any Ironmen decide to return. Maester Lorrik and Lord Cerwyn got into a rather heated argument over what lands were now subject to Stannis' rule as acting lord of Winterfell, but the remainder of the proceedings were largely uneventful. The envoys were all appeased and Ser Harold and a number of other knights were awarded lands and dowries for their service.
Jon felt himself growing weary, slouching further and further down into his seat. The hall was oppressively hot, and he could feel himself falling asleep. His thoughts drifted back to the Godswood, and for a moment he could picture his brother Bran. "Hardhome," he seemed to whisper. "Lightbringer… In Hardhome…" It was a foolish thought, though. Bran had died years ago.
Suddenly, Jon was jolted awake by the flutter of wings. The other courtiers seemed to have heard it as well, as their eyes were darting around in search of its source. "Snow!" squawked a voice from outside the hall. "Snow! Snow! Snow!" The oaken doors of the keep seemed to shudder, and Ser Godry quickly drew his blade and ran towards them.
As he pulled the doors open, a tattered black raven flickered into the room, followed by a rush of icy cold air. The bird circled the room frantically, calling for "corn" and "snow" and "king." Finally, it locked onto its target, and swooped down to land on Jon's shoulder.
"Corn!" it demanded once more, dropping a scrap of paper into Jon's palm. Jon raised the paper to eye level and realised with a mix of fear and excitement that it bore the wax sigil of House Stark.
"It's from Arya!" He exclaimed.
"I'll take that!" Maester Lorrik said, snatching the letter from Jon. "God knows his grace has waited long enough."
"Indeed," Stannis added. "One might think that I'd offended your lady sister, that she should remain so long at the Wall."
Jon watched with baited breath as Maester Lorrik unfurled the paper and gazed upon its contents. As his eyes moved back and forth along the page, his face seemed to shrink and then twist into an expression of pure terror. "Your grace," he managed to splutter after a few moments. "It's not, it's not… I can't… How?!"
"Give me that," the King snapped, rending the letter from his maester's trembling hands. Jon watched in dismay as the same frightened expression spread its way across Stannis' face. He let the paper fall to the ground. No, Jon thought. No, not Arya. How could the Gods be that cruel?
Melisandre picked it back up and began to read aloud. "To the King… Castle Black has fallen. The Others have broken through the Wall." A gasp shot up from the courtiers, but Jon could barely hear it for the beating of his heart.
"You must send reinforcements as soon as this raven reaches you, which I pray is quickly. They attacked us in the dead of night, blowing some hideous horn. The Wall around the castle crumbled. We held them off for as long as we could, but there was too many of them, and they would not stay dead. They seem to be afraid of fire, but nothing else. Tormund Gianstbane is dead, along with a hundred more brave wildlings.
"Me and the survivors fled south, to the mountains, with Mance Rayder. Lord Commander Mallister rode west, to the Shadow Tower, where the Wall appears mainly intact. I am writing you this letter from Hurrik's Perch, where we have walled ourselves in from the Others. We can see them on the horizon. Their ranks are unending, and they carry a terrible storm with them. Thankfully, they can only march at night, but the days are growing shorter, and they will be upon us soon. We may not have the strength to hold them off. We have nowhere else to go. Please send all able-bodied men and women. Please…
"From Arya of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Warden of the North"
As the queen finished reading, an eerie silence descended over the room. Jon's heart was thumping in his ears. His tongue was bone dry. His throat seemed to swell and choke him of air. He had dreamed of this nightmare so many times he thought he'd be ready for it, but he wasn't. Not by a long shot.
"This is madness," Ser Axell said at last. "We can't… We can't go north. The Iron Throne is in the south. Does Lady Arya take us for fools? Utter madness."
"Are you bleeding deaf?!" Whoresbane roared, jumping to his feet. "The Wall has fallen. The Others—"
"Northern superstition!" Lord Driftwood declared. "The Wall cannot fall, certainly not to a horn. The Others are gone, if they ever existed at all. No doubt this is just another Wildling attack."
"Perhaps the girl is confused," Maester Lorrik offered. "She is quite young after all. If the wildlings scaled the Wall, then perhaps she mistook it for…"
"Mistook what!?" Whorebane spluttered, choking on his own rage. "She writes in black and white that Castle Black has fallen."
"We must send her men!" Lady Dustin cried.
"We have no men to spare," Ser Harold replied. "The North is held together by a thread."
Ser Manderly rose to his feet. "What about the soldiers at the Stony Shore?!" He said. "If they ride without rest, they could reach Hurrik's Perch within a week."
"No!" Ser Harold stammered. "That would leave us vulnerable to the Ironmen. We must guard the coasts."
Lord Locke rose as well. "I will send my builders and masons from Oldcastle immediately. The Wall must be repaired—
"No, Lord Locke!" Maester Lorrik exclaimed. "Your builders are required in the Neck, to raise our siege engines for the march south."
"There won't be a march south!" the Whorebane roared, drawing his blade. "Not while Lady Arya is in danger and the North under attack."
Ser Godry rushed forward with sword in hand. "How dare you draw steel in the presence of the King?!"
"He who would abandon the Watch is not King of mine!"
After that, madness ensued. The Northmen began spilling out of their seats, shouting at the top of their lungs. More swords were drawn and more insults exchanged. Fights erupted between White Harbor knights and Stannis' guards. I have to get out of here, Jon thought, tears rolling down his face. I have to save her…
Stannis sat silent in his seat, Arya's letter crumpling at his feet. Melisandre laid a nervous hand on the King's shoulder, but his face remained a sullen stare. The shadows of the courtiers danced across the walls of the great hall, while the hearths burned red and wild. The heat was unbearable.
Jon wrenched himself from his seat staggering across the stone tiles. All around him was noise and fury, people shoving and screaming and crying, but the noise seemed to fade in Jon's mind, until all he could hear was his own breathing. He made his way through the chaos, to the great oaken doors at the end of the hall. He placed his hands on the old iron handles and pulled both doors apart with a grunt. The cold night air of Winterfell's courtyard rushed into the room and swallowed Jon whole.