Jon III
The morning was cold and still, but Castle Black was anything but silent. The courtyard buzzed with frantic energy as men prepared for the inevitable clash. The scent of oil, steel, and sweat mingled with the ever-present chill of the Wall. Yet beneath the surface hum of preparation, there was a weight that pressed on Jon's soul —a weight born of the night's horror.
Jon Snow stood on the balcony, his eyes fixed on the southern horizon. He didn't blink, didn't flinch, even as the wind bit at his face. The memory of Shireen's screams echoed in his mind, a sound so haunting it seemed to ride the wind itself. He tightened his grip on the hilt of Longclaw, the pommel's wolf's head cold beneath his palm.
"Lord Commander," a voice called from behind him, strained and breathless. Jon turned to find Samwell Tarly, hunched over and panting from the climb up the steps. His cloak fluttered in the icy wind, but it was his face that drew Jon's attention—pale, hollow-eyed, and shadowed by exhaustion.
"They've been spotted," Sam managed, between gulps of air. "Scouts say... the Lannisters. They'll be here by midday."
Jon nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good. We'll use what time we have to finish the defenses." His tone was flat, detached.
Sam hesitated, rubbing his gloved hands together as if trying to banish a deeper chill. His gaze lingered on Jon's face, searching for something. "Jon… I—I can't stop thinking about what happened last night."
Jon didn't answer right away. The events of the night hung heavy over them, a grim fog that refused to lift. After Shireen's death, the castle had descended into a kind of stunned silence. Melisandre and Stannis had retreated to the chambers that Stannis had claimed without a word, their faces pale but emotionless.
Jon had taken charge, unable to bear the stillness. He woke a handful of the Night's Watch, Sam and Gendry among them. They worked through the night, each task more grim than the last.
He remembered Selyse—her grief had shattered whatever strength she had left. She collapsed in the snow, unable to stand, her sobs ragged and unrelenting. Jon had tried to comfort her, but it was Gendry who silently stepped forward, lifting the broken queen in his arms and carrying her back to her chambers.
Davos Seaworth had been a different matter. Jon had approached him, hoping to give words of solace or perhaps solidarity. But the knight had brushed past him, his face a mask of rage and sorrow, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. He had disappeared into the shadows, leaving Jon with nothing but the echo of his footsteps.
When Gendry returned, they had turned their attention to the courtyard. The pyre was nothing but smoldering embers, the air thick with the stench of burnt flesh. Together, they moved Shireen's charred remains to the maester's chambers, their faces grim and silent.
Now, as Jon faced Sam, the memories felt like a lead weight pressing on his chest. His voice was low and hollow when he finally spoke. "Neither can I."
Sam's lips trembled, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief. "She didn't deserve that, Jon. The princess. She was just a girl. She trusted them... and they..." His voice broke entirely, and he fell silent.
Jon placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "I know," he said quietly. "She was innocent. But we can't change what's done. We can only make sure it means something."
Sam nodded slowly, though his eyes were still wet with unshed tears. "What now?"
Jon turned back toward the horizon, the sun was rising, casting long shadows across the snow-covered land. "Now we fight. For her. For all of us. To live to fight another day"
Sam nodded reluctantly, but Jon could see the weight of guilt in his friend's eyes. He placed a hand on Sam's shoulder. "After the battle... I want you to bury her. Somewhere peaceful. Away from this place. She deserves that much."
Sam swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. "I'll do it."
The castle buzzed with a grim determination. Men rushed to their posts, stringing bows, sharpening swords, and reinforcing the walls. Jon moved through the bustling courtyard, his cloak trailing behind him, a quiet but commanding presence. The men of the Night's Watch and Stannis's forces worked in grim synchronization. Bows were strung, barrels of pitch rolled to defensive positions, and swords sharpened until they gleamed like shards of ice. The air was heavy with the mingled scents of sweat, oil, and the biting cold.
Jon offered words of encouragement to those he passed, clapping shoulders, meeting weary eyes with his own resolute gaze. He knew the men needed to see strength in their commander, even if he felt the weight of the world pressing down on him.
Near the battlements, he spotted Gendry, shoulders straining as he hauled a heavy barrel of pitch. The blacksmith moved with a practiced efficiency, but there was something in his expression—a tension, a simmering anger that hadn't cooled since the night before. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark and distant.
"Gendry," Jon called out, stopping a few paces away.
Gendry set the barrel down with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow. He looked at Jon, the hardness in his face softening just a little. "Thank you. For last night."
Jon met his gaze. "You did what needed to be done."
Gendry nodded, but his eyes flickered with something more—regret, maybe. "She deserved better."
Jon's throat tightened. "She did." His voice was low, barely more than a whisper. "After the battle... we'll see to her. Properly."
Gendry hesitated, his hands resting on his hips. He glanced away, as if steeling himself for something. "Jon," he said, voice quieter now. "Do you know?"
Jon frowned. "Know what?"
Gendry's gaze locked onto Jon's, the weight of years pressing into the silence between them. "Who I am. Who my father was. I've always wondered if that's why you made me your steward."
Jon studied him for a moment, understanding dawning like a distant storm on the horizon. "Aye," he said at last. "I know. I read the letter your old master sent with you. It told me who you were... and why it should remain a secret."
Gendry's shoulders slumped slightly, his eyes dropping to the snow-covered ground.
"But that's not why I made you my steward," Jon continued, stepping closer. His voice was steady, firm. "I chose you because you're brave, good, and hardworking. It had nothing to do with a father you never knew."
Gendry exhaled, a breath that misted in the cold air. "I've been thinking about Shireen," he admitted, voice heavy with guilt. "She was my cousin, and she never even knew me. To her, I was just another face in a sea of black cloaks. And now she's dead."
Jon placed a hand on Gendry's shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of the pain they both carried.
"Imagine this," Gendry said, his voice carrying a hint of dry humor beneath the grim tension in the air. "The bastard sons of Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon, standing side by side at the end of time." He let out a breath that could have been a laugh, though it lacked any real warmth. "Who'd have thought?"
Gendry extended his hand, the calluses and scars a testament to years of hard labour at the forge. The gesture was simple but weighty—a bond forged in the fires of survival, stronger than any blood tie. "It'll be an honour to fight alongside you"
Jon hesitated for a heartbeat, eyes flicking between Gendry's outstretched hand and the man himself. The thought of Robert Baratheon—once a king, a warrior, and now a memory—crossed his mind. If Robert knew his bastard son fought alongside the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, he'd likely rise from his grave in fury. But the dead didn't matter now. Only the living did.
Jon clasped Gendry's hand firmly. Their grip was strong, solid, and filled with unspoken understanding. Brothers not by blood, but by fate.
"The honour's mine," Jon said, his voice low but resolute.
They stood there for a moment longer, two men bound by legacy and circumstance, before a horn's distant call shattered the silence. The Lannisters were closing in.
Gendry released Jon's hand and picked up his warhammer, resting it on his shoulder with a grim nod. "Guess it's time."
Jon nodded, adjusting the grip on his sword, Longclaw's weight a familiar comfort. "Time to fight. Time to hold the line."
Together, they walked toward the battlements, where the icy winds of the North howled like a pack of wolves, biting through layers of fur and steel. On the walkway ahead stood Stannis Baratheon, his posture rigid and unyielding, a man forged in duty and ambition. Beside him, Melisandre stood cloaked in red, her hair aflame against the backdrop of Winter's chill. Their faces were locked in quiet conversation, their eyes fixed on the horizon where the enemy would soon appear. Neither acknowledged Jon's presence as he approached, but he didn't care.
He stopped next to them, the cold making his breath visible in the air. Jon's gaze flicked between them, noting Stannis's clenched jaw and Melisandre's eerie calm. He broke the silence.
"My lord," Jon greeted, his voice steady but laced with underlying tension.
Stannis turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Your Grace," he corrected, his tone as sharp as a blade.
Jon's jaw tightened. He met Stannis' glare with one of his own, unflinching. "No king does the things you did," Jon said, his voice low but cutting.
Stannis' expression didn't change, but Melisandre was quick to interject. "Sacrifices must be made," she said smoothly, her gaze burning with conviction. "Would you rather one girl die or the whole castle?"
Jon's eyes hardened. "And what will her death bring you?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Will it give you a hundred more men? Will it make the walls of this castle any stronger?"
Melisandre's eyes glowed with an unsettling certainty. "When the time comes, the princess' sacrifice will turn the tide."
Jon scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Be sure to let me know when that happens," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. He turned his focus back to Stannis, stepping closer, his breath fogging in the frigid air. "But right now, Lord Baratheon, we fight today to survive. If by some miracle you win this battle, know this—the Night's Watch will never call you king."
Stannis' mouth twisted into a grim line, but he said nothing. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken challenge. Jon lingered a moment longer, his eyes flicking to Melisandre. "You're wrong," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "About everything."
Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and descended the steps, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. As he walked away, he could feel their eyes on his back—the weight of their faith, their madness, and the burden of what lay ahead.
The battle was coming. And Jon knew they would all pay the price.
The Lannisters had come, and they were unleashing fury as relentless as a storm. Their war horns blared, deep and mournful, echoing across the frozen landscape. They struck with precision, ruthless and unyielding, their gold-and-crimson banners rippling like flames against the pale, snow-covered expanse.
Jon stood atop the battlements, watching the chaos unfold below. The clash of steel on steel, the guttural shouts of men, and the dying screams of the wounded created a cacophony of war. Arrows rained down like black hail from the ramparts, but the Lannister forces pressed forward, their formation tight and disciplined.
They had targeted the Eastern Gate. Jon's heart sank as he saw their battering ram—a monstrous thing of iron and oak—crashing against the weakened structure. It had never fully recovered from the Wildling siege years ago. Despite Jon's best efforts to reinforce it with scavenged timber and stone, it was a weak spot, and the enemy had exploited it.
"Hold the line!" Jon yelled, his voice ragged from hours of barking commands. The men of the Night's Watch, their black cloaks stiffened by the biting cold, scrambled to reinforce the breach, rallying alongside the Baratheon soldiers bearing the burning heart of Stannis Baratheon. But Stannis himself was nowhere to be seen, leaving the soldiers to fight without their commander. They fought with the grim resolve of men who had little choice, but the Lannisters surged forward like an unrelenting tide. The enemy came in waves, pressing harder and harder, their numbers overwhelming and their ferocity unyielding.
The gate groaned under the relentless assault, splintering with each brutal impact. Jon could see cracks spiderwebbing across the timber, each one a countdown to disaster. He gritted his teeth, gripping the hilt of Longclaw so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
"Jon!" Sam's voice called out from behind him. He turned to see his friend, pale-faced and trembling but determined. "They're breaching the lower wall—should we pull back?"
"No," Jon said firmly, shaking his head. "If we retreat now, they'll overrun the courtyard. We hold here. We make them bleed for every inch."
Sam nodded, though fear flickered in his eyes. He hefted a crossbow, his hands shaking as he loaded it.
Below, the gate gave a final, resounding crack and exploded inward. Splinters and debris flew in all directions as the Lannister vanguard surged through, swords gleaming in the pale morning light.
Jon didn't hesitate. He vaulted down the steps, landing heavily in the courtyard, and waded into the fray. Longclaw flashed in his hands, the Valyrian steel cutting through the first Lannister soldier who charged him. Blood sprayed across the snow, steaming in the cold air.
"Form up!" Jon shouted to the men around him. "Shield wall!"
The men scrambled to obey, locking shields together as the Lannisters poured through the breach. It was a desperate defense, a wall of men standing against the tide.
Jon fought with everything he had, each swing of Longclaw precise and deadly. But it wasn't enough. He could see more Lannisters flooding through the gate, their numbers overwhelming.
Above, archers rained arrows down on the invaders, but the enemy pressed on, pushing Jon and his men back step by step.
A horn sounded—a low, mournful note that echoed across the battlefield. Jon's heart clenched. They were inside the castle now. The walls had been breached.
The courtyard was chaos—snow stained red, bodies crumpled underfoot, and the clang of steel filling the air. Jon's breath came in ragged gasps, his limbs aching from the constant battle. He ducked a swing from a Lannister soldier, countering with a swift thrust of Longclaw that sent his opponent sprawling.
But there were too many. Every time one fell, another took their place. Jon's muscles burned, his grip on Longclaw slipping as blood—his own and others—coated the hilt. He stumbled, momentarily disoriented, as a spear jabbed toward him. He twisted away just in time, but the force of it knocked him to one knee.
"Jon!" a voice bellowed.
Gendry.
Before Jon could fully register what was happening, Gendry barreled into the fray like a bull. His hammer—a monstrous thing of iron and fury—swung wide, catching the Lannister spearman in the chest with a sickening crunch. The man flew back, collapsing in a heap. Gendry didn't stop. He planted his feet, swinging again and again, driving the Lannisters back with sheer brute strength.
"Get up!" Gendry growled, reaching down and yanking Jon to his feet. His eyes were wild, face streaked with blood and soot. "We're not done yet!"
Jon nodded, breathless but grateful. Together, they stood shoulder to shoulder, holding the line. Gendry's hammer shattered shields and bones, while Jon's Longclaw danced through the chaos, a blur of Valyrian steel.
"We need to push them back!" Jon shouted over the din.
"Working on it!" Gendry grunted, smashing another soldier aside.
A Lannister knight in gleaming armour charged at them, sword raised high. Jon ducked under the swing, spinning to deliver a brutal slash across the knight's back. The man staggered but didn't fall. Gendry finished him with a single, crushing blow to the helmet, the metal caving in with a sickening crunch.
"We can't hold much longer!" Gendry gasped, glancing at Jon. His face was flushed, sweat and blood mingling on his brow.
Jon's gaze swept across the carnage. The battle was slipping away from them. Lannister forces pressed harder, their relentless tide driving the defenders back toward the keep. The stench of blood and burning pitch hung heavy in the air, mixing with the screams of the dying.
"We need to fall back!" Jon barked, parrying a blow from a mace-wielding soldier. The clash of steel against Valyrian steel sent a jolt through his arm. "We can't hold them here!"
Gendry nodded grimly, his hammer striking down another foe. "Go! I'll cover you!"
Jon hesitated but knew there was no choice. He couldn't afford to lose more men, and Gendry would hold the line as long as he could.
Jon turned, sprinting toward the inner courtyard. The gate had fallen, but they could still regroup inside. He passed clusters of Night's Watch brothers and Baratheon men fighting desperately, many falling where they stood.
In the distance, Jon spotted Samwell Tarly, frantically trying to shepherd a group of wounded men toward the inner keep. Sam's face was a mask of fear and determination, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead as he hauled a limping brother across the snowy ground.
"Come on, move!" Sam urged, his voice trembling but resolute. He was doing everything he could to get them to safety, his own fear buried beneath the weight of duty.
Jon sprinted toward him, cutting down a pair of Lannisters that had broken through the line. "Sam! Get them inside! Hurry!"
"I'm trying!" Sam gasped, his breath coming in ragged gulps. The wounded man in his arms groaned, collapsing as they reached the base of the keep. Sam dropped to his knees, struggling to lift him again.
Jon grabbed the fallen man, slinging him over his shoulder. "Go, Sam! I've got him."
Sam nodded, stumbling to his feet and helping another injured brother. They were nearly there. Just a few more steps.
Then, Jon saw the danger too late. A Lannister soldier, sword drawn, broke through the line and charged at Sam.
"Sam, behind you!" Jon shouted, but the warning came too late. The soldier drove his blade into Sam's side, the steel sliding in with a sickening ease.
Sam gasped, his eyes wide with shock. He staggered back, clutching at the wound as blood seeped through his fingers. The wounded brother beside him collapsed, forgotten.
"No!" Jon roared, dropping the man he carried and charging forward. Longclaw flashed in the morning light, cutting the Lannister down in one savage strike. The soldier crumpled, but the damage was done.
Jon dropped to his knees beside Sam, "Sam! Stay with me! You're going to be fine."
Sam's lips trembled, his eyes glassy. "Jon... I tried... I tried to get them safe."
"You did, Sam," Jon said, his voice breaking. He pressed his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood, but it was useless. "You did everything you could."
Sam's hand reached up, grasping weakly at Jon's arm. There was a faint, sad smile on his face. "Take care of them... the brothers. And Gilly... tell her I'm sorry that I couldn't save her or her baby."
"No," Jon whispered, shaking his head. "You're going to tell her yourself. Stay with me, Sam."
But Sam's eyes fluttered closed, his body going limp in Jon's arms. The world seemed to blur, the sounds of battle fading to a distant roar. Jon held him, numb with grief, his friend's lifeless form cradled against him.
Gendry's voice snapped him back to reality. "Jon! We have to go!"
Jon gently laid Sam down, brushing a hand over his friend's face. There was no time for grief—not now. He stood, his heart hardened, and turned back to the battle.
"Fall back!" Jon shouted, his voice like thunder. "To the keep! Now!"
The survivors obeyed, retreating into the inner keep as the Lannisters pressed closer. Jon cast one last glance at Sam's body, promising himself that they would honour him—when, and if, they survived.
The last of the defenders trickled into the inner courtyard, the massive doors of Castle Black slamming shut behind them with a bone-shaking thud. Inside, the scene was a nightmare. The wounded were scattered everywhere—men bleeding heavily, their groans filling the air, while others leaned against the cold stone walls, their chests heaving as they tried to regain their breath. Jon stood among them, his gaze sweeping over the carnage. His eyes landed on his father, crouched in a corner, tending to a Baratheon soldier with a deep gash across his forehead. The air inside was thick with the scent of blood and fear, a heavy reminder that they were far from safe.
For a brief moment, Jon felt a flicker of relief—at least they were inside the walls, at least they had a chance. But that fleeting sense of safety quickly faded, replaced by the weight of his thoughts. Sam's death gnawed at him, the loss of his friend still too raw. And the rest of his brothers—the men of the Watch—had fought valiantly, but Tywin's forces were relentless, closing in from every direction. Castle Black's walls felt more like a trap than a fortress. The Lannisters were not done yet, and neither was the nightmare.
The group made their way further into the keep, where Stannis Baratheon and Melisandre stood by the roaring hearth in the great hall. Melisandre's gaze was fixed on the flames, her eyes distant, almost trance-like as the fire flickered with unnatural colours. The room was eerily silent except for the crackling of the flames and the occasional sound of footsteps echoing through the stone walls.
Jon's heart tightened at the sight of her. The ghost of Shireen's death hung him, like a curse that no one could shake. The young princess' screams still echoed in his mind, the image of her charred body burned into his memory. He clenched his fists, trying to keep his emotions in check.
Melisandre spoke, her voice soft, yet carrying an unsettling power. "Her death... it was not enough," she murmured, staring into the fire with a strange, almost reverent expression on her face. "The Lord of Light demands more." Her words seemed to hang in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating.
Stannis, standing at her side, remained silent for a moment, his face grim and hard. But Jon could see the conflict in his eyes, the weariness of a man who had lost his way but could not turn back.
Then Stannis' eyes flicked toward the doorway.
Gendry had just entered, his hammer still hanging from his side, a bloody, grim expression on his face. The sight of him made Jon's chest tighten—Gendry was one of the best men left in the watch, and now, his fate was about to take a dark turn.
Stannis's eyes narrowed. Recognition flickered in his gaze.
"You," Stannis said, his voice low, as if the name had only just dawned on him. "You're my brother's bastard, aren't you?"
Jon froze, his blood running cold. He had been so focused on the fight and the carnage outside that he hadn't even thought about Gendry's identity. But now it was clear. Stannis was staring at the blacksmith, Melisandre stood behind him, her lips curling into a tight, calculating smile.
"I am," Gendry said, his voice tight but steady. He lifted his chin, defiant, but Jon could see the flicker of worry in his eyes.
"You're a part of the blood that runs through the Baratheon line," Stannis said, his voice growing more confident. "And the Lord of Light demands sacrifice. You will serve to fulfill it."
Jon's blood ran colder. He knew exactly where this was headed. Gendry's blood was the key to Melisandre's twisted vision of salvation, just as Shireen's had been.
"NO!" Jon shouted, stepping forward, his hand instinctively reaching for Longclaw. His heart pounded in his chest, and a surge of protectiveness flared within him. He couldn't let this happen. Not again.
Before anyone could react, Davos Seaworth appeared from the shadows, his face pale and drawn, his breath ragged from the battle. He had seen enough bloodshed for one day, but he wasn't about to stand by while another innocent life was sacrificed.
"Enough of this!" Davos's voice rang out, full of authority and fury. "The boy is not for your flames!"
Stannis's face twisted in irritation. "You speak out of turn, Seaworth. Do you think I am blind to the suffering we must endure? This is the path the Lord of Light has set for us. The sacrifice will be made, and with it, we will win this war."
"No," Jon said, stepping forward, his voice low but filled with determination. "We don't sacrifice anyone else, Stannis. We fight. We survive."
Stannis glared at Jon, but Jon didn't flinch. His grip on Longclaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "You've already lost your daughter, Stannis. Don't throw away another life. Gendry has nothing to do with your fire god's plan. He's a blacksmith. A man who's bled and fought beside us. He's not a sacrifice."
Melisandre, her eyes still locked on Gendry, spoke quietly, her voice like silk. "We cannot ignore the will of the Lord of Light. The power of the king's blood will protect us."
Jon turned to Davos, seeking the knight's support. Davos's face was hard, his jaw clenched, but he spoke with a quiet conviction. "She's wrong, Stannis. Sacrificing Gendry won't bring you victory. It'll only damn us all. You've already made your sacrifice. It's time to focus on saving the lives that are still here, not throwing them away for some prophecy."
Stannis's eyes flicked between Jon, Davos, and the still-silent Melisandre. The weight of their words seemed to sink in, but his pride was a heavy burden, and it took everything in Jon to hold his ground.
Stannis Baratheon's hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white, but instead of drawing it in anger, he released a long, ragged breath. His shoulders sagged slightly as the weight of his grief pressed down on him, but his voice was firm, filled with cold resolve.
"Enough," he said, his voice grating. "You're right, I will not sacrifice a strong fighting man for the chance it appeases some foreign god. Not when that man might be the only family I have left."
Melisandre, standing just a few paces away, took a step forward, her crimson robes flowing around her like the shadow of a flame. She opened her mouth to protest, to plead with him once more, but Stannis cut her off sharply, his voice like a lash.
"No," he said, the word cold and final. "I've listened to your promises for far too long, whore. Since the day you entered my life, I've known nothing but death, loss, and horror. You told me I was the one—the chosen one. You told me I was meant to lead, to save this realm, and all I've gained is more pain than any man should bear. I lost both my brothers. My only child. You have led me down a path of nothing but ruin."
He took a long step toward her, his eyes burning with fury, not at her specifically, but at the years of despair that had followed her presence.
"Everything I've done has been for the throne, for my family, and all I have to show for it is ashes. So no more. I will not offer up another life for your god's whims. I will fight with the men who still stand with me, and I will see this war through to the end without your sorcery or your prophecies."
A smile spread slowly across Melisandre's face, her lips curving with a quiet satisfaction. She stepped closer to Stannis, her fingers gently brushing his jaw, her touch light, as if trying to soothe the tension in him. Then, with an almost tender gesture, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips.
"That's alright, your grace," she whispered, her voice low and filled with quiet assurance. "That is why I am here—to do what you cannot, to bear the weight that you cannot carry alone." Her eyes met his, and for a moment, there was a fleeting glimpse of tenderness behind the coolness that usually defined her.
But the moment shattered in a heartbeat. Without warning, her hand shot toward her waist, and a gleaming dagger appeared from the folds of her crimson gown. She moved with terrifying speed, her dark eyes locked on Gendry, the target of her devotion and her sacrifice.
Jon Snow's instincts screamed as he watched her, and before anyone could react, he surged forward, his body a blur as he intercepted her, his hand grabbing her wrist with the strength of desperation. The dagger fell from her grasp, its blade clattering loudly against the stone floor as Jon twisted her arm aside. The cold steel slid across the rough stone, ringing out in the tense silence that followed.
Two of Stannis' men rushed forward, their hands quickly closing around her arms to restrain her, their grip firm as they forced her back. She struggled, but their hold was unyielding.
"Take her out of my sight," Stannis commanded, his voice a hoarse rasp of frustration. His gaze flickered to Jon briefly, a hint of gratitude in his eyes, but his expression remained hard. "I will deal with her after the battle is won."
Melisandre, her lips curling into a faint, cryptic smile, was dragged away by the men, her eyes never leaving Stannis as she was pulled out of the chamber. As she was taken from his presence, she called out one last time, her voice carrying an eerie calmness despite the chaotic scene unfolding around her.
"I forgive you, your grace," she said, her words laced with a strange sense of finality. "Your mind has been poisoned, but you will see the light again. The Lord of Light will guide you, even if it takes time."
Her words hung in the air as she disappeared from view, leaving only silence and the lingering tension that wrapped itself around the room. Stannis stood motionless, his face drawn in lines of weariness and resolve, the battle ahead still weighing heavily on him. Jon's heart raced, and though he had acted to save Gendry, a new sense of dread settled over him. What had been set into motion, with or without Melisandre's twisted hand, was now beyond anyone's control.
The firelight flickered off Stannis' stern face as he stepped forward, addressing the room. His voice, once so sure and filled with the certainty of his divine right, now held the weight of the crumbling walls of his dreams.
"I have made mistakes," Stannis said, his voice raspy, but clear. The words fell from his lips with a surprising humility, as though the weight of Shireen's death had cracked the shell of pride around his heart. "That's clear to me now."
Jon's heart sank as he watched the king's gaze drift over the room, the weight of his failures hanging heavily in the air. The room fell silent, every man in the room sensing the change in Stannis' demeanor.
"I will be King because it is my right, not because some otherworldly force would put me there," Stannis continued, his voice still firm, but without the conviction it had once held. "There are men out there who want us dead, and they will keep coming. Don't fight for me. The gods know I don't deserve it... Fight for yourselves. Fight to survive."
The room remained still, the men who had once rallied to his banner, who had seen him as the one true king, now looked to each other, uncertain. They were still trapped in the heart of Castle Black, surrounded by the enemy. Their fate had always been uncertain, but now, it felt like something had broken. Jon could feel it—a shift, as though a door had closed on a past he didn't fully understand.
Stannis stepped back, his shoulders slumping slightly, the weight of his decision pressing on him.
"Now," Stannis growled, sliding his sword from its scabbard. The blade gleamed cold and unforgiving in the torchlight. He adjusted the weight of his helm before fitting it onto his head, the stag crowned in shadow. His eyes burned with grim determination as he gave a final glance to the men gathered around him. "Let's get out there—and kill some fucking Lannisters."
The words ignited a surge of energy through the room. The men, weary but resolute, pushed to their feet, gripping weapons slick with sweat and blood. Shields were raised, swords lifted high, and the faintest whispers of oaths to gods, old and new, filled the air.
Jon Snow stood among them, the chaos outside muted in his ears as he focused on the task ahead. The battering at the doors—relentless, rhythmic, like a drumbeat of death—resurfaced, loud and urgent. His heart raced, but his resolve hardened. He turned to his father, Eddard Stark, standing in the corner, the massive blade Ice resting heavily in his hands. Ned met Jon's gaze, offering a brief, solemn nod as he wiped the last streaks of blood from the ancient Valyrian steel.
Stannis, now fully armoured and every inch the battle-hardened king, strode toward the heavy doors barring the way to the courtyard. His gauntleted hand pressed against the wood, feeling the vibrations of the siege beyond. With a sharp intake of breath, he bellowed, "Open it!"
The door swung wide, and without hesitation, Stannis charged into the fray, a roaring warrior meeting the red tide head-on. The cold night air bit at their faces, but the fire in their veins kept the chill at bay. The courtyard was awash with Lannister soldiers, but the men of the North and the Baratheon forces surged forward, determined to carve their way through.
Jon followed, Longclaw in hand, its familiar weight an anchor in the madness. His boots pounded against the frost-bitten ground as he collided with the enemy. Around him, swords clashed, shields splintered, and the air filled with the deafening sounds of war.
He caught sight of Stannis cutting down a Lannister knight, the king's sword a blur of deadly precision. The men behind him, fueled by their commander's ferocity, surged after him, turning the courtyard into a maelstrom of chaos and blood.
Jon's focus narrowed as he parried a blow aimed at his head, countering with a swift slash that sent his opponent crumpling to the ground. He moved with purpose, each strike fueled by a need not just to survive but to protect those fighting alongside him. In this moment, nothing else mattered but the next swing, the next breath, the next heartbeat.
The storm of battle had descended, and there was no turning back.
Jon moved with a practiced efficiency, Longclaw carving a path through the chaos. The courtyard of Castle Black was a blur of red and black cloaks, flames from toppled braziers casting flickering shadows on the blood-slicked ground. Around him, men screamed and fell, steel crashing against steel in a cacophony of death.
Across the battlefield, Stannis stood out like a beacon of rage and determination. His stag-emblazoned cloak billowed behind him as he hacked through a cluster of Lannister soldiers. Blood stained his armor, but he pressed forward, unstoppable. Jon could see the fire in his eyes—the desperate, furious need to win, to survive.
"FOR KING STANNIS!" shouted a voice nearby. Jon turned just in time to see a Baratheon bannerman fall, skewered by a Lannister pike. Gritting his teeth, Jon slashed through the attacker, the momentum of the battle pulling him further into the fray.
Then he saw him—Jaime Lannister.
The Kingslayer cut through the chaos with a grace that belied the brutality of his purpose. His golden armoUr gleamed even in the dim torchlight, and his movements were fluid, efficient, deadly. Jaime's eyes were locked on Stannis, and Jon knew what was coming.
"Stannis!" Jon roared, but his voice was swallowed by the noise of the battle.
Stannis was relentless, driving his sword into another soldier, but as he turned, Jaime was there. The two men met in a clash of steel, sparks flying as their swords collided. The world seemed to narrow around them, the battle fading into a blur as the two commanders faced off.
Jaime moved first, striking low, testing Stannis's defenses. Stannis parried, the force of the blow sending a shudder up his arm. He countered with a powerful overhead swing, but Jaime sidestepped, his golden hand catching the light as he deflected the strike with practiced ease.
"You're too old for this, Baratheon," Jaime taunted, his voice cold and detached.
"And you're still a Kingslayer," Stannis growled back, slashing at Jaime's midsection. Jaime dodged, but the tip of Stannis's sword caught his armour, leaving a shallow dent.
The duel was brutal, each man giving no quarter. Stannis fought with sheer will, every blow fueled by rage and desperation. Jaime, however, was calm, methodical. He knew the outcome already—it was written in the precision of his movements, the confidence in his stance.
Jon tried to push toward them, cutting through a wall of Lannister soldiers, but more poured in to block his path. He was forced to defend himself, each second feeling like an eternity as he watched the duel unfold.
Stannis lunged, but Jaime caught the blade on his own, twisting it away and stepping inside Stannis's guard. With a swift, brutal motion, Jaime drove his sword into Stannis's side.
Stannis staggered, blood pouring from the wound. He tried to swing again, but Jaime knocked the blade from his hand, sending it clattering to the ground. Stannis fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"You think this changes anything?" Stannis rasped, his voice defiant even in defeat. "The dead are coming."
Jaime tilted his head, considering the dying king. "Let them come," he said quietly. Then, with a final, merciful thrust, he ended Stannis's life.
Jon's heart sank as he saw Stannis fall. He roared in fury, cutting down the last of the soldiers barring his path, but it was too late. Jaime stood over the fallen king, blood dripping from his sword, his expression unreadable.
Jon surged forward, rage driving him through the throng of Lannister soldiers. Stannis was dead. His body lay crumpled in the mud, a crimson pool spreading beneath him, steam rising as his blood met the frigid air. "Come on, then!" Jon roared, pointing Longclaw at Jaime, but the Kingslayer merely glanced at him before turning and vanishing into the melee.
More Lannister soldiers poured into the courtyard, surrounding Jon and what remained of the Night's Watch and Baratheon men. He fought with the fury of a cornered wolf, each swing of Longclaw felling another foe. But the tide was against him. His limbs burned, his breath ragged in his chest. Blood—some his own, some not—dripped from his face.
A sharp voice cut through the din. Kevan Lannister, armoured in gleaming steel, strode toward Jon, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. His eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on Jon with a predator's intent.
"Snow," Kevan called, his voice cutting through the clash of swords. "You've fought well enough for a bastard. But it ends here. Yield, and I'll show mercy. Resist, and I'll mount your head on a spike alongside your father's."
Jon spat blood onto the frozen ground. "I think I can take an old lion."
Kevan nodded once, almost approvingly. "So be it."
The older knight moved with surprising speed, his sword flashing as he advanced on Jon. Their blades clashed, the sound ringing out like a hammer on an anvil. Kevan was skilled—every strike precise, every movement deliberate. Jon found himself driven back, struggling to keep up with the relentless onslaught.
Longclaw's weight was familiar in Jon's hands, but Kevan's experience was evident. The older man pressed him hard, forcing Jon to parry blow after blow. Each impact sent tremors up his arms, his muscles screaming in protest.
"You're no Stark," Kevan growled, lunging forward. "Just a stray wolf."
Jon gritted his teeth, sidestepping the thrust and swinging for Kevan's side. The older man deflected the blow, countering with a slash that nearly caught Jon's throat.
"You think your family name means anything?" Kevan sneered, circling. "This is the real world, Snow. Honour doesn't win battles. Strength does."
Jon barely blocked another strike, stumbling back. Kevan saw the opening and moved in for the kill.
A blur of motion—Ned Stark appeared, sword in hand. Ice, met Kevan's blade in a brutal clash. Kevan staggered back, his eyes wide with shock. Ned didn't give him a moment to recover.
"Ned Stark," Kevan hissed, regaining his footing. "We should have put you down years ago."
"You should have," Ned replied grimly, pressing the attack. His strikes were relentless, each blow driving Kevan further back. The two men circled, their swords flashing in the firelight.
Kevan lunged, aiming for Ned's heart. Ned twisted, the blade grazing his side, but he didn't falter. With a final, decisive swing, he brought Ice down, cleaving through Kevan's guard and sinking the blade deep into his chest.
Kevan gasped, blood bubbling from his lips. He crumpled to the ground, lifeless.
Ned swayed on his feet, his hand clutching his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, staining his tunic. Jon rushed to his father's side, catching him before he could fall.
"Father," Jon said, panic tightening his throat. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing," Ned muttered, though his face was pale. His eyes, however, were sharp and clear. "The battle isn't over, Jon. We need to—"
Before he could finish, another wave of Lannister soldiers swarmed into the courtyard. Jon tightened his grip on Longclaw, standing protectively over his father.
"Not today," Jon whispered, readying himself for the fight.
Ned straightened, despite the pain, and together they faced the oncoming tide.
Across the battlefield, Tywin Lannister strode forward, his red and golden armour gleaming despite the blood and mud caking it. His face was impassive, a marble mask of command. The chaos of battle swirled around him, but Tywin moved with purpose, untouched by the melee, his eyes scanning for key threats.
Jon's breath caught as he saw Gendry, hammer in hand, break through the Lannister ranks. The bastard son of King Robert was a force of nature, swinging his weapon with brutal efficiency, each strike felling another knight. His path cut straight toward Tywin.
"Jon," Ned rasped, his voice weak. "Help the boy."
Jon nodded and surged forward, but the press of bodies slowed his advance. He could only watch as Gendry closed the distance.
Tywin turned, his cold gaze falling on Gendry with faint disdain. "You're one of Robert's," he said, almost casually. "I see the resemblance. But you're a fool if you think you can challenge me."
Gendry didn't respond. He raised his hammer and charged.
Tywin drew his sword with a fluid, practiced motion, meeting Gendry's first swing with a resounding clash. The force of the blow sent a shockwave through the air, but Tywin held firm, his years of experience evident in every calculated movement. Gendry pressed the attack, hammer swinging in brutal arcs, but Tywin parried each strike, his expression never changing.
"You fight like a blacksmith," Tywin sneered, deflecting another blow and slashing at Gendry's leg. The younger man stumbled but didn't fall.
"And you talk too much," Gendry growled, feinting a swing before driving the hammer upward in a vicious arc.
Tywin reacted a second too late. The hammer caught him on the wrist, the impact so powerful that it shattered the armour and bone beneath. With a sickening crunch, Tywin's sword fell from his grasp, and a scream tore from his throat as the hammer followed through, obliterating the hand.
Tywin crumpled to one knee, clutching the bloody mass. His face, so often a mask of unshakable composure, twisted in agony.
Gendry raised his hammer for the killing blow, but a sudden surge of Lannister soldiers closed in, forcing him to retreat. Jon, having finally broken free of the melee, reached Gendry's side and helped fend off the attackers.
"Leave him!" Jon shouted, dragging Gendry back. "He's beaten. We need to regroup."
Gendry hesitated, his eyes blazing with fury, but he nodded. Together, they fought their way back to the inner line of defenders.
Tywin, still on his knees, glared after them, his face pale but resolute. Blood poured from his wrist, staining the snow at his feet. Kevan's lifeless body lay nearby, and Jaime was nowhere in sight.
The din of battle continued to echo through the courtyard, but Jon could feel the shift in momentum. The defenders of Castle Black were outnumbered and weary, their lines faltering with each passing moment. Beside him, Gendry still gripped his hammer, blood splattered across his face, while Ned stood with Ice, though each breath he took seemed a laborious effort.
A sudden clang of steel on steel drew Jon's attention. The crowd of Lannister soldiers parted, and Jaime Lannister strode forward, his gilded armour gleaming, a confident smirk playing on his lips despite the carnage around him. His sword was already slick with blood.
"Snow," Jaime called out, his voice carrying over the chaos. "You look tired. Care for a quick lesson before it's all over?"
Jon's jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface. He stepped forward, Longclaw glinting in the pale light. "Gendry is right, you Lannisters really do talk too much," he replied, echoing Gendry's earlier words.
Jaime chuckled, twirling his sword lazily. "I've heard that before. Let's see if you fight better than you quip."
Without warning, Jaime lunged. Jon met him head-on, their blades clashing in a spray of sparks. Jaime's strikes were fast and precise, his years of experience evident in every movement. Jon, though younger and less refined, fought with sheer grit, using every ounce of strength to parry and counter.
Jaime feinted left, then brought his sword around in a wide arc. Jon barely dodged, feeling the rush of air as the blade narrowly missed his throat. He retaliated with a downward slash, but Jaime sidestepped, smirking as if enjoying the challenge.
"You're good," Jaime admitted, circling Jon. "But not good enough."
Jon didn't respond, focusing instead on Jaime's movements, searching for any sign of weakness. The fight continued, a brutal dance of steel and sweat, each combatant pushing the other to the brink.
Suddenly, Jaime's blade found an opening, slicing a shallow line across Jon's side. He grunted in pain but held his ground, refusing to falter. Longclaw came up again, blocking Jaime's next attack.
From the corner of his eye, Jon saw movement. Ghost emerged from the shadows, the great white direwolf snarling as he leapt toward Jaime, teeth bared. Jaime stumbled back, caught off guard, but before Ghost could reach him, a Lannister archer loosed an arrow.
The arrow struck Ghost in the side, and the direwolf let out a pained yelp, collapsing to the ground.
"No!" Jon roared, his rage surging. He lashed out at Jaime with renewed ferocity, driving him back several paces. But the loss of blood and exhaustion slowed Jon's movements, and Jaime seized the opportunity, disarming him with a swift, brutal strike. Longclaw clattered to the ground.
Jon fell to his knees, gasping for breath, his eyes darting to Ghost, who lay motionless in the snow. The sight tore at his heart, but there was no time to mourn.
"Yield," Jaime said, his sword pointed at Jon's throat. "It's over."
Jon looked around the courtyard, the scene around him a grim tableau of defeat. Bodies littered the snow, the blood of fallen brothers staining the ground a dark crimson. His father, Ned Stark, was being hauled to his feet by a group of Lannister soldiers. His face was bruised, his breathing labored, but his eyes—grey and fierce—still burned with defiance. Ice, his greatsword, lay discarded a few feet away, glinting faintly in the pale light, now just another relic of a lost battle.
Near the far wall, Davos Seaworth and Gendry stood side by side, their backs straight despite the ring of soldiers encircling them. Jon saw the tension in their faces, the unspoken acknowledgment that the fight was over. After a brief, shared glance, they slowly lowered their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. The clang of Gendry's hammer hitting the ground echoed like a final note in a dirge.
Around them, the last remnants of the Night's Watch and Baratheon forces followed suit, laying down swords and shields, the weight of defeat heavy on their shoulders. Some staggered, bleeding and broken, while others sank to their knees, exhausted and resigned.
Jon's hands clenched into fists, but he knew the truth. The Lannisters had won. Reluctantly, Jon bowed his head. "I yield," he muttered, the words tasting like ash.
Jaime nodded, stepping back. "Smart choice."
Lannister soldiers swarmed in, binding Jon's hands behind his back. They did the same to Ned, Gendry, and the other survivors. Tywin Lannister, pale but still standing despite the loss of his hand, approached, his gaze cold and unfeeling.
"Take them," Tywin ordered. "Alive."
As Jon was dragged away, his eyes lingered on Ghost's still form, a hollow ache settling in his chest.
Winter would come for them all and now there was nothing to stop them.