Jon IV
Night fell, and with it came the deep, bone-chilling cold that only the Wall could conjure. The biting wind howled through the cracks in the stone, rattling the iron bars of the cells beneath Castle Black. Darkness swallowed the fortress whole, save for the faint, flickering glow of distant torches casting long shadows across the walls.
Inside the cells, the air was thick with the scent of blood, sweat, and defeat. The stones beneath them were slick with frost, and each breath hung in the air like a ghostly mist. Castle Black had always been cold, but tonight, it felt like a tomb.
Jon Snow sat against the far wall, his back pressed to the icy stone, trying to suppress the shivers that wracked his body. His black cloak, now torn and stiff with dried blood, offered little protection from the freezing air. His gaze drifted to the others huddled in the cell.
Ned Stark sat nearby, leaning heavily against the wall, his face pale and drawn. The lines of worry etched into his features seemed deeper now, his eyes hollow with grief. Despite the cold, he hadn't wrapped himself in his cloak, instead resting it over a wounded Baratheon soldier who had collapsed beside him.
Davos Seaworth crouched in the corner, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. His fingers, rough and calloused from years at sea, trembled as he worked to bind a gash on his forearm with a strip of cloth torn from his tunic. The smuggler's usual composure was gone, replaced by a grim determination to survive.
Gendry sat cross-legged near the barred door, staring blankly at the floor. His face was smeared with soot and blood, his lips cracked from the cold. He held a smith's hammer in his lap, his fingers curling around it tightly, as if it were the only thing tethering him to reality.
Of the hundreds who had stood against the Lannister forces that morning, only fifty had survived the slaughter. Brothers of the Night's Watch and Baratheon soldiers alike now shared this grim fate, their numbers dwindled to a mere shadow of what they once were.
The cell was eerily silent, save for the occasional groan of a wounded man or the distant echo of footsteps above. No one spoke. Words felt meaningless after what they had endured. The battle had been nothing short of a massacre—a relentless tide of Lannister soldiers crashing against them until there was nothing left to fight with.
Jon closed his eyes, the images flashing in his mind like a nightmare he couldn't wake from. He saw Sam's face, wide-eyed and bloodied, as he fell. The sound of Ghost's final, heart-wrenching howl still echoed in his ears.
A sharp intake of breath pulled Jon from his thoughts. It was Ned, stirring slightly, his gaze meeting Jon's across the dim cell.
"We did what we could," Ned said softly, his voice hoarse but steady. "We held as long as we could."
Jon nodded but didn't trust himself to speak. His throat was tight, choked with guilt and frustration.
Davos finally broke the silence, his voice a rasp. "Tywin won't waste time. He'll make an example of us. Public executions—hangings, more likely. They'll want to send a message to the rest of the North."
Gendry lifted his head, his jaw clenched. "We can't just sit here and wait to die."
Ned sighed, his gaze distant. "There's nothing to be done now. The men are broken, scattered. Even if we escaped, where would we go?"
Jon's fists tightened. "There's always something to be done." His voice was low, but the defiance in it was unmistakable.
Before anyone could respond, the sound of keys jangling echoed down the corridor. Footsteps followed—heavy and deliberate. The door to their cell creaked open, and a Lannister guard stepped inside, flanked by two more.
"You," the guard pointed at Jon and Ned. "You're wanted."
Jon exchanged a glance with his father, who gave a slight nod. Together, they rose to their feet, the cold biting into their bones as they were led out of the cell. Behind them, Davos and Gendry watched in silence, their faces grim.
As the door slammed shut behind them, the cell plunged back into darkness, leaving the others to wait—and hope—for whatever fate awaited them.
As Jon and Ned trudged through the frozen, blood-soaked courtyard, the weight of defeat pressed heavily on their shoulders. The air reeked of death—metallic, acrid, and clinging to everything.
Jon's eyes flicked to the pile of corpses near the wall. Black-cloaked brothers of the Night's Watch, Baratheon soldiers in their crimson hearts, and Lannisters adorned in red and gold were stacked like cordwood, stripped of dignity in death. A chill ran down his spine, and not just from the cold. He knew what was coming if those bodies weren't burned.
Turning to the nearest Lannister soldier, Jon's voice cut through the icy air. "If you know what's best for you, you'll burn those—and quickly."
The soldier sneered, clearly unimpressed by the warning. His eyes, cold and dismissive, flicked over Jon's battered form. With a rough shove to Jon's back, he barked, "Keep moving, crow."
Jon stumbled but caught himself, casting one last glance at the pile before moving forward. He clenched his jaw, anger simmering beneath the surface. They don't understand.
They were marched into the great hall of Castle Black, though it no longer resembled anything Jon had once known. The walls, usually austere and dark, were now draped with crimson and gold banners. At the far end of the hall, Tywin Lannister sat upon the Lord Commander's chair - Jon's chair, his presence as commanding as ever despite the makeshift surroundings. His left arm was heavily bandaged, blood seeping through the linen, a testament to Gendry's desperate attack. Jon's lips twitched into a grim smile, a fleeting satisfaction that disappeared just as quickly.
Tywin's eyes met Jon's, cold and calculating. Beside him sat Jaime, relaxed but alert, Ice resting across his lap. He watched the room with a casual confidence, though his eyes occasionally darted to his father's bandaged hand.
Jon's gaze moved across the hall, landing on Melisandre. She was barely recognizable. Her once immaculate crimson gown was now torn and stained, her flame-red hair tangled and matted. Her eyes, however, still burned with that unsettling fire. The Lannister guards eyed her with a mixture of fear and lust, their leers blatant, but Jon felt only revulsion.
She stood chained, her hands bound in front of her, though her posture remained proud. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile when her eyes met Jon's, as if she still held some secret power.
Ned and Jon were forced to their knees in the centre of the hall. The cold stone bit into Jon's skin through the thin fabric of his trousers. He kept his head high, refusing to show weakness, though every muscle in his body ached.
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You've caused me more trouble than you're worth, Stark. Both of you." His gaze flicked between Jon and Ned, measuring them.
Jaime smirked. "They've got that Northern stubbornness. Runs deep, doesn't it?"
Ned's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Jon, however, couldn't keep quiet. "You'll regret not burning the bodies," he said, his voice steady despite the fear curling in his gut.
Tywin raised a single, skeptical eyebrow, his sharp gaze narrowing on Jon. The quiet that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of torches lining the hall. Jaime leaned forward, resting his elbows lazily on his knees, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Is that so, Snow?" Jaime drawled, his voice dripping with mock curiosity. "And why's that?"
Jon's eyes, dark and unyielding, locked with Jaime's. His voice was low but resonant, each word biting through the tension like frost-laden steel. "Because winter is coming. And with it—death."
A murmur rippled through the room, the assembled soldiers exchanging uneasy glances. Even those who had scoffed at Jon's earlier warnings now seemed unsure. The chill in Jon's voice made the words feel more like a prophecy than a threat.
Tywin, however, remained unmoved. He rose from his seat, his stature commanding, his golden lion pin gleaming in the dim light. His mouth curled into a faint, humorless smile.
"Oh yes," Tywin said, his tone laced with cold condescension. "We've heard plenty from your brother about this supposed army of death. White Walkers, wights, monsters beyond the Wall. Fairy tales to frighten children." He took a step forward, his eyes boring into Jon's. "But no matter what stories you spin, the truth remains: your king is dead. Stannis Baratheon is no more. And with him, any hope of victory. So tell me, boy—why continue the charade?"
Jon clenched his jaw, his fists tightening at his sides. He felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but he refused to falter. Straightening his back, he met Tywin's gaze head-on.
"I am no liar," Jon said, his voice echoing through the cavernous hall. Each word was deliberate, like the measured strikes of a hammer on steel. His eyes swept over the gathered crowd, meeting their sneers and doubts head-on. Despite the weight of the chains on his wrists and the stifling heat from the roaring fires, Jon stood tall. "And Stannis was no king of mine."
The hall fell into a tense silence, the air thick with expectation. Jaime Lannister, lounging in his chair like a lion at rest, let his grin widen, intrigued by Jon's defiance. He tilted his head, golden hair catching the light as he studied the young man with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Tywin, however, was far from amused. His sharp eyes narrowed, and the flicker of a frown deepened the lines on his face. His patience, always thin, was wearing dangerously close to breaking.
"And yet you fought beside him," Tywin said coldly. He took a measured step forward, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing in the hall. "You housed him and his host in your castle. Forgive me if I don't believe you, boy."
Before Jon could respond, another voice cut through the tension. "I knew Stannis from when he was a boy."
All eyes turned to Eddard Stark. He stood chained beside his son, his voice calm but heavy with the weight of loss. His gaze was distant, as if he could still see the young man Stannis had once been, before the weight of duty and ambition had crushed him.
"He was a good man," Ned continued, his voice steady but sorrowful. "And I will mourn his death. But he had become something else. A monster—uncontrollable and unyielding. A weapon forged by her." He lifted his chin toward Melisandre, who stood at the far end of the hall, her red dress tattered and stained, her once-glorious hair hanging in limp curls around her pale face.
Jaime chuckled, leaning forward in his chair. "The Lady Melisandre has been incredibly helpful," he said with a smirk. "She's told us all about your plans to overthrow Tommen and put Daenerys Targaryen on his throne." His eyes gleamed with mockery. "Tell me, Snow. Did Stannis know you were going to betray him before he died?"
Jon's heart hammered in his chest. The accusation, though not entirely false, stung. "That's not true," Jon said, his voice rising with urgency. "Ask the queen—" He caught himself. "The Lady Selyse. She'll tell you the truth. She'll tell you how this woman"—he shot a glare at Melisandre—"attached herself to their family like a parasite. How she twisted their minds until they killed their own daughter. An innocent girl."
A murmur rippled through the hall, and for a moment, Jon thought he saw doubt flicker in the eyes of some of the soldiers. But then Melisandre stepped forward, her face a mask of calm.
"The Lady Selyse is dead," she said, her voice smooth and detached.
Jon's heart dropped. "What?"
"She hung herself," Tywin said, his voice cold and final. "We found her in her chambers. She'd been dead for hours."
Jon staggered back a step, the weight of the news hitting him like a blow. His mind raced, piecing together the implications. Selyse's death meant there was no one left to speak for him. No one left to confirm his words.
"She took the coward's way out," Jaime added with a smirk. "Probably couldn't bear the guilt of what she did."
Jon's fists clenched, his knuckles white. He turned back to Melisandre. "You did this. You brought her to this."
Melisandre's lips curved into a small, serene smile. "I only showed her the path. She chose to walk it."
Tywin raised a hand, the simple gesture enough to bring the entire hall to silence. The flames in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows on his cold, imperious face. His voice, low and deliberate, cut through the tension like a blade.
"Enough of this." He stepped forward, his gaze landing squarely on Jon Snow. "Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock, find you guilty of treason against the one true king, Tommen of House Baratheon." His words were slow, methodical, and merciless. "You were sworn to protect the realm, and instead, you conspired to bring about its downfall. For this crime, there is only one punishment: death."
Jon's heart pounded in his chest, but his face remained stoic. He knew better than to beg or plead. His gaze flickered briefly to his father.
"You can't!" Ned's voice rang out, sharp and desperate. The room's attention shifted to the man who had once been Warden of the North. "I did it," Ned continued, his voice cracking but resolute. "It was me. I sided with Stannis. Jon didn't know. Robb didn't know. I lied to them all."
Tywin's cold eyes regarded him with a flicker of disdain, but not surprise. "I'm sure you did," he said. "But your bastard led his men against the King's forces. I have no other choice."
Ned stepped forward, his chains clinking. "Then punish me. Spare him."
Tywin's gaze hardened, his lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "As noble as ever, Stark. But your time for nobility ended years ago. If I had been in King's Landing when you betrayed King Joffrey, you would have lost your head then." His eyes burned with cold fury. "It was a mistake to let you live. A mistake my daughter should have corrected. You are a disease, Ned Stark. One I intend to wipe out."
Ned stood taller, his jaw clenched, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—resignation.
"As for you, Ned Stark," Tywin continued, his voice dripping with finality, "you are condemned to death for treason against King Tommen and his predecessor King Joffrey. Take them."
Two soldiers seized Jon by the arms, hauling him to his feet. His chains rattled with every step, but he did not resist.
"The others can watch," Tywin called over his shoulder. "Let them see what happens to traitors."
As Jon and Ned were dragged toward the doors, the heavy silence in the hall was broken only by the clatter of boots against stone. Jon kept his eyes forward, his heart steady. There was no fear now, only a grim acceptance. His father walked beside him, their fates entwined, their honour intact.
The courtyard of Castle Black was blanketed in frost, the snow crunching beneath the boots of Lannister soldiers as they assembled in grim formation. Torches flickered in the frigid wind, their flames casting long, wavering shadows on the bloodstained walls. The banners of House Lannister—red and gold—hung ominously from makeshift posts, a stark reminder of the victors.
Jon felt the cold more keenly now. His wrists were raw from the iron shackles, but he didn't care. His eyes were locked on the raised platform at the center of the courtyard, where two wooden blocks waited.
Ned walked ahead of him, shoulders straight despite the chains weighing him down. The years had weathered his father's face, but Jon saw the same man who had knelt beside him at Winterfell and told him about honour, about duty. Today, Ned Stark would face death with both intact.
Jon watched as the survivors were hauled into the courtyard, shoved roughly into place by Lannister soldiers. They stumbled, weary and broken, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. The Night's Watch brothers, Baratheon loyalists, and a handful of Northerners gathered in a tight, huddled mass. Their breaths came in shallow puffs, visible in the icy air, but no one spoke.
Their faces told the story of defeat—ashen and hollow-eyed, etched with disbelief and simmering fury they dared not express. Some clenched their fists, knuckles white, while others stared blankly ahead, as if the weight of what they were about to witness had yet to fully sink in.
Gendry, bloodied but upright, shifted uneasily, his eyes darting between the guards and the platform where the execution blocks awaited. Davos was among them, his expression grim, lips moving in a silent prayer.
Jon's heart tightened as he scanned the group. These were men who had fought beside him, bled beside him. Now, they stood helpless, forced to bear witness to the grim spectacle unfolding before them.
Tywin Lannister emerged from the Great Hall, his cloak sweeping behind him, followed closely by Jaime, whose smug grin seemed permanently etched into his face. The Lannister patriarch climbed a small set of steps to stand on a raised platform, overlooking the proceedings.
"Lord Eddard Stark," Tywin began, his voice carrying over the courtyard. "You have been found guilty of treason against King Tommen Baratheon. For your crimes, you will face the king's justice."
"Winter is coming for us all—Stark, Lannister, it makes no difference," Ned growled, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. He turned his cold, defiant gaze to Tywin and spat at the ground near his feet.
Then, shifting his focus to Gendry, his expression softened. "Tell Cat... tell her I love her," he said, voice trembling slightly but steady. "And that I'll be waiting."
Two soldiers led Ned to the block. He knelt without resistance, bowing his head as if in prayer. The executioner, a hulking man in Lannister colours, stepped forward, raising a massive sword high above his head.
Jon's fists clenched, the chains biting into his skin. Every instinct screamed at him to do something, to fight, but he knew it was futile. His father had made peace with his fate.
The sword fell, swift and brutal. Ned Stark's head hit the frozen ground, rolling to a stop near the edge of the platform. Gasps and muffled sobs echoed from the crowd, but Jon didn't flinch. He stood motionless, his breath visible in the cold air, his eyes burning with a quiet, simmering rage.
Tywin's voice broke the silence once more. "Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, you have also been found guilty of treason. For your betrayal of the realm, you too will face the king's justice."
Jaime chuckled softly from the sidelines. "Ready to meet your gods, Snow?" he called.
Jon ignored him. He stepped forward when the guards prodded him, climbing the platform with steady, deliberate strides. The blood from his father's execution stained the wood beneath his boots.
As he knelt before the block, he thought of Ghost, of Winterfell, of Arya's laughter echoing through the halls. He thought of the Wall, of Samwell's awkward grin and Winterfell's Halls. He thought of Ygritte and the wild freedom of the North.
He did not bow his head.
The executioner hesitated for a moment, perhaps unnerved by Jon's steady, defiant gaze. But Tywin's cold nod spurred him into action.
The sword rose.
Jon closed his eyes.
The last thing he heard was the howling wind.
Then, darkness.