Jon II
Jon barely slept anymore. Sleep had once been a fleeting escape, a refuge from the burdens of leadership. Now, it was a distant memory, as elusive as the peace that had vanished from his life. When they had first returned to Castle Black, he had tried. He would clench his eyes shut and force his mind to drift away from the looming specter of war, from the ever-present threat crawling closer with each passing day. But the hours dragged on, and dawn always broke too soon, the light creeping into his room like an unwelcome visitor. After a while, he stopped trying altogether.
Instead, he surrendered to the wakefulness, immersing himself in work. His room became a sanctuary of parchment and ink, maps sprawled across every surface. He meticulously crafted plans for every possible scenario, considering every angle, every variable. He devoured ancient texts and obscure accounts, desperate for any scrap of knowledge about the Others. Most of it was nonsense—half-forgotten legends, cryptic prophecies—but Jon read it all. Somewhere in those faded words, there had to be something useful. Something to give them an edge.
But even knowledge felt like a feeble shield against the cold truth: they were coming.
Jon had taken to joining the night patrols atop the Wall. It wasn't expected of him—the Lord Commander traditionally did not walk the Wall like a common ranger. His men had reminded him of that. But Jon didn't care. He needed the cold, the bite of the wind against his skin, the endless black expanse of the night sky. It was better than the suffocating weight of his quarters, better than staring at the same walls as his thoughts consumed him.
The Wall was its own kind of solitude, a fortress of ice and stone that seemed to stretch forever into the void. Up there, the world was silent except for the howling wind. Jon found a grim comfort in that silence. It felt honest.
In the early days after Jon's arrival at Castle Black, Jon had held onto a fragile hope: perhaps Stannis Baratheon could be reasoned with. He had spent countless hours locked in council with his father, Eddard Stark, and the self-proclaimed king. Every morning, they would gather in the dim light of the Lord Commander's quarters, their voices low but tense. The discussions dragged on until nightfall, leaving Jon drained and frustrated.
They spoke of many things—Jon's firsthand encounters with the White Walkers, the ancient myths, the grim realities. Jon described the cold, unnatural blue of the Walkers' eyes, the way steel shattered against their frozen forms, and the silent march of the dead. His father added the weight of his own wisdom, recounting the old tales told in Winterfell, warnings passed down through generations.
But Stannis was unyielding.
Stannis's determination to use Castle Black as his base of operations was unshakable. He had no keep of his own—Dragonstone was lost, Storm's End unreachable. Castle Black, cold and barren as it was, had become his last refuge.
"We hold here," Stannis declared during one particularly grueling session. "The Wall is a fortress unlike any other. It will serve."
Jon clenched his fists beneath the table, frustration simmering just below the surface. This was redundant. Castle Black was not meant to be a staging ground for a king's war. It was a sentinel against the dark forces beyond the Wall, not a chess piece in Stannis' campaign.
"Castle Black belongs to the realm, not to any king's ambitions," Jon said, his voice taut with barely restrained frustration. "The Night's Watch swore an oath—to defend the realms of men, not to fight your wars. We're not here to battle Lannisters or play at crowns." His eyes locked on Stannis, cold and unyielding. "We're fighting something far worse. If we squander our strength on this, we won't live long enough to see another enemy. Death is coming for us all—and it won't wait."
Stannis's gaze had been cold, his reply colder. "If I fall, the realm falls. You're right Lord Snow, The Night's Watch is sworn to protect the realm. That includes its rightful king."
Eddard Stark, ever the diplomat, had tried to mediate. "We need unity, Stannis. Fighting on two fronts will weaken us all."
But Stannis's resolve was iron. He would not yield his claim, not for walkers, not for kings, not for anything.
Jon had nearly given up hope when the raven arrived from Winterfell. Robb's letter—delivered in haste, its seal bearing the direwolf of Stark—was brief but urgent. The words leapt off the page:
Tywin Lannister marches north. He will land at Eastwatch within days.
The message struck like a hammer blow. Jon's heart sank as he read and re-read the letter, dread coiling in his stomach. Tywin Lannister's arrival was imminent, and with him would come the full might of the Crown.
Jon had taken the letter straight to Stannis, laying it before him like a challenge. "You wanted a war, my lord. Now you'll have it."
Stannis's eyes flicked over the parchment, his expression unreadable. But Jon saw the flicker of something in the man's eyes—recognition, perhaps, or grim satisfaction.
"We hold here," Stannis repeated, his voice steady. "Let him come."
Jon exchanged a glance with his father. Eddard's face was a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes mirrored Jon's unease. They both knew what was coming. War was inevitable.
And so, preparations began in earnest. The Wall became a hive of activity—men sharpening blades, reinforcing defenses, and readying for a siege. Jon watched it all with a heavy heart.
He had tried to prevent this. Now all he could do was fight, fight so he could live to face the true enemy.
The next week passed in a relentless blur, each day bleeding into the next as Jon pushed himself—and his men—to the brink. He didn't want this fight. The very idea of turning Castle Black into a battlefield against living men felt like a betrayal of everything the Night's Watch stood for. But with each dawn, it became clearer that the choice was slipping from his grasp. Tywin Lannister was coming, and so was war.
Jon spent his mornings drilling the men in the courtyard, barking orders as they practiced formations and reinforced the gates. The Watch was not an army, but they would have to fight like one. Every sword counted now. Even the greenest recruits, barely able to hold a blade steady, were put to work.
Nights were the hardest. He would sit by the hearth, staring into the flames, until his eyes burned from the strain. His father tried to counsel him, but even Ned Stark's calm presence couldn't banish Jon's unease. How do you prepare for a war you don't believe in?
"I want you to leave," Jon finally muttered, his voice low but firm.
Ned froze in place, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "Jon…" he began, stepping forward, searching his son's face for any sign of doubt. "What are you talking about?"
Jon clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to meet his father's gaze. "You came here to stand against the dead, not to fight the Lannisters," he said, the strain evident in every word. "If the worst comes to pass... if Castle Black falls... Robb will need you. Winterfell will need you."
Ned's jaw tightened, but his eyes softened. "I came here to fight alongside you," he replied, his voice steady, resolute. "And I intend to do that."
Jon shook his head, frustration mingling with a deep, aching sadness. "Robb is your son," he said, his voice cracking slightly. "He needs you more than I do. You're his father. He can't face what's coming alone."
Ned's gaze didn't waver. He stepped closer, his boots echoing softly against the stone floor. "You are my son," he said, each word spoken with deliberate care. "No matter your blood. You're my son, Jon. And I will stand by you."
Jon's throat tightened, and he looked away, blinking back the sting in his eyes. The weight of those words settled deep in his chest, both a comfort and a burden.
Ned placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, the grip warm and reassuring. "Now," he said gently, "get some sleep. You'll need your strength."
Jon nodded mutely, unable to speak. He felt the warmth of his father's hand linger for a moment longer before Ned turned and walked to the door. The firelight caught the edges of his cloak as he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Jon alone with the quiet and the cold once more.
But the room didn't feel quite as empty anymore.
By some miracle, Jon had slipped into a restless slumber. It wasn't deep or peaceful, but it was something—a brief, fleeting reprieve from the storm raging within him. For a few precious hours, the weight of his worries eased, if only slightly. Dreams came in fragments: flashes of white snow, ghostly figures, and a distant howl that echoed through the darkness.
But he was awoken before dawn, Jon stirred, his eyes fluttering open to the very beginnings of morning light creeping through the narrow window. The faint golden glow hinted at a cold, clear morning, but the chill that hung in the air wasn't what had roused him. No, it was the noise—the distant clatter of wood scraping against stone. The sound was deliberate, heavy, and unrelenting, dragging him fully from his uneasy rest.
He pushed himself up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and crossed the room to the window. The cold bit at his skin as he leaned against the ledge, peering down into the courtyard below.
What he saw made his stomach twist.
Stannis Baratheon stood at the center of the yard, rigid and immovable, his fur-lined cloak billowing in the wind. His face was set in a grim mask, eyes narrowed against the cold. Beside him, like a shadow, was Melisandre. The red priestess was draped in crimson, her hair catching the early morning light, making her appear almost otherworldly. Her expression was serene, eerily calm, as though she found comfort in the bitter chill of the Wall.
Jon's gaze shifted to the two Baratheon soldiers struggling to erect a massive pyre in the center of the courtyard. The wood, dark and splintered, groaned as it was hauled into place. They worked in silence, the only sound the scrape and thud of logs being stacked one atop the other.
A knot tightened in Jon's chest. He knew what this was. He'd heard the whispers, the rumours among the men. A sacrifice.
Melisandre's voice drifted upward, soft and lilting, as she murmured something to Stannis. The king didn't respond, but his jaw clenched, the muscles in his face taut. He looked like a man walking to his doom, though it was someone else who would burn.
Jon grabbed his cloak in a rush, his heart pounding as dread clawed at his throat. He strode to the door, ready to confront whoever stood in his way and put an end to whatever dark ritual Melisandre had planned. But when he pulled the handle, the door didn't budge. Locked. He rattled it, trying again and again, but it refused to yield. A surge of frustration and panic welled up inside him as he threw his weight against the wood, his fists slamming into it. Nothing.
Breathing hard, he stepped back, his mind racing for another way out. His gaze drifted back to the window. He crossed the room and peered down into the courtyard once more, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of what was unfolding below.
Melisandre stood, her presence commanding and unnervingly calm. Her crimson robes billowed in the cold wind, a stark contrast against the pale snow-covered ground. She gestured with deliberate precision, her voice carrying softly, though Jon couldn't make out the words. At her command, a group of men—soldiers of Stannis' army—moved toward one of the side chambers.
Jon's stomach turned as he watched them disappear inside. Whatever was happening, it was happening now. He clenched his jaw and scanned the courtyard, desperate for some sign of how he could intervene.
Then he saw her.
Up on a high balcony, distant but unmistakable, stood Queen Selyse. She watched the scene unfold below with an expression that chilled Jon to his core. Her face was set in a mask of cold detachment, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. There was no warmth in her eyes, no flicker of doubt. Only grim acceptance.
The door to the side chamber creaked open, and Jon's breath hitched as the soldiers emerged, leading someone between them.
Shireen.
The princess, now sixteen, walked with quiet grace, her head held high despite the cold wind tugging at her hair. She had grown into a striking young woman, her beauty understated but undeniable. The greyscale scars that marred one side of her face were still visible, but they seemed to enhance her strength rather than diminish it. There was something luminous about her, a kindness and purity that radiated from within. Jon's heart ached at the sight of her. A girl born to be a princess, trapped in a world that had no place for her gentle spirit.
Jon pressed his ear to the windowpane, the muffled voices drifting up from the courtyard below, thin but unmistakable. The cold glass bit into his skin, but he ignored it, straining to catch every word. The conversation was chilling in its calmness, an eerie contrast to the dread coiling in Jon's stomach.
"Princess," Melisandre's voice floated up, smooth and gentle, as if she were offering comfort instead of delivering doom. "Your father and I are so grateful for your help in this matter."
Shireen's voice, steady and sweet despite the circumstances, answered with a quiet resolve. "Of course. One day, the Iron Throne will be mine. I must do what I can to help win it."
Jon's throat tightened. She doesn't know. She couldn't possibly understand what was about to happen.
Stannis remained silent, a looming figure in the shadows, his jaw clenched tight. His gaze was fixed on the pyre, but his face betrayed nothing. No hesitation. No regret. Just cold, unyielding resolve.
Melisandre stepped closer to the girl, her red robes rippling like liquid fire. "You know, Princess, that your father is chosen. Chosen by a power greater than us. His blood is sacred." She paused, her eyes gleaming with an almost fanatical light. "And his blood runs in your veins. And therefore your blood has great power"
There was a beat of silence, heavy and oppressive. Shireen's eyes, wide and innocent, flicked to her father. "Father?" she whispered, seeking reassurance.
But Stannis said nothing. His silence spoke louder than any words could.
"Don't worry, Princess," Melisandre cooed, taking a lock of Shireen's hair and letting it curl around her fingers like a serpent. Her tone was soft, but there was an edge to it, a cold finality. "It will all be over before you know it."
And then it happened.
The Baratheon men stepped forward. Their movements were hesitant, their faces pale and drawn, but their hands were firm. They grabbed Shireen by the arms, their grip tightening as the girl's calm facade shattered.
"No! Stop! Please!" Shireen's voice broke, rising into a desperate scream that cut through the morning air like a knife. "Father! Mother! Don't let her do this! Please!"
Her pleas echoed in the courtyard, bouncing off the cold stone walls. But neither Stannis nor Selyse moved. Selyse stood on the balcony above, her face a mask of detachment, her hands folded tightly at her waist. Jon could see her lips tremble, but she did nothing. She just watched.
Stannis remained as still as a statue, his eyes hollow. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
Jon's heart pounded in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears. Do something. Someone, do something.
But no one moved.
The soldiers dragged Shireen toward the pyre, her small form struggling against their grip. Her screams grew more frantic, more guttural. "Father, please! Please, don't let them!" she cried, her voice cracking with terror.
Jon couldn't take it anymore. He spun away from the window, slamming his shoulder against the locked door with all his strength. The wood groaned under the assault, but it didn't give. He hit it again and again, desperation fueling his efforts. He had to get out. He had to stop this.
"Open! Open the damn door!" he roared, his fists pounding against the solid wood. His knuckles split, blood smearing across the surface, but he didn't care. He couldn't let this happen.
A loud crack echoed from the courtyard. Jon froze, his breath hitching in his throat as he turned back to the window.
The soldiers had tied Shireen tightly to the pyre, the rough ropes biting into her wrists and ankles. Her body twisted and jerked as she fought against her restraints, but it was futile. The stakes held firm, leaving her pinned against the rising stack of kindling. Tears streamed down her cheeks, carving paths through the soot and grime that already stained her pale skin.
Melisandre, cloaked in red, stepped forward, her presence commanding and otherworldly. Her eyes glowed with fervor as she lifted her arms to the sky, her voice reverberating through the courtyard. "Hear me now, my Lord of Light." The flames from her torch danced in her eyes, casting flickering shadows across her face.
"We offer you this innocent child, this daughter of royal blood. Purify her with your holy fire, that her spirit may lend strength to your chosen king—Stannis of the House Baratheon. Accept this token of our faith, and in return, grant us victory." Her voice rose with each word, filled with passion and reverence. "Lead us from the darkness, O Lord of Light. Show us the way."
The flames roared hungrily at the base of the pyre, their crackling dance filling the air with a grotesque rhythm, the heat from the fire flickering against the cold morning wind. The acrid scent of burning wood mingled with the metallic tang of fear, settling thick in the air. The cruel light from the fire flickered across Shireen's face, casting sharp shadows that made her anguish all the more vivid, her eyes wide and full of terror. Her body thrashed violently against the ropes, her voice rising in a desperate crescendo of heartbreak.
"Please! Please stop!" she cried, her words ragged and hoarse. Her cries for mercy echoed across the courtyard, a stark contrast to the cold indifference that surrounded her. Jon's heart ached with every shout, his fists clenched against the window as he watched, helpless, his breath shallow with disbelief and anger.
Shireen's pleading eyes turned to her mother, a flicker of hope—however small—still burning within her. "Mother, please!" she begged, her voice trembling with desperation. "Mother, don't let her do this! Please, save me!"
Jon could feel the tension in the air, the frozen silence that followed her plea. His gaze flicked to Selyse, who had been standing motionless on the balcony, her face pale and drawn, a mask of cold resignation. But as she looked down at her daughter—her daughter, bound and helpless—there was a brief moment of hesitation, a faltering in the stone-like resolve that had held her so far. Jon could see it in the way Selyse's shoulders stiffened, her breath quickening, the tension in her body as she fought against the overwhelming wave of grief and doubt that was washing over her.
Selyse's lips parted, a tremor running through her as she finally spoke, almost too softly to be heard: "No. No, we can't…" But her voice cracked, and the words she had fought to suppress now spilled out in a broken cry. "This is wrong!"
The moment stretched out like an eternity, and for the briefest of seconds, Jon thought perhaps there was a flicker of humanity left in the cold woman who had remained silent through it all. His heart caught in his throat as Selyse began to move, her legs carrying her towards the stairs with a frantic, hurried pace. She ran, her feet pounding on the stone as if she could outrun her own dread. She rushed towards her daughter, desperate to reach her, to somehow stop the madness that had taken hold of this wretched moment.
But before she could reach the pyre, a strong hand shot out from behind her, gripping her arm firmly. Stannis, his expression unreadable, had intercepted her movement with grim efficiency. "No, Selyse," he said coldly, his voice low but unwavering. "This must be done."
Selyse turned to face him, her eyes wild with emotion, her hands trembling as they reached for him. "This is wrong, Stannis!" Her voice was thick with despair, the words hanging heavy in the air. "I've changed my mind! We can't do this! Please, we can find another way!"
For the first time that day, Stannis spoke with more than the dispassion of a man lost in his own conviction. His eyes met hers, cold and distant, yet laced with a grim determination. "We have no other choice, Selyse." His voice was firm, unyielding. "She has the blood of kings in her veins. This must work."
Selyse shook her head, her face twisted with anguish. "But at what cost, Stannis? At what cost?" Her body was wracked with sobs, her breath shallow, struggling to keep the hysteria at bay. She tried to break free from his grasp, but Stannis held her tight, his expression unreadable.
"Lord of Light, protect us," Melisandre's voice echoed, rising above the crackling flames. Her arms were stretched high toward the heavens, her eyes glowing with fervor. "For the night is dark and full of terrors."
The words felt empty, hollow, as they echoed through Jon's ears, growing more distant with each passing second. The flames were already licking at the base of Shireen's feet, and Jon could hear her desperate cries growing more frantic. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of it deafening in the silence of his room, the world outside slipping into a nightmarish haze.
"Please, father!" Shireen cried, her voice raw and cracked with terror. Jon's hands clenched into fists as he heard her beg, her words breaking in the air like shattered glass. "I don't want to die."
Jon's breath caught in his throat. It was a plea Jon had heard countless times—one filled with such pain and desperation it could pierce even the hardest heart. But this wasn't some enemy soldier pleading for their life. This was a child, a young girl who had done nothing but try to survive in a world that had turned against her.
The flames spread rapidly, climbing up her legs, the heat of the fire unbearable even from where Jon stood. Shireen's screams became more shrill, more frantic, until they were the only sound that filled Jon's world, drowning out everything else. The fire had already begun to consume her body, and her cries of pain mingled with the roar of the flames. Her wrists were still bound to the stake, and as she thrashed against the ropes, Jon felt his entire body tremble with helpless fury.
He turned toward the door, fury surging through him. He slammed his shoulder against it, desperate, again and again, until his body gave way with one final, powerful strike. The door cracked open, and Jon surged forward, adrenaline making him forget everything except the need to save her, to stop this madness.
But just as Jon opened his mouth to shout, a voice rang out from the courtyard.
"Stop!" The voice was harsh, full of desperation and panic. "What are you doing?"
Jon froze, the sound of the voice cutting through his fury like a blade. He turned just in time to see Davos Seaworth, his face a mixture of horror and determination, running toward the pyre. His strides were long, his movements frantic, as if he could reach Shireen in time to stop the unimaginable from happening.
But before Davos could get any closer, Baratheon soldiers blocked his path. Their hands were heavy on his shoulders, pulling him back with force, and Jon could hear Davos shout, pleading for them to release him. It was too late. There was nothing anyone could do now.
Jon's breath caught in his throat as he watched the flames completely overtake Shireen's small form. She screamed, her voice a tortured cry that cut into Jon's very soul, but as the fire consumed her, the sound of her agony slowly began to fade. The flames surged higher, enveloping her completely, and Jon's legs moved of their own accord. He ran toward the stairs, unable to control the rage and grief welling up inside him. He didn't care if he was too late; he had to try.
By the time Jon reached the courtyard, it was over. The flames were dying down, but the air was thick with the stench of burning flesh. The courtyard, once filled with life, now seemed like a macabre graveyard. Shireen's body, blackened and burned beyond recognition, lay still. Her cries were no more. The silence that followed her death was suffocating.
A guttural scream pierced the silence—it was Selyse. Her voice was raw, filled with such anguish that it was impossible to ignore. She had watched her daughter burn alive, and now, her mind seemed to break beneath the weight of it.
Davos stood in the courtyard too, his knees buckling beneath him. He had collapsed, his body trembling with grief as he sobbed, his hands clutched at his face as if he could hide from the horror that had just unfolded before him. His cries were like the cracking of glass—sharp and brittle—his grief raw and unrelenting.
But through it all, Stannis and Melisandre remained silent, unmoving. Stannis stood with his arms crossed, his face set in grim resolve, his eyes locked on the burning pyre. He said nothing, but Jon could see the cold calculation in his gaze. This was the price of power, the price Stannis had been willing to pay to pursue his throne. Jon had always known Stannis would go to extreme lengths, but this... this was something else.
Melisandre, the red witch, stood beside him, her face blank and unreadable. She had been the one to guide this ritual, the one who had promised that this sacrifice would lead to victory. Yet now, as the flames died down and the charred remnants of the girl's body were all that remained, she didn't flinch. She didn't show any remorse. She simply stood there, her eyes distant, as though the death of an innocent child was just another step in the game they were playing.
Jon felt his hands tremble with fury, but it was an impotent rage. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened. Nothing he could do to bring Shireen back. And yet, as he stood there, looking at the aftermath of this grotesque act, a fire sparked within him—a fire that would not be extinguished, no matter how deep the pain ran.
Stannis and Melisandre had killed a child in the name of power, and Jon would never forget it. He would make sure the world knew what they had done.