Jon V

The North had always been a threat in and of itself, a place where survival was a daily struggle and nature itself seemed hostile. Yet now, as Jon stood atop the Wall, the cold winds biting at his face, the icy expanse beyond the Whispering Wood felt different—alive, sentient. It wasn't just a frozen wasteland anymore; it was watching him, taunting him. The vast snowy plains and dark forests felt like an enemy in their own right, whispering promises of death and despair. He shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

It had been barely two weeks since the Red Woman had dragged him back from the abyss of death, and yet that moment clung to him like a shadow he couldn't escape. It haunted his waking hours, creeping into every corner of his mind. He'd be sitting at breakfast, staring at the pale bread and thin porridge, only to suddenly feel himself back on the table, surrounded by flickering candlelight. The memory of thick mud smeared across his neck returned, as vivid as the day it happened. It had felt suffocating, as though the weight of the entire Wall had been pressing down on him. He could still feel the burning stares of the men and women who had watched, wide-eyed and fearful, as Melisandre worked her dark magic. Their whispers lingered in his ears, even when no one was speaking.

And when he wasn't consumed by those thoughts, his sleep offered no reprieve. The dreams were worse than the waking moments. In the darkness of his unconscious mind, he returned to the void—an endless blackness beyond life itself. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. It was a silent, oppressive eternity that felt like being buried alive. Each time he woke gasping for air, the sweat freezing against his skin in the freezing nights of Castle Black, he wondered if it was better to have stayed dead.

Jon tore his gaze from the North and looked down at his hands. They gripped the edge of the Wall tightly, his knuckles white against the grey stone. These hands felt like his, but not. He had held a sword with these hands, comforted Ghost with them, even died with them—and yet they felt... wrong. There were moments when he wondered if he truly was Jon Snow anymore. The men of the Night's Watch looked at him differently now. Some with awe, others with fear. He was no longer their brother in arms, their Lord Commander. He was something else—something returned. And he wasn't sure he liked it.

Jon sighed, the sound swallowed by the wind. He was a man torn. Torn between the living and the dead, between duty and freedom, between who he was and who he might have become. He gripped the stone harder, as if anchoring himself to the present.

"I'm still here," he muttered under his breath, though the words felt hollow. The wind answered him with a howl, as if mocking his defiance.

What did it mean to be alive after death? Was he still meant to be Lord Commander, bound by his oath to the Wall? Or was there a greater purpose behind his return, one that neither Melisandre nor the Lord of Light had chosen to share? He had no answers, only questions that gnawed at him like wolves at a carcass.

Looking out beyond the Wall, Jon's chest tightened. The North stretched out before him, vast and unyielding, but he knew what lay hidden there. The dead were coming. Every breath of icy wind carried the memory of Hardhome, the screams of the living, the silent march of the dead. Every shadow in the trees seemed to whisper of the White Walkers, their pale faces and frozen swords.

The North was watching, and it was waiting.

And Jon Snow, returned from the grave, was not sure he was ready to meet it.

He thought of those he had left behind in the void—faces that haunted him more than the darkness itself. Sam, with his nervous smile and endless loyalty; Ygritte, fiery and fierce, her voice still echoing in his ears as if she were standing beside him, teasing him about being a crow. Ghost, his ever-faithful companion, who had followed him to the ends of the earth and beyond, now more a part of this strange existence than he was himself. And his father... the memory of Ned Stark loomed largest of all, a figure of unwavering honour and quiet strength, whose lessons had guided Jon's life. Why them? Why had they been taken while he was dragged back into this world? Why did he deserve another chance and not them?

The thought gnawed at him, a constant ache that no amount of cold or steel could numb. The injustice of it made him clench his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He imagined Sam's face, pale and frightened but always steadfast, willing to risk everything for Jon. He thought of Ygritte's laughter, how it had once felt like sunlight piercing through the bitter cold. He thought of his father's steady hand on his shoulder, the weight of his expectations mixed with the unspoken love that had always been there. All of them gone. And for what? To leave him here, alone in a world that no longer felt like his own?

Maybe this was all some cruel joke, he thought bitterly. Maybe the so-called Lord of Light, with all his mysterious fire and prophecy, was a liar—a trickster playing games with lives as if they were pawns on a board. Perhaps this second chance wasn't a gift but a punishment. A punishment for failing, for falling, for letting himself be killed in the first place. The thought twisted inside him like a knife. If the Lord of Light had dragged him back from death's clutches, what was to stop him from doing it again? To bring him back just to kill him over and over, a cruel cycle without end?

Jon felt his chest tighten, his breaths coming quicker. The weight of it all was suffocating. Perhaps he wasn't meant to be alive. Perhaps this was all temporary, and he would be with them again sooner than he thought. Sam would be waiting for him, a book in hand and a nervous smile on his face. Ygritte would pull him close, her fiery hair wild in the wind, and tell him once again, "You know nothing, Jon Snow." Ghost would come bounding through the darkness, a streak of white that would lead him home. And his father... his father would look at him with those steady grey eyes, a gaze that held no judgment, only understanding.

The image was so vivid that it brought tears to his eyes. He blinked them away quickly, ashamed of the weakness.

"Lord Commander?" A voice cut through Jon's turbulent thoughts. He turned to see Gendry standing behind him, his broad shoulders dusted with snow and his expression as steady as always.

"How many times, Gendry?" Jon said, his voice carrying a hint of weariness. "I'm not your Commander anymore. I died, my watch ended, and the command fell to you—as it should. I should be addressing you as Lord Commander." The corners of Jon's mouth twitched into a faint smile, a flicker of amusement breaking through his sombre mood.

"You'll always be my Commander," Gendry said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. "In this life and every lifetime." There was a loyalty in his tone that stirred something deep within Jon, a mix of gratitude and guilt.

Jon smiled faintly, shaking his head. "You've got the title now. It's your burden to carry."

Before Gendry could respond, his expression shifted slightly, turning more serious. "There's been a raven," he said, holding out a parchment. "From your brother. Daenerys Targaryen has set sail for Winterfell."

The words hung in the frigid air between them. Jon's eyes fixed on the letter, though he didn't reach for it. He felt his heart tighten. Robb. Jon's grip tightened on the railing of the Wall, his knuckles turning white. He had made a decision weeks ago, one that he had questioned every day since. He had chosen not to tell his family that he was back. They had already buried him, mourned him, added his name to the long list of dead Starks. They were still grieving for Ned—and now Catelyn, too, taken by her own sorrow after Ned's execution.

His brothers and sisters would still be reeling from it all. Jon couldn't bring himself to burden them with this strange, unnatural resurrection. How could they ever look at him the same way again? Would they even want to? He wasn't the same man who had ridden north to Hardhome or who had stood as Lord Commander. He had died. And what had come back was something else entirely—someone who felt as much ghost as man.

"They've been through enough," Jon said finally, his voice low, almost to himself.

Gendry studied him for a moment. "You think it'll hurt them to know you're alive?" he asked, blunt as ever. "Or is it just you who's afraid to face them?"

Jon flinched at the words, but they rang with truth, hitting him like a blow he couldn't dodge. He clenched his jaw, staring out over the endless white expanse beyond the Wall. He didn't answer immediately, his silence filled by the distant howl of the wind.

"They mourned me," he said at last, his voice low and strained. "Let them have their peace. I don't want to confuse them, or…" He trailed off, searching for the words, but they wouldn't come. What could he even say to justify it? That he feared the looks on their faces, the questions they would ask, the things they might not say but would think?

Instead, he shook his head and forced himself to focus. "We can only hope that she's coming as a friend," he said, pivoting to safer ground. "Her dragons could be the thing that turns the tide for us. If they're not, then we're already lost."

"May I speak my mind, my Lor—" Gendry started but stopped himself, a flicker of a grin breaking through his otherwise serious expression. "Jon," he corrected himself.

"Always," Jon said, managing a faint smile in return. He turned to face the blacksmith-turned-commander, ready for whatever practical, grounded wisdom Gendry was about to offer. The man always seemed to cut straight to the heart of things, as if swinging a hammer at the truth itself.

"You should go to them," Gendry said plainly. "To Winterfell."

Jon's brow furrowed, and he opened his mouth to argue, but Gendry held up a hand. "Hear me out," he pressed. "When the dead reach us here, we can meet them head-on, sure. But let's not lie to ourselves—we won't beat them, not on the Wall. You've seen what they can do. Our only real chance at a last stand is at Winterfell. That's where it has to happen. And if that's where it has to happen, then you should be there. They need you."

"I'm needed here," Jon said, his voice firm, but there was a slight edge of doubt to it. He wasn't even sure he believed himself anymore.

"You're needed everywhere," Gendry countered, "but that doesn't mean you have to stay here. I'm not saying this because I think you're the chosen one, or the prophesied hero, or any of the other bloody titles the Red Woman likes to throw around." There was a flicker of amusement in his voice, but his expression remained earnest.

"I'm saying it because I've had the honour of serving under you for five years. I've fought beside you. I've watched you lead, watched you take a group of boys—scared, green, and untested—and turn them into men who would march into hell for you without a second thought. You should be at Winterfell, beside your brother, leading his forces. You belong there, Jon. He doesn't stand a chance without you."

Jon's lips pressed into a thin line. The words struck deep, but he wasn't ready to let them in fully. "I'm a man of the Night's Watch," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. "My place is here."

"I thought you said your watch was over," Gendry said with a sly smirk, his tone softening as he stepped back toward the lift. "A man doesn't get to have it both ways, Jon."

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but Gendry was already turning away, the creak of the lift breaking the silence as it descended toward the ground.

For a long moment, Jon stood alone atop the Wall, the weight of Gendry's words settling heavily on his shoulders. He turned his gaze back to the vast, unending white, to the whispering woods beyond, to the enemy that waited for them all. He thought of Robb, of Winterfell, of his family—what was left of it.

The wind howled in his ears, and he felt the cold settle deeper into his bones. Gendry's words wouldn't leave him. They need you.

Jon let out a long, heavy breath, the mist of it carried away on the wind. Maybe Gendry was right. Maybe it was time to leave the Wall behind—for good.

As night fell, Jon summoned Davos and Gendry to the Lord Commander's chambers. The room was sparsely lit by a single flickering candle, the fire in the hearth reduced to glowing embers. The weight of the day—and the days before it—seemed to press down on all three men as they settled into the room. Jon stood, leaning against the edge of the table, his brow furrowed as he wrestled with his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.

"I've decided to go to Winterfell," he announced, the words heavy in the air. He glanced at Gendry, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A wise man convinced me that I might be needed there."

Gendry grinned, his arms crossed over his chest. "A wise man, was it? I'll have to meet him someday."

Jon let out a soft chuckle, a rare moment of levity breaking through the sombre mood. But it didn't last long. His expression hardened as he continued, his voice steady. "But I will not leave the Wall undefended. Gendry, you are Lord Commander now. These are your men to command. I'll not strip away resources from you—you'll need every man, every weapon, every ounce of strength to hold this line. The Wall must stand."

Gendry's grin faded, replaced by a look of resolve. "The Wall will stand, Jon. I swear it."

Jon nodded, satisfied with the response, and turned to Davos. "We need to move quickly and quietly. The Lannisters cannot know I'm alive."

Davos, who had been sitting with his hands folded on the table, straightened at Jon's words. "The latest owls from the North report that the Lannisters are moving south—and fast," he said. "There was some unrest in King's Landing. Tywin's first priority has always been keeping the boy king safe."

"Good," Jon said, his tone sharp. "Then they need to keep moving south. We'll give them no reason to turn their gaze back to us."

There was a brief silence before Gendry spoke up again, his voice carrying a hint of mischief. "Your brother and Meera are going with you."

Jon blinked, taken aback. "Bran? He hasn't even spoken to me about returning to Winterfell."

"He didn't need to," Gendry said with a shrug. "He's been waiting for you to make the first move. He had me working on a saddle for him as soon as he arrived—a special one to help him ride. Bran's not one for sitting still, and he's ready to see your family's seat again."

"I'm coming too," Davos said suddenly, breaking Jon's train of thought.

Jon turned to him, his brow furrowing. "Davos, you've done more than enough. You've fought for me, for Stannis, for the living. You don't need to—"

"I do," Davos interrupted, his voice low but firm. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "To speak candidly, Jon, I can't stay here anymore. I see her every time I turn a corner, every time I enter a room, every time I sit by a fire. She's everywhere." His voice faltered for a moment before he steadied himself. "I don't mean to offend you both," he said, glancing between Jon and Gendry, "I know this is your home. But I hope I never come back to this godforsaken place."

Jon felt a pang of sympathy, his gaze softening. He knew what Davos meant. The Wall was no longer just a fortress—it had become a graveyard of memories, a place where the living lingered alongside the ghosts of those they had lost.

"Very well," Jon said after a moment, his tone resigned. "But if you're coming, I need you focused. Winterfell is no safe haven anymore. If Daenerys is coming, she brings her dragons, her armies—and who knows what else. We don't know if she's friend or foe, and we can't afford to assume anything."

Davos nodded solemnly. "I'll be focused," he promised. "You have my word."

Jon looked between the two men, his closest allies now. They had all come so far, and yet the road ahead seemed longer and darker than ever. "Then we leave at first light," he said.

He didn't know what awaited him at Winterfell—dragons, family, or more loss. But he did know one thing: the Wall couldn't be the end of his story. Not yet.

Jon was up well before dawn, moving through the quiet chill of the courtyard as he prepared the horses for the journey ahead. The air was biting, the kind that nipped at his skin and turned his breath to mist. He worked swiftly, checking the reins and saddles of the four horses they'd be taking. They would ride fast and hard, stopping only when absolutely necessary, and resting only once they reached Winterfell.

As he finished securing his own mount, the first hints of sunlight began to creep over the horizon. Jon paused, leaning on the stable post as he watched the sky shift from deep black to muted shades of purple and orange. It was a rare moment of peace—a brief respite from the chaos that seemed to dog his every step. The sun rose, bold and unyielding, painting the sky in gold and fire. For a moment, Jon felt the enormity of it all: the Wall behind him, the dead beyond it, and the unknown that lay ahead.

"The Lord of Light gifts us another morning," came a familiar voice from behind him.

Jon turned, his expression hardening as he saw Melisandre standing in the courtyard. She was wrapped in flowing red cloth of varying hues, the folds of her robe catching the early light like blood against the snow. She looked serene, almost otherworldly, her presence still unsettling despite all he had endured.

He didn't bother replying to her comment, unwilling to entertain her cryptic musings. Instead, he said bluntly, "You're free to go. There's no need to punish you for what you did to the princess. Your own guilt for destroying that family should be punishment enough."

Melisandre's expression didn't flicker, her calm unbroken. "I will be staying right here, Jon Snow," she said, her voice steady but weighted with conviction. "The Lord of Light has shown me glimpses of the future. I will stand here, and I will fall here."

Jon's jaw tightened. He didn't want this conversation, didn't want her riddles or her prophecies or her half-truths cloaked in certainty. He turned away, focusing his attention back on the horses. Yet despite himself, he could feel the weight of her gaze on him, the unspoken tension hanging in the air.

"I don't want to hear your visions," Jon said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "Whatever you think you've seen, whatever you think I'm meant to do—keep it to yourself."

Melisandre stepped closer, her movements deliberate. "It doesn't matter what you want to hear," she said softly. "The truth will find you, Jon Snow, whether you seek it or not. But I will tell you this: you and Daenerys Targaryen are two sides of the same coin. When the time comes, you both will pay the ultimate price."

Jon's fists clenched at her words, his instincts screaming at him to end the conversation, to leave her and her forebodings behind. But her hand reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his own. Her touch was cool, despite the warmth of her presence.

"Don't fight it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "When it starts, you will know that you are on the right path."

Jon wanted to demand more—answers, clarity, something to make sense of her cryptic words. But before he could muster a response, movement caught his eye. Across the courtyard, Meera Reed appeared, wheeling Bran into the open. Behind them walked Davos, his weathered face set with grim determination.

Jon turned his attention back to Melisandre, but she had already moved. She climbed the stone steps to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, her red robes trailing behind her like flowing fire. She stopped by a torch, gazing into its flickering flames as if searching for some hidden truth. For a moment, she glanced back at him, her eyes dark and unreadable.

Jon turned away, suppressing the urge to call out after her. There was no point. Whatever answers she thought she held, Jon didn't trust them. He didn't trust her.

As he walked towards Bran and Meera, he resolved to put her words out of his mind. Whatever lay ahead—destiny, sacrifice, or doom—he would face it on his own terms.

Jon stood by Bran's side, adjusting the straps of the special saddle Gendry had crafted for him. The morning light had fully broken now, the golden hues spreading across the snow-draped courtyard, glinting off the frost that coated the stone walls of Castle Black. It was eerily quiet, the usual bustle of the Night's Watch subdued as if the Wall itself was holding its breath.

"Are you ready?" Jon asked, his voice low as he looked at his younger brother, who sat impassively in his chair, his pale face as unreadable as ever.

Bran's sharp blue eyes turned to meet his. "Are you?" he replied simply, his tone carrying a weight far beyond his years.

Jon hesitated, caught off guard by the gravity of the question. Before he could answer, Davos cleared his throat, stepping forward to check the straps on his own horse.

"It's strange," Davos said, breaking the tension. "Leaving here after so long. It must be even stranger for you, Jon. The Wall was your life for years. Your brothers, your duty…" His words trailed off, as if the enormity of it was catching up to him even as he spoke.

Jon gave a small nod, his hand absently stroking his horse's mane. "I'm sure I'll return," he said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He glanced up at the towering Wall, the colossal structure that had been both his prison and his sanctuary. "This place is as much my home as Winterfell."

Bran's voice cut through the morning stillness, quiet but firm. "None of us will return to Castle Black," he said flatly.

Jon turned to him, the boy's words unsettling him in a way Melisandre's prophecies never could. Bran's voice didn't hold the theatrical cadence of the Red Woman's proclamations. There was no room for interpretation, no cryptic undertone. His words were simply...true.

Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. He opened his mouth to respond, but found he had nothing to say. Instead, he focused on helping Meera lift Bran from his chair and onto the horse. The saddle fit him perfectly, holding him securely as Meera adjusted the straps and reins. She worked silently, her expression determined, but Jon could see the weight she carried—her duty to Bran had taken her far from her home and into dangers few could fathom.

Once Bran was settled, Jon moved to his own mount, pulling himself into the saddle. He glanced over at Davos, who was checking the straps on the pack horse they were bringing along, and then to Meera, who climbed onto her own horse beside Bran.

Jon looked back towards the castle as the gates began to creak open. On the balcony above, Gendry stood watching them, his broad frame silhouetted against the grey stone. Beside him was Melisandre, her red robes vivid against the bleak backdrop. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her face calm but unreadable as she gazed down at them.

Jon met Gendry's eyes, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at his lips. He raised a hand in a silent farewell, a nod of gratitude and camaraderie. Gendry returned the gesture, his expression serious but filled with unspoken understanding.

Melisandre, however, remained still. Her piercing gaze was locked on Jon, her lips moving ever so slightly, as if she were murmuring a prayer or incantation. Jon didn't linger on her for long. He had no need for her riddles now. Whatever role she believed he played in her prophecies, he would find his own path forward.

The gates swung fully open, the cold wind rushing in from the tundra beyond. For a moment, Jon hesitated, taking in the sight of Castle Black one last time. The walls that had once seemed so impenetrable, so eternal, now felt small and fragile in the face of the great unknown that lay ahead.

With a deep breath, Jon gave his horse a light kick, and they began to move forward. The sound of hooves crunching in the snow echoed in the stillness as the four of them rode out into the open expanse of the North.

Jon didn't look back again. Bran's words lingered in his mind, as heavy and unyielding as the Wall itself. None of us will return to Castle Black.

The Wall had always been a shield, a dividing line between civilisation and the chaos beyond. But now, as Jon led his small company south toward Winterfell, he couldn't shake the feeling that the shield was cracking—and that whatever waited for them in the days to come would change everything.