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Chapter Text

JON

Jon felt the cold edge of a knife pressing against the base of his throat. With a swift shove, he turned and freed himself from the hand that held him. Unfortunately, not fast enough. The knife had cut one side of his neck, and as he reached to assess the depth of the wound, he could feel the red liquid spurting from the cut.

‘I've been stabbed’ thought the young Lord Commander.

He turned around and tried to draw Longclaw from its sheath, but his fingers were clumsy from the cold, and his gloves were slippery with blood. Wick Wittlestick, still holding the bloodied knife, averted his gaze from Jon as he heard footsteps behind him. His nerves began to spiral out of control as he felt a hot pang in the middle of his stomach, a sensation akin to the arrows Ygritte had shot at him the day they parted before the Battle for Castle Black but deeper, more painful. He looked up to see the satisfied face of Alliser Thorne.

"For the Watch," Thorne whispered.

If Jon had thought the first stab hurt, the knife slicing through his flesh made that sensation seem like a caress. Longclaw slipped from his fingers once again, and warmth started to spread across his stomach as colors seemed to fade from his vision.

Another searing stab pierced beneath his ribs.

"For the Watch."

After countless instances where the gods had chosen to confront him with his own mortality, this seemed to be the final one. Jon thought of Winterfell—the kind eyes of his father, the stern look from Lady Stark and Sansa, and tried to imagine how the eyes of his mother may have looked like, but he failed. He thought of the last hug he gave Robb, his eternal rival, his best friend, his brother.

‘Maybe I should have died with him at the Red Wedding or on the battlefield. Instead, I die at Castle Black. For doing what's right. At the hands of my sworn brothers.’

"For the Watch."

Another red-hot fang pierced between opposing ribs. Jon thought of Arya, asking him to undo the braids the handmaidens had done so she could play with wooden swords. He thought of Bran practicing with a bow under his father's watchful eye and Rickon, with innocence in his eyes, asking the handmaidens for a sweet.

He remembered Ygritte—her hair kissed by fire, her stubbornness, but also her smile, and the way she made him laugh. If this was his end, could he see her on the other side? 'You know nothing, Jon Snow,' she used to say. Perhaps now was the time to finally know.

He thought of Ghost, his loyal companion. That turncloak Theon had dubbed him ‘the runt of the litter’, yet he had survived not only his siblings but also dozens of dangers beyond the Wall. Jon tried to speak, perhaps to accuse his 'brothers' of betrayal, of being murderers, oathbreakers, but none of those words escaped his lips.

"Ghost."

Jon didn't even feel the fourth knife, only the cold.

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TORMUND

Two days had passed since those damn traitor crows had killed Jon. Luckily, when it all happened, he, that old man Davos, and the Red Witch had retrieved the body, supported by some Free Folk who remained loyal to the lad. They had to hide like rats in the Lord Commander's quarters, surrounded by the traitors and their sympathizers, caught in a standoff with the crows still loyal to their commander, even in death.

The situation had been resolved thanks to the Free Folk, of course. As if it wasn't obvious that any of them would avenge the crow who had saved thousands at Hardhome and even killed one of those ice fuckers with his own sword. Killing Jon in front of so many people indebted to him had truly been a cunt’s move, but, of course, intelligence has never defined the crows on the Wall, not many of them at least.

The Red Witch had proposed madness: "I must resurrect Jon Snow, for he is the Prince that was promised, Azor Ahai." Regardless of what that shit meant, the old man, Davos, had hated the idea, but in the end, he had agreed to it. The ritual had lasted hours, with the witch incessantly speaking in a language that sounded like trying to scratch stone with fingernails, but nothing had worked.

So there he was, placing the final oil-soaked logs on the pyre that would hold the little crow. They burned him out of fear that the man might wake up with blue eyes and serve the Others, but the size and appearance of the pyre represented the respect both crows and Free Folk had for the little fucker.

He wasn't sad, no, the Giantsbane didn't get sad, the Lord of Honeyed Hall in the Red Keep didn't know melancholy, and the Wall would melt before the Hornblower felt regret. But it was true that Tormund would miss Jon. Fortunately, Tormund knew all too well that vengeance and fermented goat's milk could kill that feeling just fine.

When everything was ready, and the three-story pyre made of oak, pine, and fir, filled with straw and resin, stood solemnly in the central courtyard of Castle Black, a crow named something like Edd the Pains approached with a torch and spoke with a bitter voice.

"It's time."

Tormund, Edd, old Davos, and the Red Woman stood at the forefront of Free Folk and black crows alike, and Jon's white wolf, who had been acting very strange since his owner's death, stood in front of them, not making a single sound but with a mournful expression.

The pyre was lit.

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MELISANDRE

The ritual had lasted for hours. Melisandre had tried with all the strength she possessed. Every plea in the language of old Valyria had been used, every prayer to R'hllor, the God of Fire, the Lord of Light, the Red God, had been ignored. Jon Snow was Azor Ahai, the Prince that was promised, the son of Fire and Ice.

Only the cold remained in him, and a strange mist had begun to envelop the room, disregarding the lit fires.

And now he lay on a bed of wood and sap, about to be incinerated, bid farewell, sent to R'hllor, the Old Gods, or any of the Seven Hells. Just as life had abandoned young Snow, faith had abandoned Melisandre.

Soon, the Great Other would strike. And without a hero capable of bringing the dawn wielding Lightbringer, all hope was lost. Stannis had fallen, Jon Snow had fallen, who remained? Was Daenerys Targaryen the last hope, far away in Essos?

"Only death can pay for life."

It was the rule of all magic; was Lord Commander Snow the coin? Had another hero been born somewhere in Westeros? Perhaps away from it? If this was it, what had been the purpose of all the visions, apparitions, and prophecies she had seen in the flames?

"I beseech my God to show me a King, the one who was promised, but He only shows me Snow."

The flames did not take long to engulf the pyre. There lay Jon Snow, in Night's Watch armor without a cloak, and around him, orange and red flames danced in ritual, caressing him like tongues of fire. His clothes had begun to catch fire when the fiery spear tips covered him completely.

 Then she saw it.

A new vision, clear as the moon on a clear night. A tower, a sword, a wolf. A crow, shadows, a dragon. A falling star. A beast covered in silver, another in ebony, a union in crimson red. Black ice armor lifting a sword of red fire. A voice without a mouth.

 ‘’Māzigon naejot issa, aōha gaomilaksir iksos toliot rȳ mōrī’’

Her feet moved on their own, in a trance, the red arms of the flames ready to embrace her. For hundreds of years, she had seen again and again people being released, enveloped by flames, sent to R'hllor. For hundreds of years, she had begged for fire, sometimes receiving embers, other times ashes, and other times the Fourteen Flames. She had dedicated her life, her longevity to her God, sacrificing herself for the life of Jon Snow, to save the realm of men, but be remembered as the Witch who burned Shireen Baratheon was perhaps a fitting end.

" Hae ao jaelagon, kirimvose, issa āeksio."

The fire kissed her in pain and ecstasy, and ashes followed.

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DAVOS

After being responsible for Stannis's death and burning his kind and sweet daughter, Shireen of House Baratheon alive, Ser Davos Seaworth would have given more than his fingers to see the Red Witch burn.

Still, he couldn't contain his surprise when he saw her approach the flames emitted by the pyre, being swallowed in a bite by the fire, as if Balerion the Black Dread himself had decided to use her as snack.

Some members of the Watch tried to stop her, but they couldn't. Her pace was solemn and determined, her gaze lost, and she whispered something in the language she had used when trying to resurrect young Jon.

How much melancholy had he felt seeing him cold on that floor.

In just a few years, Ser Davos had lost his son during the Battle of Blackwater, a girl he cherished as his own daughter, his King, and the person who had made him believe that there could still be honorable leaders in the world.

With a final burst, the flames illuminated the night sky, growing so much that it seemed they sought to caress the moon.

No one, not in a million years, could have prepared the Onion Knight for what he was about to see. A shadow rose from the burning coals and fiery hairs. A man, his clothes burned, his body intact. His gaze lost on the moon, his breath strong, as if the air was fleeing from him, on his body four red scars open but without an ounce of blood, yet one on his neck. On his head, a few strands of hair had lost its color, now pale as silver.

It seemed to him that Jon Snow, 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, had returned from the cold clutches of death.

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JON

Jon remembered Melisandre's words.

‘Knives in the darkness, Jon Snow.’

Jon tried to recall something else, but a wall of black ice stood in the way.

His head was about to explode, the muscles in his arms pulsating, making his fingers tremble, and the air in his chest felt as if Weirwood roots had settled inside him.

Breathing heavily, the cold of the North began to leave him, replaced by scorching fire, then cold swallowed him again. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he found himself surrounded by fire maidens inviting him to dance and shadows lurking behind them. In the center, a white shield, solemn, hiding the sight of the blue eyes of death.

‘The moon shrieks in pain.’

His legs regained some strength, and he rose to reach the silver plate.

The flames stretched farther than ever…and vanished. His skin covered in ash, except for three marks adorning his abdomen, one on his heart, another on his neck.

‘Knives in the darkness.’

Jon's memories returned, with a new guest: perhaps it was anger.

Looking around, he saw the Night's Watch, the Free Folk, Tormund, Ser Davos, Ghost. Their faces of astonishment and fear alike made Jon feel dizzy, sick to his empty stomach. He tried to walk toward them, leaving his burnt bed behind.

As he descended to the ground, old Davos picked him up.

"S... er...vos…"

"Jon, son, you..."-The man turned his face to the rest of the spectators and shouted, "Bring him a cloak! Something! your Lord Commander needs of your aid."

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Jon was in the Lord Commander's quarters, standing, facing his desk, on which Longclaw laid, unsheathed. The time to go on with his duty approached, a choice the young Snow had never enjoyed making. Ghost was asleep near the fire in the hearth, being able to rest now that he had finally returned. Jon scratched the place between the direwolf’s ears.

‘You’re a good boy, Ghost.’

Another remembrance pierced his head like an arrow.

‘He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. If you cannot look a person in the eyes and hear their last words, perhaps that man does not deserve to die.’

These were his father's words, or at least, that’s how Jon remembered them. Ned Stark, the man whose honor had served to inspire unwavering loyalty and his own death simultaneously. The same honor that had killed him. What would Ned Stark have done if he could’ve come back and look into the eyes of his murderers? Those who called him a traitor? Would he have listened to their last words? Many things had emerged from that pyre along with Jon's consciousness; perhaps honor was no longer one of them.

A knock on the wooden door. Jon's fingers instinctively reached for the handle of Longclaw, a pang of pain in his chest.

Without warning, Tormund entered with a solemn step and, as he rarely showed, a serious face. Tormund had been the link between Jon and the Free Folk during their recent encounters, after the Battle of the Wall and what happened with Mance Rayder, and in earning the trust of the Free Folk during the incident of Hardhome. Gradually, he had come to consider him a friend, especially after Ser Davos had told him how Tormund was one of those who protected his body from the traitors of the Watch.

‘’Is everything ready?’’

‘’All those fuckers and traitors are waiting in the main yard, chained.’’ - The wildling paused. - ‘’Did you hear, crow? Now my people think yer some kind of god. They call you 'The man who returned from the dead, the undying’.’’

Jon looked at him with an expression tainted with regret.

‘’I'm not a god, Tormund.’’

‘Bastard, oathbreaker, motherless, damned. Those might be better descriptions.’ - Jon thought. Tormund displayed his typical mocking smile.

‘’Aye, of course yer not. I saw your pecker when you rose from the pyre. What kind of god would have a pecker that small?’’ Jon tried to smile but didn't have enough strength to remove the cold expression from his face.

‘’It's time then.’’

Jon strapped on his sword and headed for the quarters' exit with the wildling warrior. Once he opened the door the cold northern wind and the silence felt like a horse just kicked his chest. Wildlings and Night's Watch turned their gaze to young Snow. In their eyes, he saw everything, from respect and joy to admiration, veneration, and even fear. In the center of the courtyard, the snow had been cleared, and on a wooden platform, those who had stabbed him just days ago stood, chained, facing a fragment of an oak trunk. Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwick, Wick Wittlestick, and Alliser Thorne tried to keep their gaze forward, but their faces revealed the realization of what had happened, the harshness of death.

Once he reached the platform, Tormund and Edd climbed up with him to help carry any traitor to the oak block. Two steps later, Bowen Marsh was on his knees, his face almost pleading.

‘’It's not fair, you were dead. It's not right.’’

Jon had to exert himself not to spit, unbelieving and disgusted. ‘Neither was killing me.’ - he thought. Instead, he repeated what he already considered the last words of these men. After that, nothing mattered.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Snow lowered his sword quickly. Blood splattered on the ground.

Two more thumps, and Yarwick was in the same position as his predecessor.

‘’Please, I have a family, tell them I died fighting against the wildlings.’’

‘I wish you deserved such a thing.’ - Jon thanked that the man couldn't hear his thoughts and simply spoke.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Another cut tore through flesh with a dull sound.

Wittleswick tried to resist, but Tormund knocked him down with a strong blow to the stomach and put his foot on the man's back. Only pleas and mumbled insults reached Jon's ears. He saw a man brave enough to stab him in the back but not to curse him in the hour of his death.

‘’For the Watch.’’ - The edge of Longclaw once again cut more than just the air as it began its path.

Finally, Alliser Thorne walked towards the oak, to Tormund's dismay, who would have wanted to be able to hit him. The man didn't kneel but looked Jon in the eyes, who held his gaze while the blood dripping from his sword hitting the platform counted the seconds of silence.

‘’I had to make a choice, 'Lord Commander,' betray you or betray the Night's Watch. You, who brought an army of murderers and rapists to this side of the Wall. If I could go back, knowing where I would end up, I'd pray to make the right choice again.’’

The man spoke with contempt. The same contempt that he had directed towards Jon Snow throughout his time at the Wall, and who had ultimately killed him. During all that time, the steward had kept silent out of respect for the chain of command and the service Thorne had given to the Watch. All of that was now of little importance.

‘’I'm sure you would’ve, Ser Alliser.’’ - Jon talked about betraying him again, of course. Alliser Thorne wouldn't hesitate to let more men, women, and children join the Others in favor of his pride. After all, it was pride that brought him to the Wall.

‘’I fought, I lost. Now I rest.’’ - He paused, and the ghost of a smile crept to the edge of Thorne's mouth. - ‘’But you, Lord Snow, You’ll be fighting their battles forever.’’

Perhaps telling Ser Alliser Thorne that pretending pride while dying as a traitor was pointless would have been a good response. Or that calling the Free Folk rapists and murderers was forgetting that a large percentage of the Night's Watch ended up on the Wall for the same reasons. But no. That required an energy that Jon Snow no longer had within himself. After all, what better response than:

‘’For the Watch.’’ - Thorne didn't even get to kneel. In gratitude for his years of service to the realm of Men, Jon offered him the chance to die standing. Just as, in gratitude for being a traitor, he had relieved him of the weight of his head. The veteran's body fell to the ground quickly, and Jon Snow sheathed Longclaw, after wiping it on the Lord Commander's cloak. Without giving another glance to the bodies, he began to descend from the platform as the spectators of the execution dispersed. Edd caught up with him when they had already left the wooden stairs.

‘’Jon, what will you d-’’ - Dolorous Edd couldn't finish his question, as Jon threw the Lord Commander's cloak into his hands.

‘’What do you want me to do with this?’’

‘’Burn it, bury it, whatever you choose. I won't stay to freeze and rot in Castle Black.’’

Edd's expression of horror and incomprehension almost drew a laugh from the northerner, as if the reason wasn't obvious.

‘’You made an oath, Jon, 'For all the nights to come', remember?’’

‘’'I shall live and die at my post.’ I remember that part too. I believe I fulfilled both when my brothers murdered me, Edd.’’ He turned away in an almost violent manner.

‘’My watch has ended.’’

…

His fingers returned to the hilt of his sword when someone announced that a figure had approached the gates of Castle Black. Perhaps a deserter from Stannis' army seeking refuge, perhaps someone looking to convey a message from the Bolton’s. Friend or foe, Jon had to respond. After climbing onto one of the platforms above the gate, Jon saw a solitary figure on a brown horse. The figure was hooded and covered with a long black cloak. A shout came from the top of the castle.

"Who goes there?"

With shaking hands, the figure pulled back the hood, revealing hair kissed by fire, red as autumn leaves. As she looked up, the eyes of a woman met Jon's gray orbs. Could it be another red priestess seeking to continue Melisandre's work?

The woman's face lit up, incredulous, and for a moment, Jon saw a face he thought he had long forgotten.

Sansa.