Prologue
Year 300 AC
Jon Snow
Castle Black
The Lord Commander's solar was quiet save for the crackling of the hearth. Jon Snow sat at his desk, the letter spread before him, its pink wax seal broken and crumbling. His fingers were stained with ink, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Outside, the wind howled against the Wall, a sound he had grown accustomed to, like the weight of the black cloak upon his shoulders.
Ramsay Bolton, he thought bitterly. Or is it Ramsay Snow? A bastard who would claim my sister, claim Winterfell, claim the North.
He had read the letter so many times the words had burned themselves into his memory. "I want my bride back... I want my Reek... I want the wildling princess..." Threats and boasts and promises of pain. Jon's hand curled into a fist, crumpling the corner of the parchment.
"Your sister," he whispered to the empty room. "He has Arya." The thought of his little sister in Bolton hands made something twist inside him, something cold and dangerous. Little sister, he thought. Skinny and quick, with her hair in tangles and dirt on her face. Underfoot, they called her. The memory of her face was like a knife between his ribs.
Jon rose from his chair and crossed to the window. Beyond the glass, snow was falling, thick and heavy. Castle Black was a shadow beneath a white sky.
I swore an oath, he reminded himself. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death.
But another voice whispered to him, one that sounded like Robb. You have a duty to our sister too.
"The Night's Watch takes no part," Jon said aloud, his breath fogging the glass. "We cannot march to war for any king or cause."
And yet.
He turned back to his desk, to the maps of the North spread across it. His finger traced the route from Castle Black to Winterfell. Not so far, truly. Not so far at all.
The Free Folk know how to fight in snow and forest. They've been raiding the North for thousands of years. He thought of Tormund Giantsbane, of the spearwives, of Wun Wun the giant. Not an army, not truly, but fighters nonetheless. Fighters who owed him their lives.
Jon picked up his cup of mulled wine and drank deeply, feeling the warmth spread through him. It did nothing to thaw the ice in his heart.
Ramsay knows the North, but so do I. I am a Stark of Winterfell, whatever name I bear.
He had studied warfare under Ser Rodrik Cassel, had fought the wildlings, had defended the Wall against Mance Rayder's host. He knew what it was to be outnumbered, outflanked.
We cannot meet them in open battle. But the North is vast and wild. The snows are deep. The Boltons must use the roads, must bring supply trains. His eyes narrowed. "We need not fight as they expect."
A memory came to him, unbidden. His father—no, his uncle—sitting beneath the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, cleaning Ice after an execution. "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword," he had said. And later: "Winter is coming."
Winter was here now. And with it, perhaps, an advantage.
Jon reached for a quill and fresh parchment. He would send ravens. To the houses still loyal to his father's memory. Not as Lord Commander, but as Jon Snow. As Ned Stark's son.
Oathbreaker, whispered a voice in his head. Turncloak.
A commotion outside broke his concentration. Shouts, screams, the clash of steel. Jon's hand went to Longclaw, the hilt familiar beneath his fingers. He strode to the door and flung it open.
The courtyard was chaos. At its center stood Wun Wun, blood-spattered and roaring, the broken body of Ser Patrek dangling from one massive fist like a child's doll. The knight's blue surcoat, emblazoned with silver stars, was now a red ruin.
"Seven save us," breathed Bowen Marsh beside him.
Jon pushed past the Lord Steward, drawing Longclaw in a smooth motion. "Wun Wun!" he called. "STOP!"
The giant turned, his small eyes finding Jon in the crowd. For a moment, he seemed to calm. Then more men poured into the yard, swords drawn, and Wun Wun roared again, swinging Ser Patrek's corpse like a flail.
"Hold!" Jon shouted to the men of the Watch. "Put up your steel! You'll only enrage him further!"
He stepped forward, alone, into the space between his brothers and the giant. Snow crunched beneath his boots. The air was sharp with cold and the iron scent of blood.
"Jon," said a voice behind him. Dolorous Edd, his tone urgent. "Jon, don't."
But he continued forward, Longclaw held low, non-threatening. "Wun Wun," he said, more softly now. "Friend. No more killing."
The giant's breathing was labored, steam billowing from his nostrils. He dropped Ser Patrek's body with a wet thud and took a lumbering step toward Jon.
I should be afraid, Jon thought. But fear was a luxury he could no longer afford. Not with Arya in Bolton hands, not with the Others gathering beyond the Wall, not with winter descending and the realm in chaos.
Something moved at the edge of his vision. Jon turned, expecting more brothers coming to join the fray.
Instead, he saw Bowen Marsh, tears streaming down his red face. "For the Watch," he said, and drove a dagger into Jon's belly.
The pain was a shock, bright and cold. Jon staggered, one hand going to the wound, coming away wet with blood.
"For the Watch." Another voice, another knife, this one slashing at his throat. Wick Whittlestick. Jon caught his wrist, but weakly.
"Why?" Jon gasped, but even as he asked, he knew. The wildlings. Arya. The letter. He had gone too far, broken too many traditions, crossed too many lines.
"For the Watch." A third knife, between his shoulder blades. Jon fell to his knees in the snow. The cold was inside him now, spreading from the wounds, numbing the pain.
Ghost, he thought desperately. Where are you?
His vision blurred. The faces around him—Bowen Marsh, Wick Whittlestick, others he had called brothers—seemed distant, unreal. Beyond them, the Wall loomed, pale and indifferent.
Arya, he thought. I'm sorry.
The snow beneath him was turning red. The world was growing dark.
Jon Snow reached for Longclaw, fingers scrabbling in the snow, but his strength was fading. With his last conscious thought, he sent his mind searching, reaching, calling...
Ghost...
The darkness took him.
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Melisandre
Castle Black
Melisandre of Asshai stared into the flickering flames, her red eyes searching for answers from the Lord of Light. The fire crackled and danced, casting an eerie glow upon her pale skin. "Show me the way, my Lord," she whispered, her voice tinged with desperation. "The darkness gathers, and the Great Other's power grows stronger each day."
As she gazed deeper into the flames, images began to take shape - a wolf, a dragon, a sword of fire. But they were fleeting, fragmentary, leaving her with more questions than answers.
The flames do not lie, Melisandre thought, but I am not always able to read them aright.
Doubt gnawed at her heart. For so long, she had believed Stannis Baratheon to be Azor Ahai reborn, the hero destined to save the world from the Long Night. She had seen it in her visions, had felt it in her bones. But now, as the tide of battle turned against them and the true enemy revealed itself, she found herself questioning everything.
"Lord of Light, show me your will," Melisandre prayed, her voice rising with fervor. "Is Stannis alive?"
The fire flared brighter for a moment, and in its depths, Melisandre beheld the symbol that had become a persistent omen in her flames — Snow. She closed her eyes, feeling the weight of destiny pressing down upon her. If she could not divine the truth, if she could not guide the chosen one to fulfill his purpose, then all was surely lost.
"Please, my Lord," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling flames. "Show me the way, before it is too late. For the night is dark and full of terrors, and only your light can save us now."
A commotion erupted from Hardin's Tower, shattering the eerie stillness of Castle Black. Melisandre hurried towards the sound, her red robes billowing behind her like crimson flames. As she reached the yard, a scene of chaos unfolded before her eyes.
Eddison Tollett cradled the lifeless body of Jon Snow, his face etched with grief. Nearby, the giant Wun Wun's massive hands were stained with blood, the crushed remains of Wick Whittlestick at his feet. Tormund and Othell Yarwyck rushed forward, their expressions a mix of shock and fury.
Othell rallied the Night's Watch brothers, his voice booming across the courtyard. "Contain the situation! Seize the mutineers!"
Eddison, with the aid of the Free Folk and Tormund, moved swiftly to apprehend those responsible for Jon's murder. Melisandre watched as the tragic event unfolded, a pang of regret twisting in her heart. She had warned him of the daggers in the dark, yet fate had still claimed him.
Eddison's eyes met hers, desperation evident in his gaze. "Is there anything you can do?"
Melisandre gazed upon Jon Snow's lifeless form, her mind racing with the implications of his death. In that moment, a profound realization struck her like a bolt of lightning - Jon Snow was no mere man, but a crucial piece in the great battle against the darkness that threatened to engulf them all. The flames had shown her the truth: if the Lord of Light had guided her to this place, to this moment, then surely it was within her power to bring him back from the brink of oblivion. With renewed purpose, Melisandre steeled herself for the task ahead, knowing that if she succeeded, Jon Snow would rise again as the hero destined to lead them through the Long Night.
Melisandre stepped forward, her decision made. She would perform the last kiss, a sacred ritual to bid farewell to the fallen Lord Commander. Kneeling beside Jon's body, she pressed her lips to his, the ancient words of the rite flowing from her tongue.
As the ritual began, an unearthly phenomenon transformed the sky above Castle Black. A brilliant red comet, its tail a fiery streak, illuminated the night. The comet's crimson glow bathed the courtyard, casting long shadows and imbuing the scene with an otherworldly aura.
All eyes turned heavenward, transfixed by the celestial spectacle. Melisandre's heart raced, recognizing the comet as a powerful omen. She watched, expectant, as the last kiss ritual concluded.
Minutes rolled by, yet nothing happened, slowly destroying her hopes. Suddenly, a deafening crack shattered the air but instead of the anticipated resurrection, and Jon Snow's lifeless form erupted into a blaze. The flames engulfed him, devouring his flesh and sending rivulets of melted snow cascading across the ground. The inferno radiated an unbearable heat, forcing Melisandre to recoil, her eyes widening in bewilderment. This was not the outcome she had foreseen.