Year 300 AC
Castle Black
The Lord Commander's solar was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire in the hearth where Jon Snow sat at his desk, contemplating his frustrations. He set his half-full goblet of mulled wine down harshly, causing some of it to splash onto the pink letter spread out before him. Jon had read it a dozen times, but still, the words seemed to mock him. Ramsay Bolton's taunts and threats leaped off the page, each one a dagger to Jon's heart as he only thought of his little sister, no matter what excuses he told others or himself.
He leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed and mind racing. How can I hope to win this war with the few men I have? The Night's Watch is not an army, and the Free Folk, though fierce fighters, are undisciplined and unaccustomed to the ways of the south. There's no time for me to truly train them in all the battle formations they will most likely face.
Jon's eyes drifted to the map of the North on his wall, tracing the lines of rivers and roads, searching for any advantage he could find. The Boltons had numbers and experience on their side, and they knew the North just as well as he did. They had grown up here, walked these same lands, and learned its secrets. It would not be easy to outmaneuver them on their own domain.
His gaze settled on the dense forests that stretched across much of the region. The Free Folk were accustomed to fighting in such terrain, using the trees for cover and ambush. Perhaps they could do the same here, striking at the Bolton forces where they least expected it before melting back into the wilderness.
Jon rose from his chair and began to pace, his mind whirring with possibilities. They could not meet the Boltons in open battle, but what if they didn't have to? What if, instead, they could use the North itself as a weapon? The harsh weather, the treacherous landscape, the very land that the Boltons claimed to know so well.
They would have to be clever, use every advantage they had. The Free Folk's knowledge of skirmishing tactics, their ability to survive in the wild. The loyalty of the northern houses that still remembered the Starks. The secret paths and hidden caves that only the locals knew.
It won't be an honorable way to fight, but honor has no place in a war like this. The Boltons have already proven they have none, with their betrayal of my family Jon acknowledged bitterly. If he had to resort to unconventional tactics to save his sister and his home, then so be it.
But the Boltons were no fools, and they would be watching for any sign of treachery. One misstep, one moment of overconfidence, and it could all come crashing down. They would have to be shadows in the night, striking without warning and vanishing before the enemy could retaliate. It would require discipline and patience, two things the Free Folk were not known for. But with the right leadership, the right motivation…
A commotion outside drew his attention. Shouts and screams echoed through the courtyard. Jon rose, his hand instinctively going to Longclaw at his hip. He strode to the door and flung it open, the cold air hitting him like a slap in the face.
In the courtyard, a giant was rampaging. Wun Wun, enraged and out of control, had Ser Patrek of King's Mountain in his grip. The knight's head was a red ruin, crushed like an eggshell. Jon rushed forward, his black cloak billowing behind him. "Wun Wun!" he shouted. "Put him down!" The giant turned, his small eyes fixing on Jon. For a moment, it seemed he might comply. But then, from the corner of his eye, Jon saw movement.
Bowen Marsh, the Lord Steward, was running towards him, a dagger in his hand. His face was twisted in anguish, tears streaming down his cheeks. "For the Watch!" he cried. The blade sank into Jon's belly. He gasped, more in shock than pain. He looked down, saw the blood already staining his tunic.
Then Wick Whittlestick was there, slashing at his throat. Jon felt the cold bite of steel, felt the warm rush of blood. More blades, more pain. Jon fell to his knees. The cold was everywhere now, seeping into his bones. His vision was darkening at the edges.
As he fell forward, his cheek pressing against the snow, the world shifting to a red hue, a single word escaped his lips. "Ghost..."
And then, only darkness.
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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.