3.Ours is the Old Way

Elsewhere

She stirred.

Time felt meaningless here, yet she tried to keep track. Long ago, but not too long ago, the Doom had loosened her shackles, allowing her to break free from her prison even faster. Even Brandon’s Wall couldn’t block the terrible ripples that rumbled from the Lands of Always Summer.

Even now, even here, it still echoed and pulsed angrily.

And for the first time since then, something else had happened. Far weaker and closer than the Doom, yet it represented change. The Wall blocked it again, but the Builder’s barrier was not what it once was, and she still felt it.

Something had changed; she could smell it in the air, she could feel it in the magic, she could sense it in ice.

Her name… she had one long ago, yet it lay forgotten in the river of time. It mattered little after everything was taken from her.

They would pay, all of them!

To her left, a rune-covered stone cracked open with a loud screech, and a cold, crackling laugh escaped her lips.

Two more, only two more!

She would bid her time and wait until the moment arrived. The foolish Earth Singers were no longer impeding her, and soon, the cunning raven would follow in their wake.

Soon, soon…

1st Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

Jon Snow

“Bloody fucking hell!”

The spiky drakeling threw him a sour glare from the nearby cot after being woken up by the loud cursing. He had taken another guest quarters in the King’s Tower, just a floor below his old room where Sansa resided.

After hours of trying every branch of magic he knew, Jon was left with a very unsatisfactory conclusion. First, he no longer had the veritable sea of power from his original body. Three hundred years of effort… gone. It was expected, but no less disappointing. Second, spells simply didn’t work outside of his body. As far as his senses could tell, the ambient magic of the world was incredibly volatile, and as soon as a spell construct appeared in the air, it would crumble. There seemed to be something more to it than fading, but the feeling was fleeting at best.

Calling the Deathly Hallows didn’t yield any results either. He felt a distant echo, but the connection itself was gone.

At least he could cast the less complex spells directly on himself, but only the simplest self-transfiguration was possible with great difficulty. It had always been the most demanding branch of magic, more so without a focus. It did not help that his magic was weak, like an atrophied muscle that had never been used.

Even his joy and pride, the magical animagus form he toiled for over half a century to acquire, were gone. Worse, it did not seem like he could replicate the process here without potion ingredients that probably did not exist. He could experiment, but such endeavours were slower and far riskier than Jon would be willing to undertake right now.

Fire magic worked too well in comparison to everything else. But it would take months of practice before he could build up reserves and control to do anything remotely useful in combat. Jon had summoned a mundane flame the size of a candle and felt winded after holding it for less than a minute. Conjuring a more powerful magical fire exhausted him in a handful of seconds.

Blood magic worked without any problems. Runic enchantments worked fine… and Harry Potter was reasonably skilled at them, but not as good as he was at wanded magic.

He shortly contemplated Potions, but to his knowledge, the necessary tools and the vast majority of magical ingredients simply did not exist here. Any potion mainly made from mundane materials was generally weak or trivial. Harry was also not very good at brewing potions and had no idea how to develop and research new ones.

Who knew that relying on Potion masters would come back to bite him in the arse?

A wand would have been mighty helpful, but wandlore was not a study he ever ventured into. Why would he? The Death Stick was the pinnacle of that craft, and anything mortal hands made would scarcely compare.

Alas, his complacency was not paying off.

Jon was now free of the Night’s Watch vows, but he was screwed, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. His biggest strength, combat magic, was now useless. In his previous life, too many had tried to kill him and failed—wizards, Muggles, and dark fiends alike. As much as he disliked Voldemort, he admitted the Dark Lord was correct long ago.

Magic was might.

And Jon Snow didn’t feel all that mighty at all right now.

The feeling of weakness grated upon his very soul.

He was used to being in complete control of his destiny. Yes, he had made many mistakes, but they were his, and he had learned from them. But nobody could push him around or ignore him. Harry had only grown in power further after vanquishing his first Dark Lord. After Voldemort, no foe managed to stand in his way; he had faced them out in the open, emerging victorious. At this moment, however, Jon had many foes and no way to lay complete waste to them… for now.

To the north, there was an eldritch ice elemental necromancer with far too many inferi, or wights as they were called here.

Nobody even knew what lay beyond the vast sea expanse to the west—perhaps another continent or simply the eastern parts of Essos. And to the east were the Free Cities, which, from what he had heard about Daenerys’s deeds, would hate dragons with a burning passion. There, he’d either be butchered or manipulated.

To the south, there were the Boltons and the Lannisters, who would see him killed just on principle because of his bloodline. His sweet and kind sister had been repeatedly abused, beaten, and raped; her body turned into a gruesome map of scars and wounds. It was little wonder she would be driven to jump into a fiery death when the last of her hopes were shattered. Just thinking about it made his blood boil with rage.

There was nothing Jon could do now but remember. He would not forget, and all those dues would be repaid when the time came.

That did not change the facts: he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He’d make a plan, but plans were useless without knowledge of his enemies. Jon knew House Bolton held Winterfell, but not which Houses answered to them, nor how many men they could field. Hopefully, his sister would wake up soon and shed light on those queries.

He could not deal with the Night King, the white walkers, and the army of wights right now. There was no need for haste, as the Wall stood strong.

In a year or two, when his magic and his dragons grew, Jon could torch all the wights, but he wasn’t sure if he even had that much time. And if no conventional ways to deal with the horde of ice zombies came to his mind, the rest of the world stood no chance, except maybe Daenerys Targaryen and her three dragons. She, however, was on the other side of the world and would not agree to any aid without taking a pound of flesh. Worst, the size of her dragons was unreliable—one rumour said they were the size of a horse, and the next claimed them as big as a mountain.

Jon was done bending to the whims of others, and the thought of bending the knee was banished from his mind as quickly as it had appeared. Before, he would have been faced with choices he misliked, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Yet the newfound centuries of experience and magic, if limited, opened up a road of almost endless possibilities.

There was no good or evil, only power and those too weak to seek it.

Just like usual, Jon would have to do it himself if he wanted to end the Night King and his army of the dead.

It was not all doom and gloom. The risky ritual had paid off, and his body had transcended human limits. Even the queer feeling of distinct oddness had strengthened as if he were only a part-human. Regardless, Jon needed all the advantages he could grab; his body was brimming with strength, and he felt he could bend steel with his bare hands. It was not only a feeling—he had managed to fold thick iron bar with laughable ease earlier.

His physique had also undergone drastic changes; his body had grown slightly, and his muscles, bones, and organs had become denser. His centre of gravity had been shifted, and he would have to practise to adjust his fighting style. Over his long life, Harry had used the sword of Gryffindor a few times against foes resistant to magic. Jon Snow was also a skilled and gifted fighter, trained to wield arms since he could walk. The problem was that his body had now changed completely; his limbs felt awkward, and Longclaw felt far too light in his arm, with its reach feeling wrong.

Nothing that prodigious amount of practice could not fix.

Since magic did not look like it could soon help him solve his numerous troubles, Jon turned his attention to simpler things, which were no less useful for it.

Valyrian steel.

Unlike the goblin-wrought silver, the dark, rippled, spell-forged steel had not been charmed against divining the crafting method. After two painstaking hours of calculating and drawing runic matrices with his blood, Jon knew how the legendary metal was made.

Twenty-six parts special crucible steel of Valyrian make, one part dragonglass. Dragonglass was a queer thing here; it looked like obsidian, but it wasn’t quite the same. It also possessed strong elemental properties in this world for some reason. All that was melted by dragonflame and folded hundreds of times while living souls were sacrificed to imbue the blade with magical properties—sharpness, lightness, invulnerability.

It was a crude way of going about it magically, but Jon could not deny the results. Harry had tried to discover the creation process of goblin-wrought silver multiple times but to no avail; the tiny buggers guarded their knowledge jealously. That had been their best-protected secret, and when the goblins had all perished, the secret went with them to their graves.

While Harry had never really done any forging, Jon Snow had been helping Donal Noye in the smithy almost daily for moons. He had been an apprentice smith in all but name and had seen the basics. With the secret of dragonsteel laid bare before him, Jon could attempt to make some of his own.

Yet that could wait; first, he had to find where his limits lay.

Dropping to the ground, the bastard of Winterfell started doing one-handed push-ups with laughable ease. Even with one finger, there was barely any effort.

After another half an hour, he realised that none of the conventional exercises challenged him besides those that required a deeper sense of balance. Yet that meant that his usual growth method was limited. And while being stronger and faster was a sizeable advantage, it meant that his skill in swordplay would stagnate or even regress.

Unacceptable.

Jon Snow and Harry Potter alike prided themselves on their effort and dedication to warcraft and loathed the feeling of mediocrity.

Jon grabbed a pair of vambraces made out of boiled leather and carefully etched a runic cluster on both of them with a dagger. He cut his thumb deeply and carefully smeared both clusters with blood while pushing his magic inside.

A slight drain on his magic could be felt as his body became slightly heavier, and even the simplest movements were no longer effortless.

Runes were a versatile branch of magic, but they required patience, knowledge, creativity, power, and most importantly, the right materials, plenty of time, and a steady hand. There were multiple ways to achieve the desired effect, but it required a lot of experience and trial and error. Jon was about to head out when he suddenly froze.

Longing and bitterness gripped his mind.

Jon Snow had been assimilated into his mind and soul with Harry Potter, but his desires remained branded within his very soul.

He could find out who his mother was.

It was… doable with his blood as a catalyst; there was an old method he knew from his previous life. It only showed your parents, not your whole lineage, but it was enough. Jon quickly grabbed a parchment and started gently carving runes on the back with the tip of his dagger, trying not to pierce the other side.

Yet his hands shook with trepidation, and three rolls of parchments were ruined before he finally managed to get it right. Jon nicked his thumb with the knife again and squeezed seven drops of blood onto the parchment, causing reddish text to appear slowly.

His mind halted at the crimson letters before him. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again, but the words did not change.

“Bloody bugger me fucking sideways!” A stream of curses that would make even a seasoned sailor blush continued pouring out of his mouth.

Name: Jon Snow/Visenya Targaryen? (?)/?

Father: Rhaegar Targaryen (deceased)

Mother: Lyanna Stark (deceased)

?

The old goblin runes proved shoddy at best, but they did their main job well enough.

A desire to just go to a corner and brood appeared. But Jon ruthlessly squashed all the self-pity and shame. As Harry Potter, he had done plenty of that in his very long life, and he knew all too well that it only made things worse. He fastened Longclaw to his belt and headed out, looking for people to spar with.

Jon’s emotions were in disarray, and his mind was numb despite his Occlumency. He had to get full control of his body and skills if he wanted to survive. The fact that his blood was boiling and he just wanted to hit something was just a sweet bonus.

2nd Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

Tormund Giantsbane

Being on the other side of the Wall wasn’t bad. It was a tad less cold, but the sense of trepidation that the White Walkers would strike at night was finally gone. In truth, everything felt better and easier, even after so many deaths, especially since the most troublesome lot had been the one to die.

Yet, things had been very close to crumbling completely. Snow had been their only ally amongst the kneelers and the crows, and without him, Tormund had feared things would go to shite again, even with the hostages they had given. Even now, most of those who followed Mance were scattered across the haunted forest after refusing to take Snow’s offer and were probably hunted down like dogs by the Walkers.

Yet, that madman Jon Snow did not let flimsy things like death stop him; he just walked out of that funeral pyre unharmed and alive, eyes glowing purple instead of blue. And it was still him; Snow wasn’t trying to kill anyone mindlessly as wights would. Those flyin’ scaly beasts were mighty dangerous if the other kneelers could be believed. Sure, spitting fire seemed fancy, but it was hard to take something the size of a pup seriously, even if it could flap around with those leathery wings.

Now, most of his raiders and hunters camped outside of Castle Black, but he had two scores of men with him in an empty tower and wooden keep. If nothing else, the kneelers knew how to build warm, tall, and sturdy structures. Even these gloomy halls were not only larger but fancier, making his lauded Mead Hall feel like a hovel.

Maybe it was a hovel…

Soon enough, Ryk Longspear, wrapped in worn brown bear skin for a cloak, entered the room, and Tormund waved him over to sit at the table by the roaring hearth. He was carrying a fancy kneeler spear, taken from that fight against the mutiny two nights ago, with a smooth wooden handle and a wicked iron spearhead shaped like a leaf.

“How’s me daughter doin’?”

The short raider ran a hand through his shaggy hair and sighed.

“Munda’s missed her moonblood third time now,” he uttered, words heavy with worry. “Can’t hold food very well either.”

Munda was Tormund’s daughter, the one Ryk managed to steal despite all odds and later wed before a heart tree.

“Don’t worry overmuch,” he patted the man’s shoulder. “Whelpin’ babes is a woman’s battle.”

That didn’t reassure Ryk much, but it wasn’t meant to. Comforting lies were useless before the harsh truth of the cold world. It was only right if the shite had stolen his daughter—now he had to worry for her, har!

Having a brood was never a bad thing, but always risky. Tormund’s wife, Tala, had died while birthing Dryn, his youngest son. The boy was given as a hostage to the Watch to become a page or a squire for the Lord Commander, but Giantsbane wasn’t sure if Snow was still the chief crow anymore.

There were too many things he wasn’t sure of anymore.

He shook his head wearily and looked at the young raider.

“So, why are ye here? Any trouble?”

“Nay, Blind Doss ‘n his men moved a few miles westward over the hills.” Ryk smiled, showing off his straight white teeth. Ah, to be still young. “Some have made a home in those abandoned crow nests as agreed with Lord Snow, n’ the rest have spread ’round the lands too.”

This land, the Gift the crows called it, was not too vast, but neither were those who passed the Wall plentiful. Still, now that they were no longer united under a single man, the old feuds between chieftains and tribes slowly returned. Some were plodding and prodding, trying to see the limits of what they were allowed here and what Jon Snow would tolerate.

Yet, none were too daring after giving their sons as hostages.

“Good,” Tormund said. “I don’t think Lord Snow has any mercy left in him anymore.”

Giantsbane knew a few things about crows, and a few of them were saying Jon Snow’s vows had ended after he died. Yet he was alive again now.

Was he still a crow? Or maybe just a kneeler? Either way, Snow had a taste of freedom now, which would never leave him.

“Saw him in the yard outside jus’ now, play-fighting against some other crows.”

“Gods, he’s still at it?” Tormund rubbed his brow at Ryk’s nod. Yesterday, Jon Snow relentlessly practised from dawn till dusk, but even Giantsbane had seen that his form was off and his movements were awkward, as if he struggled to remember how to move.

Leaving Longspear behind with a horn of ale by the table, Giantbane curiously made his way out and looked around the castle’s yard near the gate; Lord Snow was still at it, mock-fighting with crows.

Yet, Tormund was far from the only one watching; the red witch and Val were also spectating the spars from afar. If only he were ten years younger, he’d try to steal both. Or even that tall woman who had come with Lord Snow’s sister. But alas, he was not so young and had three sprogs alive still, and his lust had cooled down with age. Not to mention, Toregg eyed Val oft, but it seemed that his eldest couldn’t find his balls to steal the spearwife. Feisty and fierce ones like that could only be tamed by those they liked—Val had been the one to do the stealing with her now dead boy-toy Jarl.

“Giantsbabe,” the spearwife greeted mockingly as he approached.

“Lookin’ to steal another boy toy?” Val said nothing to his jibe, but Tormund had eyes to see; she had been observing Lord Snow since they passed the Wall and openly after the pyre. “Methinks this one won’t be as easy, not anymore, har!”

There was something new to Jon Snow after he had died. He had always been solemn and guarded, but now, there was something cold and harsh and sharp in him. It reminded Tormund of a brutal, merciless blizzard amidst the cold darkness, worse than the chill that the White Walkers brought with them.

“I could steal him if I wanted to.” There was a pride in her voice. “But it seems to me dyin’ has made him forget how to wield his sword.”

Tormund glanced at the fighting form of Jon Snow; he got knocked down on his feet and meticulously stood up with a single smooth, well-practised motion, undaunted by his defeat and began the fight again. His movements weren’t as choppy and awkward as yesterday, though.

“Looks like he’s quickly remembering.” He shook his head. “For how long has he been fighting?”

“Since dawn. Only stops to eat enough to feed nearly a dozen men.”

Well, that was good. Dead men did not eat; Tormund knew that much. Having a fierce appetite meant Jon Snow was alive, and it seemed like coming back to life was hungry work. His endurance was most impressive, too. Most folk who fought for half a day could barely walk afterwards. Yet here, Snow was itching for more after a full day of blade swinging, all the while getting whacked by those blunted swords. And he did not look even the slightest bit tired!

For all her pride, Val didn’t know what to make of Lord Snow, Tormund guessed. No wonder she hesitated about stealing him—he was the chief of crows. And there was this air of danger around him, despite getting his arse kicked. His purple eyes glowed with smouldering fury, his glare warding away any errant attempts at chatter; even Dolorous Edd and the red witch were deterred by it.

Yet, Tormund felt that the spearwife’s indecision might cost her, not that it was any of his concern.

‘Well, maybe not getting his arse kicked,’ Tormund amended in his mind as Jon Snow rammed his shoulder into the other crow whilst disarming him, sending his opponent tumbling into the slush, and immediately challenged another.

Dangerous indeed.

Looking around the yard, most of the crows seemed tired and battered, lacking Lord Snow’s impressive vigour and thirst for battle. Pah, it appeared like kneeling too much had left their knees weak.

Tormund exhaled and stepped forth, feeling his blood sing with excitement.

“Where’re ye going?”

“This mock fightin’ looks mighty fun.” He didn’t bother to turn around or slow down. “Better than stayin’ cooped in the wooden houses!”

3rd Day of the 3d Moon, 303 AC

Jon Snow

It took three days of pushing himself against everyone who entered the practice yard, squeezing his body and magic to the limit, to completely calm down and think things over. Longclaw was a reliable sword that would never dull or break, but it felt too light in his hand, even with his runic restrictions. Thankfully, some practice swords were deliberately weighted. He had picked the heaviest one in the armoury and swung it with one hand.

If it weren’t for healing himself with magic, he’d probably be in bed for a week after the first day. However, his body had also proven odd. It healed unnaturally quickly on its own; otherwise, even with magic, he would have been forced to rest far more often. Not to mention the toughness of his skin, bones, and muscles, even heavy strikes did not feel too painful through the training jacket and ringmail.

His hunger was unnatural, as if his body constantly tried to compensate for a long lack of nutrition by eating enough food for dozens of men. It was hungry for magic, too, impeding his practice. Not only that, but Jon felt bizarre in this body, and there was an intricate difference he just couldn’t put his finger on, no matter how much he delved with his magic and senses. It mattered little as the feeling of oddness dwindled with each following day.

At first, he barely won any of the spars and suffered heavy bruising. The increased resistance also heavily taxed his joints and ligaments.

Jon was a prodigy with a sword in hand and practised relentlessly from a young age. Harry Potter was a master of fighting and killing. With barely two years of desperately dogged training, he could resist one of the most dangerous Dark Lords and even kill him by surprise when he had dropped his guard. After living for over three centuries and as the sole survivor and victor of a hundred-year-long total war, his instincts and skill in fighting were virtually unsurpassed.

Three days to get fully used to this new body was almost too long.

Yet while Jon was squeezing his body and meagre magic for everything they were worth, his mind wandered. He only knew the official story of how Rhaegar Targaryen had kidnapped Lyanna Stark.

The whole thing didn’t make any fucking sense.

Why had the crown prince, a married man with a wife and two children, spirited away a girl of four and ten? Especially one promised to his cousin. Even the dubious family name of Targaryen implied some sort of wedding rite, but not one fully recognised by magic, which could mean a thousand things. And why would someone try to name him Visenya, of all bloody things?

Jon had no way of knowing what had happened, and only one of the fighters in the Tower of Joy had survived. Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch was the only one who returned from Dorne alive with Eddard Stark, yet that wasn’t a guarantee that he was privy to any details.

In the end, working out his frustrations with a sword in hand had paid off; Jon’s body no longer felt as awkward. However, after three days of relentless sparring, the only person who didn’t avoid facing him in the yard was Tormund. Yet, the wildling chieftain started to lose vigour despite his impressive stamina, forcing Jon to return to conventional exercise.

He also noticed that he was still growing. Since his rebirth, Jon had shot up by half an inch to reach over six feet easily.

Despite his earlier fears, the intense training and enormous amount of meat he devoured paid off as his body grew stronger, faster, and even tougher. Even putting on muscle was done with laughable ease, something probably connected with the feeling of inhuman oddness.

Truth be told, Jon Snow was no longer fully human. He suspected he had magical creatures somewhere deep in his ancestry, and the ritual had awoken some of their powers. It was not a substitute for his loss of magic, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He was not the only one who grew; his drakelings did as well, far more rapidly than Jon thought possible. In three days, they had doubled in size. Unlike Ghost, the three hatchlings felt far more prickly and prideful in his mind, but they still obeyed him.

Or, well, mostly as his bonded drakeling simply refused to leave him and followed him wherever he went, never letting him out of sight for a moment.

Judging from what Jon had seen beyond the Wall and the words of Varamyr Sixskins about his talent, this looked like a very powerful form of skinchanging, further enhanced by his magic and mastery of his mind. Yet it seemed rather limited in use, slipping into the minds of his dragons or Ghost temporarily seemed to merge their minds and senses while leaving his body vulnerable.

In theory, a master Occlumens could split his mind into two or even three or more. It was a skill he mastered long ago.

In practice, however, Jon got a headache when trying to control his familiars and his body simultaneously. Skinchanging was far more… costly than it seemed; using it pulled upon the body’s vitality if the magic proved insufficient. Lesser men would waste away the more they delved into it, but for him, it was not a problem.

During the three days, he finally settled on names for his new companions. His familiar, the largest hatchling with sapphire scales and a black crest, horns, and spikes, he called Winter. The crimson and gold drakeling was named Bloodfyre, and the purple and bronze one—Stormstrider.

Jon had just finished training atop the Wall and was returning to his quarters when Edd waylaid him, quite insistently this time.

“Jon, what do we do with the traitors?”

He froze in his step. That thought had not even crossed his mind; Jon had assumed that all who mutinied were already dealt with. Falsely, it seemed. He shook his head; he had lived too long to make such dangerous assumptions.

It was time to stop avoiding others and get his affairs into order.

“Where exactly are they right now?” His voice must have been quite frosty because Edd subconsciously stepped back.

His magic was thrumming dangerously, instinctively melding with his emotions. The bloodlust of one who had fought and lived for long could take almost a physical form when combined with magic. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Ah, the joys of being young again….

“Er, they’re in the ice cells,” Edd offered shakily. “We were going to hang them after your funeral, but…”

But in the Night’s Watch, justice was under the purview of the Lord Commander.

Ours is the Old Way. The man who passes the sentence must swing the sword.

Eddard Stark’s bittersweet voice echoed through his head. While Jon had mixed feelings about his uncle, he recognised the wisdom of the ancient custom of the First Men.

“Bring them out in the yard and fetch me a block.”

A few minutes later, a crowd had gathered in Castle Black’s courtyard. Everyone made way for him, and Jon could feel reverence and awe in their eyes, watchmen and wildlings alike.

Tormund saw him and headed towards Jon, a wide but tired smile plastered on his face. “Finally tired of fightin’?”

“Indeed.” Jon nodded.

“When I was your age, I could fuck n’ fight without rest for a moon, har!”

Jon chuckled at the brazen boast. “A pity you got old, then.”

Giantsbane’s face turned genuinely morose for a moment before becoming faux serious.

“They think you’re some kind of god. The man who walked out of a burning fire with dragons instead of staying dead and turning to ash as normal people do!” Tormund’s bellow thundered across the yard.

He stopped for a moment and thoughtfully added, “And then, after you come back from the fire, you start fighting like a demon.” The chieftain leaned in close and whispered conspiringly, “And I saw your pecker while you were dead. When you got out of the fire, it had gotten bigger! Are you sure you aren’t some sort of god?!”

The old wilding could have easily become a comedian in another life, making Jon shake his head with amusement.

“I’m still a man.” Mostly. “If all it took for someone to be a god were a large pecker, we’d have more gods than we knew what to do with.”

They both burst out laughing and embraced tightly. People called the free folk wild and savage, but like everyone else, it was a mix of good and bad. Tormund was as wild as it got, but he was honest, jovial, straightforward, and, most importantly, loyal. You couldn’t find a finer companion than him, even if you tried, despite his penchant for boasting and jests.

“Can you ask the chieftains if they will fight for me? Something, or someone, forced my sweet sister, the precious daughter of the North, to escape like a homeless dog all the way to her bastard brother at the Wall.” His hand clenched into a fist. “Such a favour shall not remain unrepaid.”

“I will ask for you, Lord Crow. But I don’t think you’ll have problems getting our people following you.” Tormund patted his shoulder, face completely earnest. “You fought and died for us, and that matters to the people o’ the true north. Especially after you walked out o’ that fire. If you call, they will follow. It would be best, however, to speak with them yourself.”

Jon nodded gratefully, and Tormund trudged away to stand by his son, Toregg.

Soon, the traitors were brought forth. Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwick, Alliser Thorne, and Olly got dragged into the courtyard in chains by Edd and five more black brothers. Beheading them one by one would be way too mundane and tedious.

“Bring me three more blocks,” he commanded, then turned to face the traitors. “Any last words?”

“You shouldn’t be alive, it’s not right!”

Jon snorted at Marsh’s trembling form and moved to the next man.

“My mother is still living at White Harbour. Could you write to her? Tell her I died fighting the wildlings.”

As if he’d waste expensive parchment on a traitor, especially when his mother probably couldn’t even read. His face remained a frozen mask as he moved on to Alliser Thorne.

“I had a choice, Lord Commander. Betray you, or betray everything the Night’s Watch has stood for. You brought an army of wildlings into our lands. An army of rapers, murderers, and raiders. The Watch takes no part, and yet you aided the stag king. With the accursed Baratheon dead, the Bolton Bastard would be upon us in no time.”

Jon was just about to retort when a soft screech and furious flapping of wings were heard. Winter landed on his shoulder and looked at the bound knight carefully. Thorne’s face froze in fear for a moment before turning to fury.

“Not only a bastard but a thief?” The vitriol was heavy in the bound knight’s voice. “With that dragon, you’ll never know peace!”

Jon looked at the face of the bitter old man, who had decided to try and verbally spite him one last time before kicking the bucket. While Jon Snow had some softness left inside, Harry had long ago snuffed such useless motions, especially for his foes.

“Peace? My foes might be many, but they are not endless. But you? You’ll see no rest either.” Jon grinned savagely before turning to the watchmen holding the old knight down. “Put him to the side for now. And bring me a noose.”

Thorne, realisation dawning on his face, tried to struggle, but the black brothers held him down well while Jon turned to Olly. He was expecting some last words, but the kid stared at him unwaveringly. His entire family had been slaughtered by the wildlings, and he had nowhere to go but the Watch. The boy hated them with a burning passion, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise when Olly chose to betray him. Soon, three more wooden stumps were brought in a line, and Marsh, Yarwick, and Olly were forced down on them.

Jon unsheathed Longclaw. It felt like a feather in his fist.

He took a deep breath and cleared his mind as the dark, rippled blade arose, pointing at the tumultuous skies. One mighty swing later, three heads rolled onto the ground, colouring the muddy slush below crimson. The bodies continued twitching imperceptibly for a few more heartbeats. Jon Snow had beheaded Janos Slynt, but that was just a memory, and this was the first time he had executed people himself. And it felt way heavier than taking a life in battle or ambush, far more taxing than killing a foe in the heat of battle.

Jon realised his whole body was tense and panting like a horse after a race.

Centring himself, he handed Longclaw to Satin for cleaning and then turned to Edd Tollet and ordered, “Burn the bodies.”

“Aye, Lord Commander.” The Valeman dutifully signalled to a few watchmen to carry off the headless corpses.

Jon faced Alliser Thorne.

“You’ll get the gallows like a common brigand. Then your body will be tied on the other side of the Wall, and if the gods will it, you’ll not know peace in death.” Jon grabbed the last traitor by the scruff and effortlessly dragged him to the gallows. The old knight, struggling in his grasp, tried kicking, screaming, and cursing, but to no avail.

Jon’s mind was made up, and his grip was iron-tight.

He tightened the noose on Thorne’s neck, threw the other end of the rope over the wooden crossbeam, grabbed it, and pulled slowly to ensure the man’s neck didn’t snap like a dry twig. After all the needless trouble and betrayal the old knight had put Jon through, he did not deserve the mercy of a quick death.

Alliser continued twitching morbidly while he was slowly asphyxiated. The free folk and some watchmen observed with fear and respect, but a few looked… queasy. A minute or two later, Thorne had gone limp, and Jon dropped the rope, letting the body collapse like a sack of wheat onto the wooden platform.

“Hang his corpse over the Wall tightly and have it watched in case it starts moving.”

With a mental nudge, Winter flew off him. Jon took off his cloak and unceremoniously handed it over to Dolorous Edd.

“What do you want me to do with this?” Edd’s bored face twisted in surprise.

“Wear it. Burn it. Whatever you want. My watch is ended. Castle Black is yours.”

Jon walked back towards his quarters, under the gaze of the rest of the black brothers, leaving Edd stunned with the Lord Commander’s cloak in his arms.

Just as he was about to enter his quarters, Satin approached him hurriedly.

“Lord Comm—Snow,” his former steward amended when Jon gave him a sharp look. “They sent me to tell you that your sister is awake.”

“Just Jon. I’m not a lord of anything now.” He nodded gratefully at his former steward and rushed towards the Lord Commander’s Solar, followed by the flapping wings of Winter.