5.Conversations

Jon Snow

He looked at the piece of metal in his hand with a grimace.

It looked like a sword, but that was about it. The blade was slightly twisted, the edge uneven, and he had a feeling that it would most probably break after a dozen hard blows. At least he stopped getting cracks after quenching his work, if it could even be called that.

It was not even an issue of craftsmanship but magic. Weaving magic into things often had unpredictable results. Iron and steel were particularly inert to magic, and even runes gave him poor results, even when using already forged swords. Runes on steel were simply too inefficient in gathering ambient magic.

The Valyrians had woven each enchantment directly into the steel, using the souls and lifeblood of slaves as fuel. Simply said, the Freehold had forged metals by using living sacrifices and magical fire.

Jon could not afford either. Neither did he possess the skills of a grandmaster smith to smooth the process.

After his sister had fallen asleep, Jon had headed towards the armoury to try his hand at forging. In hindsight, it was pretty obvious that, just like everything else, smithing took a lot of skill, time, and effort to master. Far more than he thought it did. And while watching and helping Donal Noye with forging had been an enlightening experience, it had by no means made Jon an apprentice. He had some basic knowledge of metallurgy and knew he couldn’t produce a flame hot enough to make proper steel with simple firewood, and the coal in Castle Black was few and precious. There was no charcoal kiln in Castle Black either. Alas, the young drakes could barely roast flesh properly right now, and it would take much time before their flame grew hot enough to be of use for smithing.

What Jon could do was slowly practice, spending a few hours every day to improve his meagre smithing skills. With enough time and effort, he’d eventually have enough experience and magic to forge a spellblade and armour that would fit him properly.

The newly forged sword was tested on a makeshift wooden dummy—surely enough, it broke on the eighth strike. He tossed the remains of his latest failure near the crucible to be remelted and reused.

Shaking his head, he abandoned his attempts at smithing for the day. It was time for his daily magic practice. This body was two years past seventeen, but magic still surged and grew, as if he were a wizard in his early adolescence—a result of the ritual, no doubt.

Three small flames were conjured and slowly forced into the shape of a dragon. Before long, the fiery dragons began soaring through the smithy in tandem, spinning and dancing in the air. It barely lasted two minutes before Jon was forced to disperse them or risk magical exhaustion. His clothes were soaked with sweat, and he was gasping as if he had run a marathon.

Magic was not dissimilar to a muscle. You had to work and put significant pressure on it to grow, but if you pushed it too far, you would damage yourself; exhaustion was akin to a torn muscle. Casting without a wand took a far greater toll on the mind and magic. You had to exert stronger intent and control while wasting plenty of magic for a weaker spell to compensate for the lack of focus.

Worse, almost all the spells Jon knew were intended for wand use, and the volatile ambient magic made everything far harder in this world.

But getting a focus was a pipe dream for now, especially considering that he had no magical ingredients or access to suitable materials. Harry hadn’t delved very deep into wand-making or crafting any other type of foci, which meant that he had a lot of experimenting to do, even with the correct materials, to get anything usable. After all, why would he? The Elder Wand was without equal and had served him more than well without breaking.

It was not a hurdle in itself—all magic could be cast wandlessly, if your intent, will, and mind were sharp enough. It was merely a matter of time.

The list of Jon’s daily tasks had grown further.

A bucket of icy water later, the grime and sweat were washed away. The cold did not bother him; instead, it felt pleasant.

If only he had a recipe for forging, just like potions.

Jon was about to head towards his quarters and sleep, but halted mid-stride. Castle Black had one of the oldest libraries in Westeros, having tomes that even the Citadel lacked, and there was a tome or two on the subject. There had to be.

Changing his way, Jon headed towards the underground vaults, where the larders and the library were situated.

5th Day of the 3rd Moon, 303 AC

Sansa

She felt paralysed with terror as the knife carved through her flesh. An ugly face adorned by wormy lips and a cruel, lecherous smile woke her screaming in horror, almost unable to breathe.

It took her a few moments to remember that she had escaped her tormentor, for her throat to ease. Sansa took deep, measured breaths and slowly managed to calm her erratic heart, but she now felt the chilly sting of the air upon her face. The two hatchlings, nestled at her feet, peered at her with concern. Sansa pulled her covers up again and attempted to fall asleep, but try as she might, every time she closed her eyes, the thrice-cursed face of Ramsay Snow appeared in her mind and chilled her blood.

After what felt like an eternity, Sansa only felt colder and more afraid. Remembering Jon’s offer, she stood up decisively, donned her gown, grabbed a heavy fur cloak near her bed, and headed towards his room.

It was a terrible idea, but she knew she could trust him.

The hallway was thankfully empty. Sansa headed towards the only other chamber on this floor and softly knocked. Hearing no response, she weighed her options and pushed the door open. As soon as she entered, a sword was pointed at her neck, stopping her dead in her tracks.

“Sorry, Sansa. I’m still a bit twitchy. The last time I was surprised during the night, I got stabbed a few times in the chest.” Jon’s words were unapologetic, but his uncaring tone only chilled her further. Her brother returned to the bed and placed the sword on the nearby wall, within arm’s reach, before inspecting her with his heavy gaze. “Is something wrong?”

“I couldn’t fall asleep… You said I could come to your room if I had any problems. I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“I can barely sleep from my nightmares sometimes. Care for a talk?”

Sansa shook her head.

“This was a bad idea. I should leave,” she mumbled to herself and turned away to go back.

When she was only three or four name days, every time she had a nightmare, Sansa would sneak into Jon’s or Robb’s bed, and bad dreams would go away. But she grew up and stopped, knowing that it wasn’t proper anymore, and Jon was to be avoided because bastards were untrustworthy creatures of lust and sin. A good lady had to listen to her lady mother, and she had to listen to her septa. But now, both her mother and the septa were dead, and Sansa was ugly, scarred, broken, and used, and Jon had seen it all.

No man would ever want her anymore, not even her brother. Ramsay had made sure of that.

Sansa wanted to run away and hide. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed back to her room. She returned to her bed, sat down shakily, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Too tired to do anything else, yet she was also too afraid to lie down and sleep.

Just the memory of Ramsay had made her shake in fright, and the chill air in the room had become cutting. She started trembling again. Her whole body felt cold and heavy. Her limbs’ strength was gone as soon as she closed her eyes. The fire in the hearth had died out long ago, and Sansa tried to stand up, but her body did not listen. She cursed the feeling of shame; she should have just slipped into Jon’s warm bed, just like when she was a little girl.

Her world started spinning. A worried voice called out her name as the ground was nearing, and blackness took her.

Sansa felt surprisingly rested. The nightmares hadn’t returned, and the soft crackling of the hearth was like a balm upon her frayed nerves. She was still wearing her gown and felt enveloped by a warm cocoon. The panic suddenly set in again, and just as she tried to move, she heard her brother’s soft voice.

“Stay still. The dragons are beneath the covers, keeping you warm.” She carefully craned her neck to see Jon lounging on a chair near her bed. “Did you think I’d turn my sister away? Finding you fainting from exhaustion and trembling from shock had me terrified. There’s no shame in your scars, for they show you survived. I have more than a few myself.”

Jon’s soft yet firm voice was oddly calming.

“Thank you,” Sansa croaked out.

She had missed this feeling of warmth, safety, and family so badly, and now it was back. It took all of her willpower not to burst into tears.

“When the snow falls, and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. It’s just the two of us now. We’ll make every single person who wronged House Stark pay. Together.” His voice became murderous, and his eyes darkened.

“Together,” Sansa echoed, his conviction infectious. Their enemies might be numerous and powerful, while she and Jon were at the Wall, alone, and all that was left of their House. But she believed him.

“Your wounds have mostly healed, but your body needs more rest to recover, so don’t leave the bed too often. I’ll get someone to fetch us food to break our fast. After that, we can speak with Ser Davos to see what he knows and whether he is trustworthy. He was an advisor to Stannis; having him on our side would be useful.”

Jon swiftly left the room. Sansa gingerly lifted her covers, and the two drakelings quickly crawled out, stretching and yawning like scaly kittens; Winter wasn’t there, although it might have been better with his spiky frame. She shivered when the warmth of the hatchlings was replaced with the cold northern air.

Reuniting with her brother was everything Sansa had wanted and more. For the first time since she saw her so cruelly beheaded, Sansa felt safe. Yet, deep down, the worry that she and Jon would also meet a tragic end, like the rest of their family, persisted.

But just as her thoughts started going to dark places, an indignant shriek woke her from her stupor. The two hatchlings had climbed atop her covers and gazed at her with two pairs of gem-like eyes.

A self-deprecating chuckle escaped her; Jon was a capable commander and now had dragons. Sansa had no idea how fast the drakelings grew, but their enemies’ days were numbered as long as they survived long enough. She could understand her brother’s unwavering resolve a little better now.

The door opened, interrupting her musings.

Jon, trailed by a crawling Winter, entered with a bowl in one hand and a big wooden tray filled with meat in the other. Some of the meat was raw, but most was roasted.

“Time for breakfast.”

The hatchlings hopped off the bed, joined their sibling and surrounded Jon’s legs like three scaly ducklings. Jon threw them the pieces of raw meat, and she watched in fascination as they roasted each one with a belch of fire before devouring them hungrily.

After they finished, the drakelings lazily curled near the fireplace in a tangle of scales and leather, and Sansa sat up. Jon handed her the bowl and attacked the pile of roasted meat that could feed several grown men.

He must have caught on to her amazement because he stopped and explained, “I grew a few inches after… walking out of the fire, and, well, my appetite grew along with my height. You should eat yourself.”

A few pieces of dark meat swam between onions, carrots, and peas, making her mouth water at the scent. She grabbed her wooden spoon and ate a few mouthfuls before remembering.

“Jon, what happened to Ghost?” She had not seen the silent direwolf since the funeral.

“He’s out hunting. Will probably be back within a day or two,” Jon said before tearing into another piece of meat. “Worry not about Ghost; with his silent steps and white fur, he’s unmatched in the snowy wilderness.”

A comfortable silence settled as they made short work of their food.

Just as they finished eating, somebody knocked on the door. Jon stood up and ushered Ser Davos into the room. Her brother sat beside her on the bed, presenting a united front.

“Ser Davos, with Stannis defeated, what do you intend to do now?”

Her brother was far too direct. But perhaps that was not necessarily a weakness.

“Lord Comm… Snow, I’d like to follow you if you’d allow me.”

Sansa almost gaped in surprise, and she was not easily surprised anymore. Of all the things she expected when meeting with the Onion Knight, this was not it. He seemed amicable, but as a former Hand of a stern king like Stannis, she expected someone more…arrogant or prickly.

“Please call me Jon, for I’m not a lord of anything,” her brother responded, voice cool. “And why would you want to follow me, Ser Davos? I’m just a bastard. A nobody from a vanquished House with many a kingdom’s worth of enemies. Why not go back to your lands and live out the rest of your life peacefully?”

Sansa noticed Jon’s tone didn’t waver at the mention of his bastardy, compared to his being prickly and sulky about it as a child.

Ser Davos thoughtfully twisted his greying whiskers for half a minute.

“I followed Stannis because he was a just and fair man.” The old knight pulled the leather glove off his left hand, showing the fingers missing from the first joint. “The good deed does not wash out the bad, he told me when he took my fingers for smuggling.”

A forlorn smile found its way to the old smuggler’s face as he continued, “Then, I was knighted and landed for a shipful of salted fish and onions. I served him because he was worthy and just. But now Stannis is dead, I’d be better off not returning home. Tommen and his regent might forgive my remaining sons and wife after they bend the knee, but not someone who had been a Hand to a rebel king like me.”

Indeed, Cersei would have the Onion Knight’s head on a spike as soon as he showed his face near King’s Landing, so the old knight was right not to return. The Dowager Queen was a vengeful woman with little mercy for those who opposed her.

“Why follow my brother, then?” Sansa asked.

“I want to see!” Davos straightened up and gazed at Jon almost fervently. “I want to see where Jon Snow will lead me. I wish to follow the man who declined legitimisation. The man who resisted the temptation of the Lordship of Winterfell and the marriage to the wildling princess Val, because he felt he was needed by the Watch, even though half of them wanted him dead.”

“Jon,” she muttered numbly before sucking in a sharp, deep breath and eyeing her brother. Jon merely shrugged nonchalantly.

But the old knight’s following words only raised more questions.

“I know better than anyone that the world is a cruel, savage place rife with men full of hate, pride, greed, cowardice, and lust.” The glint in Davos’s eyes grew frantic. “Yet Jon Snow stood above such vices and temptations. At Hardhome, he not only braved a foe of legend but slew one where lesser men would have died or run away in his stead. He entered his funeral pyre dead and walked out alive and unburned, along with three hatched dragons.”

“It’s not as great as it sounds,” Jon murmured from the side.

“The gods have smiled upon him!” Davos continued, as if he had not heard her brother. “Lady Stark, your brother keeps quiet, but his deeds speak for him. Who would not wish to follow a man like this? It would be an honour if my tired old bones could prove useful once more before meeting the Stranger! Only, I have one selfish wish,” his voice became wistful.

Gods, who would have thought that a man who smuggled onions and salted fish would be so passionate and eloquent? Yet, Jon’s face was impassive, like a mask carved from ice, reminding Sansa of her… father.

“And what is that wish?”

“Only to find out what happened to Princess Shireen and my son, Devan. Both were with Stannis on his march to Winterfell.”

“Did you ask the Red Priestess?” Her brother tilted his head. “Did she not accompany your liege?”

“I did.” Davos’s face darkened. “No matter what or how I asked, she and her zealots won’t tell me a thing. That woman… she’s not right, nor are the fools that follow her. Madness, her god and their obsession with burning people alive. Ever since she started whispering in the king’s ear, he started changing little by little for the worse. And some of the other things I’ve seen her do… I only remember in some of my worst nightmares.”

The old knight looked shaken then, as the words had been a heavy burden, and Sansa felt nervous. Were the rumours about the Red Woman true?

“Why don’t you call her here?” Jon suggested. “I don’t like her or her Red God, but she wanted an audience with me. Perhaps together we can get some answers.”

The Onion Knight nodded stiffly and left to find the Red Priestess.

Jon

Jon watched in amusement as Sansa started to fidget when Davos left. She tried to put on a mask of calmness, but her curiosity couldn’t truly be veiled.

In half a minute, Sansa finally couldn’t hold in any longer. “Jon, Winterfell and a Princess? And you declined?!”

He absentmindedly ran his hand through his hair. It felt odd to have soft curls instead of a tangled mess, no matter how familiar they felt between his fingers.

“Aye, but not for the reasons you think. I was indeed very tempted. To be Lord of Winterfell, a Stark. And I did desire Val too, as a man must be either blind, a eunuch, or a sword swallower not to want her, but she was never a princess. My deepest and darkest desires could be granted with just one word.”

“Why? Why didn’t you agree?”

“The offer was but a poisoned gift. Val herself already had a man, and while I might be a bastard, I am most definitely not a raper.” Jon gave her a wry smile. “And if I did become the Lord of Winterfell, I’d have to let that fire-crazed priestess burn the Heart Tree as an offering to her vile god, just like Stannis did to the Godswood in Storm’s End. I follow the Old Gods, and such blasphemy is beyond me.”

He patted her elbow. “And Winterfell belongs to you, the trueborn daughter of Eddard Stark. I declined; I thought I’d rather get killed in the Watch than do any of that. They did end up killing me, but only after electing me Lord Commander first.”

Sansa huffed at the jest but continued relentlessly. “And what’s that about Hardhome?”

“It’s a fantastic tale. I wouldn’t have believed it if I didn’t see it for myself,” Jon deflected.

It wasn’t necessary to burden his sister with this particular knowledge. He remembered Sansa’s trembling body nearly crumpling on the floor the previous night. She looked so small and fragile as if the slightest gust of wind would shatter her into a million pieces.

Jon should have recognised all the symptoms when she came into his room: guilt, shame, and nightmares—all things he had gone through before, if for different reasons. The last thing she needed was another woe, let alone something as burdensome as the icy necromancers of legend.

Yet there was a stubborn slant to Sansa’s posture as she faced him and stated, “I’d rather know now than be surprised later. I will believe you, whatever it is. You’ve never been one to lie.”

Jon looked at his sister appraisingly, but she did not waver. He sighed; even at six and ten, Sansa was no longer a child. Considering the scars and wounds on her body, it shouldn’t have been such a surprise. Men and women both grew up too quickly in this world.

It was a sad thing to witness with his own eyes, especially when it happened to someone he knew.

“Very well,” Jon allowed. “Terrible things of legend now walk the Lands Beyond the Wall once more. These stories that Old Nan used to tell us? Turned out to be far too real for my taste. The Night King and his white walkers, everything they kill, they raise from the dead to fight on their side. For the last couple of years, they have slowly hunted down many a beast and man north of the Wall, only to add them to their growing army.”

Sansa was looking at him with wide eyes, frozen in fear.

Shaking his head, Jon continued, “I only managed to save less than ten thousand Free Folk from Hardhome. The dead they raise, we call wights. Normal weapons don’t harm them, but they are vulnerable to obsidian, fire and Valyrian steel. I could speak on and on about the dangers they pose and the like, but I don’t see a need to bother you with the details. Do you believe me?”

Her hand sought out his, as if to confirm that he was real. Then, she latched onto it like a drowning man would latch onto a straw.

“Gods, I do. I believe you.” Sansa took a deep, shaky breath. Her face had turned as white as chalk. “As much as I’d like this to be some fairy tale, it would explain why you let the wildlings pass the Wall. You walked alive out of your funeral pyre with three dragons and me, so why not the Others? I truly wish it was some sort of jape, but… what can we even do against such a foe?”

“The Wall will hold them for now,” he reassured. Things weren’t as bad as she had imagined. “Dragons do breathe fire, you know. And my hatchlings? They have already doubled in size in three days. They’ll be big enough to torch wights by the thousands in a year. The North is vast, and surely there’s some obsidian in some corner. The First Men defeated them before, without dragons or the Wall. We, their descendants, can do it again.”

A sigh tore from her lips, but her expression grew thoughtful, and she idly tugged on a lock of blood-red hair. “Wasn’t the Night King a man of the Night’s Watch during the Age of Heroes?”

“He was,” Jon nodded. “The thirteenth Lord Commander and his consort, the Corpse Queen, a woman equally terrible and beautiful. Only whispers and no records remain of that bygone era. As the legend tells it, he was spurred by his pale-skinned wife, he sacrificed people to the Others, and it took an alliance between Brandon the Breaker and Joramun to defeat them.”

“And what happened with the Corpse Queen?” Sansa couldn’t help but ask. “Was she part of the Others?”

“Probably killed along with her husband, but the legends do not say, but I doubt it’s too important.”

His sister gave him that wary look. “I’m not sure I understand what this has to do with…”

“Well, only old, old tales remain from the Long Night and the Others. One of the black brothers used the term ‘Night King’ to refer to the leader of the White Walkers, and it stuck. He’s sinister, tyrannical, wears a crown, and it felt right.”

Whatever reply Sansa wanted to give was halted by the coming echo of footsteps, and Melisandre of Asshai and Ser Davos entered the room.

Jon had avoided the red priestess, partly because of the whispers of her deeds, partly because of his mistrust, and most of all because he would rather not deal with her. Now that Melisandre was close, he could feel her magic; it was bloody, dark, and twisted, if subtle. Most of it was focused on her ruby choker; the bloody gem sang to his senses, if in an eerie way.

Ignoring everything, the Essosi woman came in front of Jon and kneeled.

“After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?” Her voice was melodic, and he sensed it was imbued with a tinge of magic, making people more susceptible to her words.

Jon squinted, displeased. “I do not see how it concerns you, Melisandre of Asshai.” As if he would confess that he was a soul from another world. His death and betrayal could easily explain away any of his changes in character and behaviour. “But if you want to know that badly, I saw nothing.”

“The Lord of the Light let you come back for a reason. Stannis was not the prince that was promised. He was not the one true king. I asked the Lord of the Light to show me, and all I saw was… Snow.” The reverence in her eerie red eyes was unmistakable.

“The Lord of the Light?” Jon scoffed. “This was not his doing, priestess. And do not think you can enchant me like you did with Stannis. Kings are made by blood and steel, by courage and wit, not some words long forgotten.”

“That is true,” Melisandre conceded. “But R’hllor’s grace is only bestowed on the worthy.”

Jon gave up on arguing with the madwoman. The zealous priestess would claim that rebirth by fire was the domain of her cruel deity. He had more than enough experience dealing with zealots. Doubtlessly, she had said the same to Stannis, and Jon wanted to dismiss her but couldn’t.

Once you were touched by the threads of fate, there was no escape, and he distinctly felt them in the funeral pyre. Even if faint, he could still feel them around him. Jon could also grudgingly admit that she had been correct about the knives in the dark. Her ability to peer into the future was the real deal, regardless of his dislike for the woman.

“And what exactly is this promised prince? Tell me everything.”

Melisandre rose reverently. “Long ago in the Far East, before the fires of the Freehold rose, it was prophesied. Azor Ahai will be reborn amidst smoke and salt when the stars bleed, and the darkness gathers. The child of ice and fire will wake dragons from stone, and with Lightbringer in hand, he will vanquish the Great Other in the battle for the Dawn.”

“Who is this Great Other? And how do you know that I’m this promised prince?” Jon wanted to add that he was just a bastard but knew better. Even as a baseborn, his parents somewhat represented ice and fire. He had dealt with being a chosen one in a prophecy before and was not looking forward to a second round.

“The Great Other is leading the cold ones and the armies of darkness, seeking to snuff out all life. You woke the dragons from stone, and a falling star tore through the northern sky, heralding your rebirth. You walked out of the flames more than you were before. I can feel it now. Ice and fire thrum in your veins, melding seamlessly instead of clashing as they ought to.”

Jon cursed inwardly.

A five-thousand-year-old prophecy. He did indeed fulfil all the signs. Divination was always tricky, but he knew better than to underestimate it. But it wasn’t too bad; he would deal with the so-called Night King anyway.

“You were saying all those things to Stannis before.” Davos’s voice was disgruntled, and his face was twisted in worry. “You said you’ve seen it in the fire, and he believed you. It only got him killed. Your red god was wrong before. And you refuse to say what happened to Princess Shireen.”

“R’hllor is never wrong. The fires do not lie. But mortal eyes do not always understand what they are shown. It is I who was wrong.”

Jon felt a headache forming. As he was weak now, Melisandre was too dangerous to keep close, and too dangerous to dismiss even at the slightest chance she might join his enemies.

“What do you want, Melisandre of Asshai? To follow me?”

“Yes, to follow and guide you. To offer my skills in your service. To aid you in winning the battle for the Dawn.”

Her red eyes reminded him of Voldemort, yet lacked his malice. Still, Jon could see a hungry, no less dangerous glint in them. He carefully schooled his face into an icy mask, occluding all his feelings. “If you want to follow me, you will answer a few questions of mine first.”

“Anything for Azor Ahai.”

Despite his control, the name made his eye twitch.

“Do you know what happened to Princess Shireen and Devan Seaworth?” Jon asked, and Davos sagged with relief to the side.

To her credit, Melisandre bowed and immediately explained, “The snowstorm trapped Stannis’ army, and his supplies began to run out, and the spirit of his men began to waver. I proposed offering a sacrifice for the blessing of R’hllor to turn the weather in his favour.”

Davos ground his teeth, his gaze darkening. “And what was the cost of that blessing?”

“The Lord of the Light demanded a sacrifice.” The Onion Knight looked furious, and Sansa had grown pale. “A sacrifice of kingsblood. His Grace sent his squire, Devan Seaworth, to bring Princess Shireen, but the boy fled with the princess in the snowy wilderness. The battle was lost.”

“Because of the Karstark treachery,” Jon pointed out dryly, and she bowed her head.

Davos, who was alternating between pride and fury, chose the former. “You would even burn Princess Shireen?! She’s an innocent, sweet girl!”

“Would it be a sacrifice if there was no cost to it?” Melisandre asked remorselessly. For a moment, it looked like the old knight would lunge to strangle the Essosi woman, but he sagged on a chair, defeated.

She was not… wrong.

Jon carefully weighed his options. He could keep the priestess around and let her do his dirty work, seeing as she had no scruples and claimed to be loyal. But on the other hand, the faith of the old gods was the embodiment of the ancestral worship of nature. Most importantly, it had no tenants to follow, no clergy, and required no ceremony, just some vague traditions. The Faith of the Seven or R’hllor reminded him too much of the headache that was the modern religions that meshed poorly with magic.

Having someone else do his dirty work or take the blame was never truly his style—if he wanted to do something, good or bad, he always did it himself and proudly shouldered its consequences.

Ours is the Old Way. The one who passes the sentence should swing the sword.

The First Men were wise indeed. But Jon had too many foes and few trusted people.

“There is a twisted darkness inside you, Melisandre of Asshai. I can feel it.” Unease appeared on her otherwise confident face for the first time as he straightened up and looked into her eyes. “I can taste the magic woven in your words, the power hanging on your neck. But it matters not—prophecy or not, I shall fight the Night King and his army.”

Melisandre bowed, and there was undeniable satisfaction in her crimson eyes. Before, Jon was wary of the red priestess, but he was no longer the same…

First, he had to give her a carrot.

“Since you want to follow me, I shall give you a task,” Jon said slowly, tasting every word. “Take your acolytes, find Princess Shireen and Ser Davos’ son, and bring them to me alive and well. If they’re dead, I must see their bodies. And you’re not to burn anything or try to convert anyone to your red god. Consider this your trial.”

Then came the stick. Jon let go of his control and melded his killing intent with his magic, pinning the red priestess with his gaze, daring her to act out of line. Melisandre’s face went as pale as chalk with beads of sweat forming on her brow, and less than a handful of heartbeats later, she avoided his gaze.

“It will be done, Azor Ahai.” Her voice was quiet as she bowed deeply and quickly fled as if on fire, but Jon noticed her legs trembling and her footsteps uneven.

The old knight was speechless, and Sansa shuffled uneasily, her blue eyes heavy with worry. Jon didn’t blame them; not even a strand of his killing intent had affected them, and from the side, it would look as if he had glared Melisandre into submission. He was surprised the foreign priestess had not been knocked out, but it seemed she possessed more than a silver tongue and a pretty face.

“Was that truly wise, Jon? That woman gave me the chills, especially after your little speech,” Sansa cautioned, hands gripping tightly the hem of her sleeves.

Wizards? Witches? They all worshipped power in the end, and magical clergy was no different, zealotry or not. Melisandre was powerful for this world; that much was true, but her abilities were weaker than she portrayed.

“Aye, she’s very dangerous,” he agreed. “Extremely so. Yet, who else can find the young princess amidst the vast North? Melissandre of Asshai warned me about knives in the dark before the mutiny here, but I paid the words no heed and paid the price for it. If Shireen Baratheon can be found alive, she’d be the one to do it. If she wants to work for me that badly, then I shall put her to use.”

Jon stretched lazily and continued, “Besides, I’d rather have her nearby and under my watch than whispering sweetly in the ears of others. Who knows what disaster she will manage to concoct on her lonesome? Now Melisandre knows I can see through her tricks, so she will not try to deceive me.”

What he left unsaid was his main reason for not banishing or outright killing the practitioner of the dark arts. He was technically Shireen Baratheon’s closest and oldest living male relative. Her parents were dead, her father’s bannermen were all dead or had deserted Stannis, and she was lost somewhere in the Northern wilderness with nothing left but the clothes on her back.

From the few glimpses he had caught, Shireen was extremely shy and kind, with a penchant for reading, an innocent girl through and through. Jon had no idea how to find her with his weak and limited magic, nor could he leave his sister alone in Castle Black. He would trust the Free Folk with any other task, but not this one. They disliked and distrusted Shireen because of her greyscale. If sending a zealous dark seer eager to prove herself would give her the best chance to be found, Jon would gladly do so, despite his distaste.

Truthfully, it was very questionable if the princess would manage to evade the Bolton outriders, the deserters after the battle, or even survive the harsh weather with nothing but a young squire so green he could piss grass. It was a callous thing to think of, but after living for more than three hundred years, he had learned to hope for the best and prepare for the worst. Still, it didn’t stop Jon from trying, for there was no loss to it.

Kin was important, and he hated losing what little he had left. Not again, never again.

Ramsay Bolton, Winterfell

Ramsay sat in the high seat in the Great Hall, idly playing with his favourite knife. He was finally Lord Bolton. And to think he only had to kill his father, stepmother and newly-born half-brother. A wicked grin appeared on Ramsay’s face at the memory of his father’s surprise as he was slumped on the chair, quickly bleeding out.

Alas, Roose had put the Frey forces at the front, letting them perish against Stannis’s veterans, taking more toys from him. Of course, the Bolton archers never really bothered to aim too hard—they had been aiming at the Freys and the Southrons alike. Removing the final few made everyone happy; nobody liked the weasels, not after the Red Wedding. Alas, the few that survived the battle didn’t squeal well under the flaying knife and expired far too quickly.

But this victory felt hollow. Stannis was killed, but not by his hand. The Stag’s wife had also thrown herself into the flames, escaping capture. His lover, Myranda, was also found dead when he returned from the battle.

Reek and his wife, Sansa, were gone. Oh, he did not doubt that they had run off to their bastard brother at the Wall, for they had nowhere else to go. He had sent a letter, taunting them with his latest possession, a gift from House Umber—one Rickon Stark. They would have no choice but to come to him if they cared for their brother. But in the meantime, he was… bored. And as Lord Bolton, hunting smallfolk and Baratheon deserters was now beneath him. As the Lord of the North, he deserved a choicer prey.

Winterfell felt far too peaceful and quiet with the Freys disposed of. It had become nearly unbearable with his favourite toys all gone and his lover dead. Ramsay suddenly froze. But that was not the case, was it? Reek was gone, his wife had fled, and the weasels had expired. But he could always make another Reek. Sometimes, they died before they broke, but either way, the screams of Rickon Stark would fill his heart with joy. He palmed his flaying knife and headed towards the dungeons with a spring in his step.