Killing a Mockingbird

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/53717923.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Category: F/M
Fandoms: Game of Thrones (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, A
Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish & Sansa Stark
Characters: Jon Snow, Sansa Stark, Petyr Baelish, Davos Seaworth, Melisandre (A
Song of Ice and Fire), Tormund Giantsbane, Edd Tollett
Additional Tags: Dark Jon Snow, Smut, Sibling Incest, Cousin Incest, Canon-Typical
Violence, Warning: Ramsay Bolton, Past Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2024-02-12 Updated: 2024-02-14 Words: 6,874 Chapters: 2/?
 Killing a Mockingbird
by mandzipop

Summary

Alayne Stone marries Harry the heir, and re-takes Winterfell, becoming a widow in the
process. Inside, she finds horrors beyond belief, including her the body of her youngest
sibling and a letter informing her of the death of her older half-brother.

She tries to re-build Winterfell, but is stricken by grief, all the while Littlefinger lurks.

Not long after she re-takes Winterfell, Jon arrives, back from the dead. But he is not the boy
she remembers, who left for the wall, full of idealistic dreams. Instead, he returns dark and
angry. Only Sansa can calm him down. Sansa starts to trust him more than anyone else she's
ever known. However, Littlefinger is spewing vile hints about Jon into her ear. Sansa turns to
Jon for protection, but her feelings for him are not what they should be.

Notes

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to A Song of Ice and Fire, the books, Game of Thrones,
the TV show. I just play about with the characters for fun. I certainly don't earn any money
from it.

So I'm trying my hand at 3rd person omiscient. You'll have to bear with me while I get the
hang of it.

This chapter was meant to be a split between Jon and Sansa, but it makes more sense just to
have kept with the Castle Black story for the chapter only. The next chapter will be Sansa
based, and then we'll see how it goes.

See the end of the work for more notes

 Downfall

In the icy-cold, windswept halls of Castle Black, Jon Snow, the Lord Commander of the
Night’s Watch, gazed into the meagre flames of his hearth. Despite the logs he tossed onto
the fire, the room remained stubbornly frigid, a constant reminder of the looming threat of
winter. ‘Winter is Coming,’ his father’s solemn words echoed in his mind, their significance
now more palpable than ever. Yet, in the grand scheme of the challenges he faced, freezing to
death seemed but a minor concern amidst a growing list of troubles.

Since being elected as Lord Commander, Jon had confronted a relentless barrage of
obstacles. The fist was opposition to his authority, manifesting itself in the form of Janos
Slynt, whose defiance had cost him his head, cleanly removed by his own hands with the aid
of Longclaw. A fate Jon regarded with indifference, considering Slynt little more than a
cowardly burden on their dwindling resources. The man who passes the sentence must swing
the sword., Jon had remembered his father’s honourable words.

After Slynt’s execution, Jon had found the state of the Night’s Watch to be a dire one.
Rationing provisions and the looming spectre of starvation cast a grim shadow over Castle
Black, exacerbating their precarious situation. The scarcity of essential resources, particularly
dragonglass, essential for combating the impending threat of the undead army, only added to
Jon’s mounting concerns.

Yet, amidst these challenges, it was the decision to grant passage to the Free Folk through the
Wall that weighed most heavily on Jon’s conscience. This controversial decree had sparked
discord within the ranks of the Night’s Watch, stoking fury and resentment among its
members.

Jon couldn’t sit still. His mind churned with conflicting emotions as he paced the dimly lit
room. Oil, scarce as it was, barely sustained their glow, leaving the fire as the sole source of
illumination. Its dancing flames cast long, twisting shadows across the cold stone walls.

On one hand, Jon was keenly aware of the imminent threat facing the Free Folk from the
relentless advance of the undead army. Once dismissed as mere tales of fancy, spun to
frighten children, these legends had emerged as a grim reality, poised to unleash destruction
upon the living. The Wall and the Night’s Watch, long regarded as symbols of vigilance
against the wildlings, giants and mammoths, in truth stood as the last line of defence against
the encroaching darkness.

Having witnessed first-hand the relentless march of the undead horde during his time at
Hardhome, Jon could not shake the haunting memories of the slaughter that had unfolded
before his eyes. There, he had beheld the grim spectacle of thousands falling to the merciless
onslaught of the Night King’s minions.

With a crown of ice upon his brow and cold blue eyes ablaze with an otherworldly light, the
Night King had wielded his dark power with chilling impunity. Through the raising of his
outstretched arms, he beckoned the fallen from their icy resting places, increasing his
numbers with every life he claimed. In mere moments, the ranks of the undead had
surged,with a mindless obedience to their master’s will. No need for ravens and begging
letters. Just mindless slaughter.

In the face of such unrelenting horror, Jon knew he could not, in good conscience turn his
back on those in need. Despite the potential backlash from his fellow brothers of the Night’s
Watch, he could not stand idly by while the Freefolk not only faced annihilation, but would
increase the numbers of the undead hoard heading towards the wall. For Jon Snow, duty and
honour demanded action, even if it meant defying centuries of tradition and risking the wrath
of those who stood in opposition.

However, Jon was keenly aware of the deep-seated fear and resentment held by many of his
fellow brothers towards the Freefolk. Raised on tales of wildlings as savages and raiders, they
viewed the prospect of accepting them with suspicion and disdain. To ask them to set aside
generations of animosity and welcome those they had been taught to hate and fear was, in
Jon’s eyes, akin to asking the impossible.

Despite this understanding, Jon found himself caught in a quandary. While he recognized the
validity of his brothers’ concerns, he could not ignore the pressing urgency of the looming
threat beyond the Wall. The ancient animosity between wildlings and men paled compared to
the existential peril posed by the encroaching darkness of the undead horde.

A distant horn sounded, its mournful cry piercing the icy air, heralding the arrival of visitors.
Jon’s thoughts were shifted from his worries over the problems of the watch, to the
commotion outside. Stepping out onto the balcony, outside his solar, Jon beheld the sight of
Melisandre, the enigmatic Red Priestess, making her way through the gates of Castle Black,
without her usual air of authority.

Jon approached her with measured steps, he didn’t like the woman; she put him on edge.
Confidence in her red god and her visions in the fire, had never wavered. Stannis was some
mythical Prince that was Promised, her loyalty to the Baratheon King, unyielding. Yet, when
Jon saw Melisandre’s eyes, all of that was shattered. Instead, her head was dropped, and as he
looked into her red eyes, he saw something he had never seen before: doubt.

“My lady,” Jon greeted her, his voice tinged with a note of caution. “What brings you to
Castle Black?”

“Lord Commander,” she began, her words measured and cryptic. “I bring grave tidings from
the south.”

Jon’s heart quickened at her words. He had already suspected the weight of the news she
bore. “What news do you bring?” Jon asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil brewing
within him.

With a solemn expression, Melisandre recounted the events of Stannis Baratheon’s ill-fated
campaign to reclaim the North, his army decimated and his cause all but lost. Yet, she
remained elusive on the details of Stannis’s fate, her words cloaked in veiled ambiguity.

“And what of Shireen and Selyse?” Ser Davos, his voice tinged with urgency.
Melisandre’s eyes dropped to the grounds as she shook her head in a display of despair.
“They are also lost to us.”

Jon’s heart sank at her words, a pang of sorrow gripping him as he grappled with the weight
of their loss. Yet, amidst the grief, a flicker of determination ignited within him, a resolve to
honour their memory and seek justice for their untimely demise.

But before Jon could dwell further on the grim tidings, Melisandre spoke of another matter of
pressing concern. “Arya Stark remains elusive,” she revealed, her words stirring echoes of
hope amidst the despair. “Her fate intertwined with that of Winterfell, where shadows linger
and secrets abound.”

To the traitor and bastard Jon Snow,

You allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind, and you
have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard, come and see.

Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon. His direwolf’s skin is on my floor, come and see.

Your false king is dead, bastard. He and all his host were smashed in seven days of battle. I
have his magic sword. Tell his red whore. Your false king’s friends are dead, as are his wife
and daughter. Their heads upon the walls of Winterfell, bastard. Come and see.

I want the false king’s red witch. Send her to me, bastard, and I will not trouble you or your
wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North to slaughter every wildling man,
woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living. You will
watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister. You will watch as my dogs devour your
wild little brother. Then I will spoon your eyes from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest.
Come and see.

Ramsay Bolton, Trueborn Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

The gravity of the letter shook and angered him. Not only did the bastard have Arya, but
apparently he held Rickon too, although Jon had been certain of his youngest sibling’s
demise at the hands of the turncoat, Theon Greyjoy. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Yet, amidst the
uncertainty, a newfound sense of purpose stirred within him, a resolve to reclaim what was
rightfully theirs and restore honour to the Stark name.

“Might be he’s telling a pack of lies.” Davos suggested, his voice laden with scepticism and
wisdom earned through years of experience.

“If I had me a nice goose quill and a pot o’ maester’s ink, I could write that me member was
long and thick as me arm, wouldn’t make it so.” Tormund interjected, his words laced with
jest, though unhelpful in that moment.

“No. There is truth in there.” Jon sighed heavily, his expression weighed down by the burden
of responsibility and the weight of his family’s fate. “He knew about Selyse and Shireen.”
“I won’t say you’re mistaken. What do you mean to do, crow?” Tormund inquired, his gaze
steady as he awaited Jon’s decision.

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand, a reflexive gesture born from the burn scars etched
into his flesh. The Night’s Watch takes no part, he reminded himself sternly. What you
propose is nothing less than treason. Yet, the memory of Robb Stark, betrayed and slain,
haunted his thoughts, along with the image of Bran, crippled, presumed dead but now
potentially alive. Rickon’s survival offered a glimmer of hope for Bran’s fate as well.

He thought of Rickon’s breathless laughter, now silenced within the confines of his captor’s
walls. Sansa, missing still, her absence a void in their shattered family. Arya, her spirit as
untamed as ever, enduring horrors beyond comprehension at the hands of Ramsay Snow.

“I think we had best do something,” Jon finally declared. “With me.” He led Davos and
Tormund to his solar, with Ghost padding behind.

For the better part of two hours, Jon, Davos, and Tormund deliberated, their voices echoing
within the confines of Jon’s chambers, as they weighed their options and debated their course
of action. When the time came to address their comrades, Jon emerged with a solemn
announcement: a meeting would convene in the Shieldhall, open to both members of the
Night’s Watch and the Free Folk.

As they made their way through the halls of Castle Black, Ghost, Jon’s faithful direwolf,
trailed after them, his silent presence a reminder of the bond between man and beast.
However, mindful of the potential for chaos, Jon swiftly intervened, grasping Ghost by the
scruff of his neck and guiding him back inside. The last thing he needed was his beloved wolf
inadvertently causing havoc amidst their gathering.

The Shieldhall loomed before them, a relic of a bygone era, its ancient stones steeped in
history and tradition. Once a grand feast hall frequented by knights of the Night’s Watch.
Now its grandeur faded and its purpose forgotten. Dark and draughty, with rafters blackened
by centuries of smoke, the hall exuded an air of solemnity and antiquity.

Despite its shortcomings as a dining hall, its dim lighting, unkempt appearance, and difficulty
in heating, the Shieldhall possessed a sense of grandeur, its vast expanse capable of
accommodating a sizeable gathering. As they entered the hall, Jon couldn’t help but feel a
pang of nostalgia for a time when the Night’s Watch had been a thriving institution, its halls
bustling with camaraderie and purpose. Now, as they prepared to address their fellow
brothers and allies, Jon could only hope that their words would inspire unity and resolve in
the face of impending conflict.

As Jon and Tormund entered the Shieldhall, a low, murmuring hum rippled through the
assembled crowd, reminiscent of the distant hum of bees in a summer meadow. The wildlings
outnumbered the Night’s Watch by a significant margin, their presence dominating the hall
and lending an air of anticipation to the gathering.

Fresh torches cast their flickering light across the worn stone walls, illuminating the scene as
Jon surveyed the assembly. Recognising the need for comfort and order amidst the
tumultuous atmosphere, he had arranged for benches and tables to be brought in, heeding the
sage advice of Maester Aemon: “Men with comfortable seats were more inclined to listen;
standing men were more inclined to shout.”

At the far end of the hall, a weathered platform stood, its timbers bowed with age yet sturdy
enough to support their purpose. With Tormund at his side, Jon ascended the platform, his
presence a beacon of authority amidst the sea of faces below. Raising his hands in a gesture
for silence, Jon sought to assert control over the restless crowd, yet his efforts were met with
the humming swelling in defiance.

Undeterred, Tormund brought his warhorn to his lips and unleashed a thunderous blast that
reverberated throughout the hall, its sound cutting through the hum of conversation like a
clarion call. As the echoes faded and silence descended upon the Shieldhall, Jon seized the
opportunity to address the assembly, his voice resonating with authority as he prepared to
impart the urgency of their situation.

“I summoned you to inform you of the death of Stannis Baratheon, his army, and of his wife
and daughter.” He began.

Amidst the sea of faces, a flash of red caught Jon’s eye, and he recognized Lady Melisandre’s
presence at the back of the hall.

“Earlier this afternoon, I received this letter,” Jon continued, lifting Ramsay Snow’s ominous
missive for all to see. Jon read aloud its contents, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the
Shieldhall, filling the chamber with an eerie silence.

“As such, I am to ride south to deal with the matter,” Jon stated.

The Shieldhall erupted into chaos as Jon’s words reverberated through the chamber, stirring a
frenzy of emotion among the assembled men. Shouts rang out, fists clenched in anger, and
weapons were brandished in defiance. The comfortable benches provided little solace in the
face of such fervent passion, as swords clashed and axes resounded against shields in a
cacophony of noise.

Amidst the turmoil, Jon turned to Tormund, seeking support in quelling the rising tide of
discord. With a resolute nod, the Giantsbane raised his horn once more, its deafening blast
cutting through the clamour and commanding attention.

As the echoes of the horn faded and a semblance of quiet settled over the room, Jon seized
the moment to reassert the Night’s Watch’s neutrality in the conflicts of the realm.

“The Night’s Watch takes no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms,” he reminded them
firmly. “It is not for us to oppose the Bolton bastard, or to avenge Stannis Baratheon, his
wife, and daughter,” Jon continued, his tone unwavering in its resolve. Yet, he made his
intentions clear. “This creature who makes cloaks from the skins of women has sworn to cut
my heart out, and I mean to make him answer for those words.” he declared, his gaze
sweeping over the assembly.

“But I will not ask my brothers to forswear their vows,” Jon added, his words punctuated by
a pregnant pause. “Is there any man here who will come stand with me?” he asked.
The resounding roar of approval from the gathered men was music to Jon’s ears, a testament
to the unity and determination coursing through their ranks. As the tumult reached its peak,
two old shields tumbled from the walls, a symbolic gesture of the fervour that gripped the
Shieldhall.

With a sense of grim resolve, Jon acknowledged the weight of his decision. “I have my
swords, thought Jon Snow, and we are coming for you, Bastard,” he mused silently, his
determination unwavering in the face of the impending confrontation with Ramsay Bolton.

Observing Yarwyck and Marsh slipping away, followed by their men, Jon felt a pang of
resignation. Yet, he understood that their absence mattered little in the grand scheme of
things. “He did not need them now. He did not want them,” Jon realised, his conviction
unshakeable. “No man can ever say I made my brothers break their vows. If this is oath-
breaking, the crime is mine and mine alone.”

As Tormund approached, his gap-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear, Jon felt a flicker of
camaraderie amidst the gravity of the moment. “Well spoken, crow,” Tormund praised, his
jovial demeanour a welcome respite from the tension that lingered in the air. “Now, bring out
the mead! Make them yours and get them drunk, that’s how it’s done. We’ll make a wildling
o’ you yet, boy. Har!”

“I will send for ale,” Jon replied distractedly, his thoughts elsewhere as he realised that Lady
Melisandre had departed unnoticed. “You must excuse me. I’ll leave you to get them drunk.”

With a nod of understanding, Tormund waved Jon off, fully embracing the task at hand.
“Har! A task I’m well suited for, crow. On your way!”

As Jon made his way out of the Shieldhall, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he
should seek Melisandre. Yet, duty called, and he knew that his immediate priority lay in
planning their next move. With a heavy heart, Jon returned to his solar alone, and began
writing letters to the northern houses.

Jon continued writing letters to each house, well into the night. He made an internal thanks to
maester Luwin for his patient teachings. Although Jon hadn’t needed a Lord’s education, he
shared his lessons with Robb, thus he received it. Now, knowing every house, motto, and
sigil, those lessons paid off. Done for the night, he straightened the scrolls scattered across
his desk, each one to be sealed and sent by raven on the morrow. Tired, he sat back and
pinched his nose, trying to keep himself awake.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, heralding the arrival of Olly, his young steward.

“Lord Commander. It’s one of the wildlings you brought back. Says he knows your Uncle
Benjen. Says he’s still alive.” Olly reported, his voice sounded excited.

Jon’s brows furrowed in disbelief as he absorbed the startling revelation. “Are you sure he’s
talking about Benjen?” he questioned, rising from his seat.

The gravity of the situation was palpable as Olly confirmed the wildling’s claim. “Says he
was first Ranger. Said he knows where to find him.”
Without hesitation, Jon rushed from his chambers, his heart pounding with a mixture of
anticipation and trepidation. “Ghost, stay!” Jon locked the direwolf in his solar.

At the bottom of the steps to the courtyard, awaited the imposing figure of Alliser Thorne, the
veteran ranger whose allegiance had long been questioned, but would also be eager to have
Benjen Stark returned to them.

“Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome the last full moon,” Alliser stated matter-of-factly,
his expression unreadable.

Jon’s mind raced with the implications of this new information, his instincts warring with the
nagging doubts that plagued his thoughts. “He could be lying,” Jon countered, his voice
betraying a hint of scepticism

Yet, Alliser’s response was resolute, a grim acknowledgment of the harsh realities they faced.
“Could be. There are ways to find out.” He remarked cryptically, gesturing towards the
source of their inquiry.

With a determined stride, Jon followed Alliser’s lead, passing through the ranks of his fellow
brothers, their faces etched with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. A sense of
foreboding washed over him as he caught sight of a sign bearing the damning label
“TRAITOR,” written in red, a chilling reminder of the divisions that threatened to tear the
Night’s Watch asunder.

Before Jon could react, he found himself cornered, surrounded by his sworn brothers, their
torches casting eerie shadows upon the scene. In an instant, the air was rent with the sound of
steel as Alliser’s dagger found its mark.

“For the Watch,” He said, Alliser’s eyes cold, unflinching.

The pain was excruciating.

“For the watch.” Came the next blade, at the hand of Bowen Marsh.

Jon was struggling to stand.

“For the watch.” Next was Othell Yarwyck.

With each stab, Jon’s strength waned, his resolve tested to its limits as he fought to remain
upright against the onslaught of pain and betrayal. Yet, amidst the chaos and anguish, his
gaze seeking Olly, the young boy he had once taken under his wing.

“Olly…” Jon’s voice was a whispered plea, a final attempt to reconcile the unfathomable
betrayal that now unfolded before him. But his vision was fading, and from what little he
could see, Olly was holding a blade in his hand. “Ghost...” Jon whispered.

But Olly’s response was swift and merciless. Jon didn’t feel the fourth blade plunging into his
heart with a chilling finality.
“For the Watch.” Olly declared, his voice hollow without remorse as Jon’s lifeblood spilled
upon the frozen ground.

Now he was dead, the Brothers of the Night’s Watch turned away, their duty fulfilled at the
cost of their honour, the group disbanded, leaving Jon laying broken and betrayed. In the
silence that followed, Jon’s expression remained unchanged, a mask of stoic resignation as
the darkness closed in around him, engulfing him in an endless sea of crimson.

For a while, the castle remained silent, then a white wolf howled for his master, disturbing
the peace.
 After and Before
Chapter Summary

Some of this chapter is taken directly from the show. It is unavoidable. Fortunately, not
all of the chapter takes place at Caslte Black.

Despite the early morning lighting of the skies in the far off distance, Castle Black was still
cloaked in darkness. The wall of ice shimmered in the last vestiges of moonlight, like the
stars above. Amidst the crisp air, wisps of smoke spiralled from the chimneys and braziers, a
feeble attempt to ward off the fortress's chill.

A profound eerie silence blanketed the castle, broken only by the haunting howl that pierced
the frigid air, its mournful cry echoing across the desolate courtyard, coming from the Lord
Commander's chambers. Ghost, the enormous white direwolf and faithful companion of the
Lord Commander, Jon Snow, released a sorrowful lament into the abyss. His mournful wail
served as an eerie omen, alerting those, who were unaware, of the tragedy that had unfolded
within the ancient stronghold's walls.

The previous night, Davos Seaworth had fallen asleep early on his tiny cot in the small
chambers appointed to him. The bed wasn't particularly comfortable, nor were the quarters
grand, however the fire was warm, and that was all that was needed to send him to sleep. Yet
he was a light sleeper, and the smallest sound easily woke him.

The solemn echoes of a howling wolf stirred him from his light slumber. Although he'd never
heard Ghost howl before, nor any direwolf for that matter, Davos knew from whose maw
made the sound And if Ghost were howling, something dire must have happened to the Lord
Commander. Rising from his cot and exiting into the night, Davos' eyes, still adjusting to the
darkness, gazed upon the tragic scene below him.

Down below, amidst the snow-covered expanse, lay the lifeless form of Jon Snow, erstwhile
Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. A damning sign, emblazoned with the word
"TRAITOR," loomed ominously overhead, casting a pall of betrayal upon the scene. With
unseeing eyes turned towards the heavens, Jon's stillness spoke volumes to the cruelty of his
fate.

With a heavy heart, he descended the steps, his pace quickening as he approached Jon Snow's
fallen figure. Behind him, brothers of the Night's Watch followed. Ghost's eerie lament had
raised the castle. The brothers gathered around the dead body of the young Lord Commander,
Hushed murmurs passed between the men, questions of who would do such a thing to their
leader.

"It's the Lord Commander!" One of the men exclaimed.

"Help me get him inside." Davos said hurriedly, he and Edd were known confidants of Jon
Snow, and Davos knew the situation was likely to turn volatile towards those who valued the
Lord Commander's company.

Dolorous Edd and his three fellow watchmen rallied around Davos, their loyalty to their
fallen leader still unwavering. Together, they lifted Jon Snow's body, and carried him back to
his chambers behind the armoury.

Davos and Edd were momentarily left behind in the wake of their departure. Edd led the way
and Davos followed, but not before he gave a quick glance at the snow, which was now
darkened with the large amount of blood, drained from the body of the young man, who he
barely knew, but held a lot of respect for. Swallowing hard, he made his way to Jon's
chambers.

Edd ran his hand along the wooden desk in the middle of the room, pushing aside every
parchment, quill and candle, indifferent to the clattering sound on the floor. Only when the
desk was clear, did the men laid Jon Snow's lifeless body upon it.

For a moment, Edd stood beside the lifeless body of his friend, Jon Snow. Out of respect, he
ran his hand over the Lord Commander's dark grey eyes, closing them off to the world
forever. His hand touched Jon's brigandine, the sticky blood coated his fingers. Edd
swallowed down the bile which rose in his throat.

"Thorne did this." Edd declared, his voice heavy with accusation, sorrow, but most of all,
anger.

"How many of your brothers do you think you can trust?" Davos asked.

"Trust?" Edd looked around at the three other men. "The men in this room." He replied.

Davos glanced around the room. "Does the wolf know you?" he asked, noticing the lack of
howls from the large direwolf. Ghost seemed to be settled by the knowledge his master was
in safe hands.

Edd looked over his shoulder at Ser Davos and nodded. "Good." Ser Davos said. "We need
all the help we can get." Edd moved towards the door, presumably to fetch Jon's wolf, when
someone knocked on it from the outside. The crisp sound of steel being drawn from their
scabbards, rang out, as the Night's Watch brothers drew their blades, ready to fight whoever
was attempting to gain entry. However, their efforts were in vain.

"Ser Davos." Came the foreign tones of the Lady Melisandre.

Edd exchanged a silent look with Davos, questioning her trustworthiness. With a reluctant
nod, Davos signalled his acceptance, granting entry to the Red Woman."

The door creaked open to reveal the figure of Melisandre. Her usually confident demeanour,
was replaced by a rare sight: she was bundled up in thick red robes and a deep red scarf, a
stark contrast to her usual indifference to the freezing temperatures that gripped the fortress.
As Melisandre approached Jon's lifeless body, Davos couldn't help but notice the devastation
etched on her face. It surprised him; she barely knew the man, yet she grieved for him as if he
were family. But beneath her grief, he detected something else - shock and fear lurked in her
eyes, betraying her outward composure.

"I saw him in the flames, fighting at Winterfell." She confessed, her voice trembling with
uncertainty.

"I can't speak for the flames, but he's gone." Davos replied, his words a stark reminder of the
harsh reality they faced.

With a gentle touch, Melisandre caressed Jon Snow's cheek, her actions resembling those of a
lover but serving as a silent prayer for his departed soul.

When Edd departed from the Lord Commander's solar, to fetch Ghost from the nearby
armoury, next to Jon's chambers, it was already daylight. By the time he returned with the
distraught, white direwolf in tow, the Red Woman had already departed. Most likely
retreating to her own chambers, seeking solace in the depths of her own grief, haunted by the
weight of her mistaken visions.

Edd bolted the door behind him, sealing the room from intruders. The five brothers of the
Night's Watch and Ser Davos, stood witness as the chest height, red eyed, white direwolf,
Ghost, typically an imposing and fearsome creature, tenderly nudged Jon Snow's hand and
emitted soft whimpers of sorrow. The wolf's mood mirroring Jon's brothers.

"Thorne called for a meeting in the common hall," Edd informed the group. "They're in there
now."

Davos weighed in, his voice tinged with concern. "He'll have seen we didn't come. Thorne
will have made it official by now. Castle Black is his."

"I don't care who's sitting at the high-table," Edd retorted sharply. "Jon was my friend, and
those fuckers butchered him. Now, we return the favour."

Davos countered, his tone sombre. "We don't have the numbers."

"We have a direwolf," Edd persisted.

"It's not enough," Davos replied, shaking his head. "I didn't know Lord Commander Snow for
long, but I have to believe he wouldn't have wanted his friends to die for nothing."

"If you were planning to see tomorrow, you picked the wrong room." Dolorous Edd declared
grimly. "We all die today. I say we do our best to take Thorne with us when we go."

"We need to fight, but we don't need to die." Davos insisted. "Not if we have help."

One of the brothers in the room, whose name eluded Davos, interjected, "Who's gonna help
us?"

"You're not the only ones who owe your lives to Jon Snow." Davos replied cryptically.
A wave of realization washed over Edd's expression, his eyes widening. He turned to the
Night's Watch brother beside him. "Bolt the door," he commanded. "Don't let anyone in. I'll
be back as soon as I can."

Edd bid farewell to the five remaining men, who stood vigil over the lifeless body of their
fallen Lord Commander, Jon Snow, in the confines of his former solar. The room was cold
and silent save for the occasional whimper of the distraught direwolf curled up in front of the
dying embers of the hearth.

The bellies of the men inside the room rumbled with hunger. None had eaten since the meal
after the meeting in the Shieldhall, where Jon had announced his intentions to ride south, less
than a day earlier. The memory of the Lord Commander, full of life and resolve, now laid
lifeless on a wooden table, a victim of his sworn brothers' betrayal, Ser Davos lamented. If
there was anything to suggest the world was a shit place, this was it.

Despite the hour being close to lunchtime, the pale sunlight struggled to penetrate the thick,
grey clouds that hung low in the sky, casting a dismal visage over Castle Black. The smell of
Hobb's unidentifiable cooking wafted in through the gap under the ironwood door, as they
remained barricaded inside, guarded against the traitors who had murdered their leader.

While gazing out of the window, Davos observed an unkindness of ravens taking flight from
the rookery into the grey skies. Ser Alliser was swiftly spreading the news of the demise of
the nine hundred and ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Whether the truth
behind the cause of death would be revealed seemed irrelevant. Within two days, Ramsay
Bolton would inform Jon's brother and sister of his demise, and not in a kindly manner, from
what Ser Davos had heard.

Davos suspected the meeting was over, and with the serving of food imminent, expecting a
visit from Ser Alliser, his intentions veiled in false goodwill. The offer to release them in
exchange for Jon Snow's body would be a hollow gesture, for whether or not they
surrendered, they faced dire consequences. Their only hope lay in Edd, reaching the Freefolk
in time, but the odds seemed grim.

Outside the barricaded room where Davos, Jon's stalwart direwolf Ghost, and the Night's
Watch brothers loyal to Jon Snow had sought refuge, a group of men aligned with Alliser
Thorne stood firm. Their allegiance to the acting Lord Commander remained steadfast as
they braced themselves for what appeared to be an unavoidable confrontation. Ser Alliser,
flanked by several men, approached the door with purpose, delivering a commanding knock
that reverberated through the tense atmosphere.

Inside the room, the Night's Watch brothers stood ready, their swords drawn, and Ghost stood
by their side, a formidable presence with lips curled back, teeth bared, and slaver dripping
from his maw as he emitted a low growl of warning. Sensing the urgency of the situation and
the need to delay the inevitable, Davos rose from his seat and moved towards the door as
Alliser Thorne knocked once more. He understood the importance of buying time; Edd
needed more time to summon the wildlings to Castle Black.

"Ser Davos, we have no cause to fight. We are both anointed knights," Thorne declared.
Davos responded calmly, "Hear that, lads? Nothing to fear."

Thorne continued, offering terms of amnesty. "I will grant amnesty to all brothers who throw
down their arms before nightfall," he announced, his voice carrying across the room. "And
you, Ser Davos, I will allow you to travel south, a free man with a fresh horse."

Davos, never one to miss an opportunity, seized the moment to address a more practical
concern. "And some mutton. I'd like some mutton," he interjected, his request drawing a
surprised reaction from Alliser Thorne.

"What?" Thorne's expression betrayed his confusion at the unexpected request.

"I'm not much of a hunter. I'll need some food if I'm gonna make it south without starving,"
Davos explained, his tone matter-of-fact as he clarified his need for sustenance.

Thorne, though caught off guard, quickly regained his composure. "We'll give you food," he
assured, his voice carrying a note of concession. "You can bring the Red Woman with you if
you like. Or you can leave her here with us, whichever you choose. But surrender by nightfall
or this ends with blood," he warned, his ultimatum leaving no room for ambiguity.

"Thank you, Ser Alliser. We'll discuss amongst ourselves and come back to you with an
answer," Davos replied, his tone respectful yet unwavering as he accepted Thorne's terms,
leaving the door open for further negotiation.

After Alliser Thorne and his men departed, their heavy footsteps echoing down the stone
corridors of Castle Black, the room fell into a heavy silence. The Night's Watch brothers, left
to contemplate their grim predicament, exchanged sombre glances.

"Boys, I've been running from men like that all my life. In my learned opinion, we open that
door," Davos began, his voice laced with a sense of urgency, but he was swiftly cut off by one
of the brothers, who Davos had learned was called Raffer.

"And they'll slaughter us all." Raffer interjected, his words carrying a grim acceptance of
their dire circumstances.

"They want to come in, they're gonna come in." Added Wyllan, one of the other brothers in
the room.

"Aye, but we don't need to make it easy for them," Davos agreed, his voice steady as he
acknowledged the necessity of resistance.

"Edd is our only chance." Wyllan reiterated, his gaze flickering with a glimmer of hope
amidst the prevailing despair.

"It's a sad statement if Dolorous Edd is our only chance." Remarked Raffer bitterly, his words
tinged with bitterness at their seemingly hopeless situation.

"There's always the Red Woman." Davos suggested, his tone contemplative as he considered
their limited options.
"What's one redhead gonna do against forty armed men?" Raffer questioned sceptically, his
doubt palpable in the air.

"You haven't seen her do what I've seen her do." Davos responded. He's seen the Red Woman
birth a shadow baby and survive poison. That was all Davos needed to know, to scare the
living shit out of him.

*****

The air inside the dark tent was chilled, the soothing scent of snow outside failing to calm
Sansa's restless mind. She awoke with a start, sweat dampening her brow despite the furs that
surrounded her. It wasn't the warmth that troubled her; it was the nightmare that had jolted
her from her slumber. Its vividness was unnerving, bringing tears to her eyes as she grappled
with the fear it instilled. Sansa desperately hoped it was just fear, not a premonition of
tragedy unfolding hundreds of miles away from their camp.

Memory of the dream stubbornly refused to disappear, as they usually did within moments of
waking. Sansa had been standing outside, unnoticed in the darkness of night, pierced by the
flickering orange flames of braziers scattered around the courtyard. They cast dancing
shadows against the black walls and wooden stairs, illuminating a grim image in front of her.

A wooden cross stood tall, its surface marred by the word "TRAITOR" carved in red paint.
Underneath, a young man in black lay motionless, betrayed by his comrades in a brutal
display of violence. The final blow, delivered by a boy not much older than Bran, piercing his
heart. The expression on the face of the boy was such pure hatred, Sansa shuddered at the
thought, unable to reconcile the image with her gentle brother.

"Ghost..." The man whispered his final words, a reference the his white direwolf with red
eyes, which to most outsiders were terrifying. To those who were close, he was soft and
comforting. Maybe Jon had hoped his wolf would save him, but Ghost did not come.

The man now lay in the snow, blank grey eyes staring up to the skies. Blood oozed from his
wounds, smoking like the braziers. Both had been snuffed out without a single thought. The
snow surrounding him was as red as the eyes of his direwolf. The expression on his bearded,
yet familiar face, was sadness, presumably at the betrayal at the hands of those he trusted.

"Jon," Sansa whispered, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Not you too." Those familiar Stark
eyes, just like her father's and Arya's, but now strangely different. They were blank. The
brightness which once shone from those kind eyes, was now gone.

Sansa's heart broke at the possibility of losing another member of her family. Even Jon, the
boy she had been so indifferent to as a child, yet had been such an inspiration over the past
year. Her time in the Vale, pretending to be a bastard called Alayne Stone, had been no mean
feat. Sansa would never have known how to portray a bastard if it hadn't been for Jon Snow.
The experience had an been eye-opening one. A bastard was no different to any other
highborn, yet they were met with disdain, through no fault of their own. They had the same
dreams, but experienced different lives to their siblings. Sansa's mother, and Septa Mordane,
had taught her to feel nothing but contempt to her own half-brother. Of course, she didn't, she
could never be that cruel. Instead, Sansa had acted indifferent towards him. In truth, she
never viewed him as a brother, yet he was still part of her pack. And pack was just as
important.

The body laying behind her stirred. "Who's Jon?" came Harry's deep voice from the darkness.
Sansa's nightmare must have woken him from his slumber. "Should I be jealous?"

"He's the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch." Sansa replied, a shiver coursing down her
veins. She didn't want to face the husband she didn't particularly care for. "My brother, I
dreamt..."

"Bastard brother." Harry reminded her. "Leave it be and go to sleep. The man is of little
consequence, other than to keep the wildlings at bay."

"He's my brother." Sansa reiterated.

"And from what Lord Baelish has told me, a man your mother despised. I'm sure you weren't
too fond of him either, erstwhile you would have spoken of him before now." Harry yawned.
"It is hours until dawn, get some sleep. We have a battle to fight in less than a sennight. I
need my sleep to keep sharp." He spooned his body close to her from behind. "Unless you
want me to fuck you." Harry snaked his hand between her legs, which fortune favoured her,
by being protected by her nightshift.

Bile rose in Sansa's throat. Harry never purposely hurt her, but she didn't like him being
inside her. He made her prepare him, but expected her to be ready to take him when she
wasn't. Sansa knew a woman had to be readied, Myranda had told Alayne, and even gone
into details of what a man should do to make it pleasurable for a woman. Harry did no such
thing. He would climb on top of her, grunt, rut, sweat, go red in the face, and spill his seed.
Only then would he roll off, leaving Sansa rigid and disappointed.

"I'm still tired." Sansa faked a yawn. "We should sleep more."

Harry huffed, but said not another word. Instead, he removed his hand and turned over.
Within moments, his soft snores once more echoed around the cold tent.

As soon as Sansa, Littlefinger, and the knights of the vale had taken back Winterfell from the
Boltons, not only would she be rescuing Arya, and if reports were true, Rickon; but Sansa
would write to Castle Black. She wanted to know for certain Jon was alive, because in the pit
of her stomach, she had a feeling he was gone.

Wolves grieve when a pack member is lost to them, and regardless of whether she viewed Jon
as her brother, Sansa and Jon are both wolves, she thought. She would contain her grief for
now, it still might only be a dream, despite its realism. Sleep did not return to her that night.
End Notes

As you can tell, this is a mashup of book and show. It will make sense as we go along.

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