Chapter Text
The 998th Lord Commander of the Wall, Jon Snow, stared at her with almost a manic gleam in his eyes. Sitting at the table with Melisandre on the opposite side, his fingers were tapping on the wood rhythmically.
“Are you certain this will work?”
Melisandre hesitated for the briefest of moments before meeting his eyes, “Yes, I am certain.”
Jon shifted his eyes to Samwell Tarly beside her, “And you, Sam?”
Fingers pressing into the pages of the book in front of him, the plump man visibly deflated, “With Daenerys Targaryen dead and her dragons roaming free over the Dothraki sea, it is our best option.”
The sound of fingers tapping on the wood abruptly stopped. Jon Snow pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, a world weary sigh leaving him. He looked utterly resigned.
“It is our best option. The Lord of Light has foreseen this. You can win the war against the Others,” the Red Priestess paused for a moment before continuing, “As long as you don’t lose sight of your mission.”
Jon glanced at her sharply, “And what is that supposed to mean?”
Melisandre held up a slender hand to placate him, “We do not doubt your sincerity, Lord Snow, but it is true that you may be overcome with emotions at the sight of your family and act otherwise.”
Jon glared at her, words ripping out of his throat in a cold fury, “I would say that is more of a reason to stop the Others, so they will be safe.”
Melisandre met his eyes unflinchingly, “And what of Arya Stark? What is stopping you from grabbing her and, say, running away to Braavos?”
Jon took too long a moment in his reply, “That is absurd. How dare you suggest such a thing?”
The Red Priestess shrugged, “Arya Stark is your weakness.”
Jon turned to look at Sam, who avoided meeting his eyes, “You did betray your vows for her.”
Jon did not – could not – deny that.
His mouth tightened, remembering daggers in the dark, flames licking at his flesh. His skin prickled at the reminder of being reborn in fire and ash. The memory of a girl with tangled hair and sparkling eyes soothed the ache.
“She was my little sister,” he said into the sudden silence.
“She was your cousin,” Melisandre countered, “Perhaps you are more Targaryen than you realize.”
For a split second, Jon envisioned what it would have been like. Him and Arya, the two outcasts bound together by the Old Gods. But all he could see was her toothy smile as she grinned up at him, and he abandoned that trail of thought with a hot flush of guilt.
“My lady, I suggest you cease that line of questioning immediately.”
Melisandre looked at him thoughtfully before nodding, “As you wish, Lord Snow.”
“Perhaps we should try the spell now?” Sam spoke up hesitantly.
“Very well,” Jon sighed.
“You know what to do?”
“We have been planning this for days. I have no other choice.”
Jon breathed out a puff of air, suddenly feeling years older than he truly is. He felt so, so tired and weary in his bones. He took the knife offered by the Red Priestess and sliced into his palm, as droplets of blood pooled into the fire of the candle Melisandre had placed before him.
“Then let us begin.”