Fire in the Snow

Chapter Text

Jon felt the cold blade enter his heart as Olly thrust it through him. The warmth of his blood surprised him; he could feel little rivers of it gush out as the boy retracted the blade. He didn't blame Olly, he couldn't blame anyone for what was happening to him. It was foolish to think that he, the Bastard of Lord Stark and Commander of the Night's Watch could have rid the Brother's in Black of their hatred for the Wildlings.

There was regret, however, plenty of regret. Regret about Ygrette, about being a Snow and not a Stark. There was also immense sadness, grief that ate at him, that visited him nightly.

He missed his family, and he mourned their deaths more often than he let on. He was strong for his men, but the truth was, sometimes he didn't think he could get out of the bed. He saw their faces now, hovering in the corners of his vision; Bran, Rob, Sansa, Arya, Rickon, and their father...his father, Neddard Stark. Perhaps dying wasn't so bad. He'd at least get to be with them.

He contemplated this as his body sank into the snow, a large red stain blossoming in the whiteness around him. The front of his tunic felt strangely warm, and it competed with the cold that was creeping into his eyes and darkening his vision. The moon was rising above him, and he felt himself drifting. A woman's voice called out to him, then death itself, black and cold.

Melisandre found him in the snow, in blood stained snow, his eyes glazed and rigid, his life force long gone. She grabbed the torch that still burned nearby and grimaced at the sign reading traitor that stood proudly at his head.

The Red Priestess knelt down and quickly closed Jon's eyes. She kissed his mouth slowly and smiled. This was the one, she was sure of it now.

"My Lord of Light, you have a wry sense of humor."

She whispered this statement softly and pushed the shaft of the torch deep into the snow to free her hands.

She took a knife from her tunic and started to cut away Jon's hair, beard and mustache. Once that was completed, she used the torch to burn the hair and said the words that needed saying. Then she scooped up a clump of blood laden snow and held it to the torch in her hand. A satisfied smile spread across her pale face, her bright red lips whispering ancient tongues.

She set to cutting away Jon's clothes until he lay rigid and naked and blue in the snow, his wounds swollen with coagulated blood, his face peaceful and cold.

"Lord of Fire, Lord of Light! I offer up my blood to you, for the soul of this boy. Forgive me for not listening to your words, for not seeing the signs."

She cut deep into her hand, and let the blood dribble onto the body below her. A trail of blood began at Jon's head and trailed down to his feet. Satisfied with the quantity of blood shed, Melisandre quickly tossed the torch down onto the Lord Commander and watched as a blanket of blue flame quickly encapsulated its subject like a bubble of fire. Curiously, the flame didn't seem to burn away Jon's flesh, instead tendrils of flame dance like faerie folk atop him, flickering and hot. Melisandre sank down into the snow, cradling her hand as her voice rose up into the night's sky, chanting words that were ancient and sacred.

As her voice rang out into the night, sharp and crisp as the snow, several men of the Night's Watch appeared from the shadows, their faces horrified by the apparent magic taking place before their eyes.

Olly stood amongst them, his face blank as the witch continued her chanting, his hands still cradling the blade that had dealt the killing blow to his former master.

He watched silently as his brothers spilled out into the courtyard to witness the madness of the Red Witch. She was howling now, twisted, and no doubt, evil words, bloodstained hands raised towards the fire, as if in tribute.

"It's the Lord Commander she's burning there...by the Gods! She's bloody murdered the Lord Commander!" A brother stepped forward and gestured towards the flames. Olly recognized the man as Finn, one of the brother's that supported Jon's decision to bring the Wildlings south of the Wall. He felt his hand tightening around the knife and realized that he would have liked to run it through the man's back.

A few brothers joined Finn, and they moved towards The Red Witch to stop her defilement of the Lord Commander's body.

They approached her hesitantly, unsure of the magic she would unleash upon them. Their hands rested warily on the hilts of their swords, their footsteps slow and calculated.

Melisandre herself appeared oblivious of their intent, and continued to chant into the night's sky, her eye hypnotized by the flames. Unbeknownst to her audience, she was waiting for the final sign, an indication that her Lord would do what was needed to continue down this path.

The flames danced and flickered to the cadence of her voice. Finn and his men were a few feet from her now, their swords half unsheathed. Melisandre stopped chanting, and it was suddenly as quiet as a weir wood. A gasp escaped from Finn's lips as the blue flame suddenly burned dangerously high, illuminating the courtyard in eerie, smoky light. The fire itself was oddly silent. There was no crackling, popping, or furious fiery roar. There was only silence, say for the occasional shifting of his brother's feet and his own panicked breathing.

All eyes were now diverted away from the witch, watching as the fire died down. No one dared speak, as the apparent witchcraft worked its way into the Lord Commander's flesh. Instead the men's faces filled with fear, awe and horror as the body absorbed the flame that had baptized it. Soon, not a single flicker of flame remained, and all eyes were on the man that had burned, but was unmarked and whole. Who was naked and smudged with ash and soot. Whose eyes were no longer black as coal, but were wide and lavender and wise beyond words. All eyes were on Jon Snow.