A Feast For Dragons

Jon

Jon Snow had thought he had been doing the right thing. Winter was upon them and with it a darkness that would kill each and every one of them. He had thought that the Night's Watch understood what was at stake; he had thought they understood why he had done what he did. They had voted him Lord Commander; they had wanted him to rule them; they had wanted to follow him and his commands. He had thought they supported him.

He had thought wrong.

The Wildlings weren't their concern anymore. Things were coming-things from nightmares and legends and myths. Things that would kill and slaughter until there was nothing but snow and blood on the ground. Winter was coming, and with it the Walkers. The Wildlings were men and women as much as they were. They lived and died and survived just as they did. The only difference was that they had been stuck on the wrong side of the Wall when it came up. Now they were the first to be attacked-the first to die-if Jon didn't act.

If Jon hadn't done what he did, the Wildlings would have all been slaughtered and have joined the army of the dead. They would have given the Walkers the strength they needed to march on the Wall and take the South. Jon thought that if he got to the Wildlings first, that maybe he could spare a couple of human lives, and in doing so have a greater strength in arms when the Walkers came.

Only, winter had come before he could complete is mission. The Walkers had ambushed them and the storm of snow and the dead walking took them all by surprised. Half of the Wildlings had been slaughtered, and those that had managed to get to the boats could do nothing but watch as the Walkers killed their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers-daughters and sons.

Jon had wanted to save them, had tried to, but no one really knew how to kill a White Walker. Sam had said that Dragonglass was able to kill them, that it had been what he had used to kill the White Walker that had gone after Little Sam. But all the Dragonglass had been lost in the ambush. When the Walker came at him from the fire, he thought he was going to die. He was a skilled swordsman, but nothing could kill a Walker. He lost Longclaw; he lost hope as he laid in the snow, listening to the screams of the Wildlings and the snarls of the dead.

He wouldn't die there. He had pushed himself up and had ran to his sword in a last attempt to defend himself. He hadn't expected anything to come out of it-only his sword had managed to stop the blow of the Walker's weapon, and the shock on the Walker's face was clear that something like this had never happened before. A White Walker's sword was made of ice so cold that it could slice through any metal-except Dragonglass. Longclaw was made of Valyrian steel, yet it had managed to stop it. After the split second hesitation, Jon pushed the Walker back and in one clean slice had shattered him.

Yet, all of that no longer mattered. Winter was here at last and the Walkers had an army the size Westeros had never seen before and no King or Crow would be able to stop them. Yet, that didn't matter. It had been the fact that Jon Snow had allowed the Wildlings through the gate and into the south that seemed to concern the black brothers. They didn't agree with him-they didn't understand.

"Wait-! You don't have to do this! You can't do this! He's the Lord Commander!"

"Not anymore!"

Jon was thrown to the ground, snow being pushed into his mouth and nose. He had to blink pass the flashing white lights behind his eyelids from the punch he had received. Before he could even move, hands were grabbing at him and yanking his hair back; he felt kicks to his ribs and stomach, and another to his head.

"You've doomed us all, Snow! The Wildlings are our enemies! You've laid with one and now you've become one!"

"Traitor!"

"Bastard!"

"Kill him!"

"Burn him!"

"No! Stop! Please!"