A Song of Fire & Snow (GOT)(Jon Snow)

Chapter 26: Jon Snow

~The Frozen Grave~

The wind howled as Jon and his group trudged through the icy wilderness beyond Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. The cold was relentless, biting into their bones as they marched deeper into the unforgiving terrain. Jon's breath misted in the frigid air, and his thoughts were as bleak as the landscape. Every step felt heavier than the last, not just because of the physical strain but because of the gravity of their mission.

Capture a wight. Prove to the world what they were facing. Unite the living to fight the dead.

It was madness. But madness was all they had left.

Jon glanced over at Alarys, her face determined as she walked beside him. Her dark eyes scanned the horizon, ever watchful, ever vigilant. The cold didn't seem to bother her as much, though her cloak was drawn tight against her body. There was an intensity about her that Jon couldn't ignore—a fire that burned within, even in this desolate, frozen wasteland. He wanted to reach out, to tell her to turn back, to stay safe. But he knew better. She would never agree. Alarys Martell was as stubborn and fierce as anyone he had ever known.

Tormund grunted ahead, his wild red beard dusted with snow, while Jorah Mormont walked silently beside Jon, the two of them exchanging grim looks every now and then. Behind them, the Hound muttered curses under his breath, his mood as dark as the storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Thoros of Myr, Beric Dondarrion, and Gendry rounded out the party, their faces set in determination, though Jon could see the same doubts lurking in their eyes.

"Fool's mission," the Hound had called it when they set out. Jon couldn't disagree. But they were out of options.

As they pressed on, the weight of his responsibilities grew heavier with every step. Jon's mind drifted to the North, to Winterfell, to the people who depended on him. He should be with them, preparing for the inevitable onslaught of the dead. But here he was, trudging through the snow on a quest that could very well end in their deaths. Yet this was the only way. They needed proof. They needed to show Cersei and the rest of Westeros that the war wasn't against each other—it was against the Night King and his army.

Jon's gaze slid to Alarys once more, her profile silhouetted against the pale sky. He thought of her constantly now, of the way she stood beside him, unyielding and brave. She was a force unto herself, yet in her presence, he found a strange kind of calm. But in moments like these, when danger loomed so close, that calm gave way to something else—fear. The fear of losing her.

They pushed forward for what felt like hours until finally, they found what they were looking for: a small group of wights, wandering aimlessly through the icy plains. The sight of them sent a chill down Jon's spine, even more frigid than the cold air around him. Their twisted, decaying forms moved with a haunting grace, their dead eyes glowing with malevolence. At the center of them, a lone White Walker, its icy blue eyes gleaming as it commanded the creatures with a silent, terrifying presence.

Jon signaled to the others, and they moved into position. It was time.

The ambush was quick and brutal. Steel met ice, and the wights fell beneath their swords, though not without a fight. The White Walker shattered under Jon's strike with Longclaw, the same way the one at Hardhome had. With its destruction, the wights collapsed around them, save for one—one they managed to bind and drag into a net.

But it wasn't over.

As they bound the wight and prepared to retreat, the ground beneath their feet rumbled. A wave of panic surged through Jon as he turned to see a massive horde of wights approaching, an endless tide of death spilling over the icy landscape. They were surrounded.

"Run!" Jon shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation.

Gendry, the fastest among them, was sent back to Eastwatch to get word to Daenerys. The rest of them fought valiantly, but they were overwhelmed. Thoros fell, torn apart by the relentless dead. Alarys fought like a snake, quick, precise, deadly. The Hound and Beric fought like men possessed, one with a flaming sword that lasted for what felt like seconds, but even they couldn't stem the tide for long.

They retreated to a frozen lake, taking refuge on a small island surrounded by brittle ice. The wights gathered around them, but they hesitated, the ice cracking beneath their weight. The momentary reprieve gave Jon a flicker of hope, but he knew it wouldn't last.

Time passed in agonizing silence, the wights standing just out of reach, waiting. Jon's thoughts kept drifting back to Alarys. She stood beside him, her breath visible in the cold air, her gaze hard and focused. He wanted to say something to her, to tell her how much she meant to him, but the words stuck in his throat.

Suddenly, the silence shattered as a roar echoed across the sky. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion descended upon the horde in a blaze of fire and fury, Daenerys astride Drogon's back. Relief washed over Jon as the dragons unleashed their flames, scorching the dead in great swaths.

But the Night King was watching.

As Daenerys circled back, preparing to land, Jon saw him—the Night King, standing tall and cold, an ice spear in hand. Time seemed to slow as Jon watched, helpless, as the Night King drew back and hurled the spear with impossible strength.

It struck Viserion square in the chest.

Jon's heart stopped. He watched in horror as the dragon let out a deafening screech, its wings flailing as it spiraled out of control. Viserion crashed into the frozen lake, the ice cracking beneath the weight of its dying body. The water swallowed the dragon whole, pulling it into the depths.

Daenerys screamed, the sound ripping through Jon's soul.

And then chaos erupted. The wights surged forward, breaking through the thinning ice. Jon fought with everything he had, slicing through the dead as they closed in. But in the chaos, he lost sight of Alarys. Panic gripped him as he turned, searching for her amidst the melee.

"Alarys!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Alarys!"

He saw her then—just as she was knocked off balance by a wight, her body plunging into the icy water where Viserion had fallen.

"No!" Jon's world collapsed around him. He fought his way to the edge of the ice, but it was too late. She was gone. Swallowed by the freezing depths.

Grief slammed into him, a crushing wave that left him breathless. The cold, which had been so biting before, now felt like nothing compared to the numbness that overtook him. She was gone. The fierce Dornish princess who had ignited a fire in his heart was gone.

A hand gripped his arm—Jorah, pulling him back from the edge. "We have to go, Jon! Now!"

Tormund and Jorah dragged him to Drogon, where the others were already climbing aboard. Jon barely registered the movements, his body moving on instinct as they pulled him up onto the dragon's back. His mind was lost, drowning in the freezing water with Alarys.

As Drogon took off into the sky, Jon looked down at the lake, at the place where she had fallen. The cold winds whipped his face, but all he could feel was the unbearable weight of his loss.

She was gone. And with her, a part of him had died too.

The flight back to Eastwatch was silent, the nightmarish events replaying in Jon's mind. As the frozen wasteland disappeared beneath them, all he could think of was the icy grave that had claimed the woman who had meant more to him than he had ever allowed himself to admit.

The sun began to rise, casting a pale light over the land, but for Jon Snow, the world had never felt darker.