A Vow Without Honor

The Realm

Jon

Save them, Jon.

The words had nearly driven him mad. He heard them on the wind, in the voices of his companions, in the fire that burned her body in his stead. The flames were the color of her hair.

In the end, only he and Thoros stood vigilant throughout the night, even as the fire died out and the cold northern winds carried the ash away. Jon was rooted to the spot, a spectator at his own funeral. He'd clutched his hands into fists until they bled to keep the panic at bay, but his pulse had throbbed on the edge of his vision, the beating of his heart an unfamiliar rhythm. He did not feel himself; he did not know this body.

"You brought her back," Jon eventually said, hoping the words would relieve the tension in his body. The horizon had lightened, turning the world dull shades of gray.

If Thoros noticed his state, he gave no sign. "The Lord of Light brought her back. We are all simply tools through which he may perform his work."

"Why me? Why her?"

"His plans are a mystery to us all. We interpret them as best we can, but in the end, we're all children stumbling through the dark in search of his light."

"Is there anything you know about your bloody god?!" Jon spat, wincing as his heart thrashed against his chest. It wished to escape as much as he did. "How do you even know it's him?"

Thoros had turned to him then, resting a hand on his shoulder, a warm, knowing look in his eyes. "That is faith, Jon Snow."

Faith, he had thought glumly. His faith had journeyed with him to the Wall and died upon it. Faith in brotherhood, in kinship, in the heavens and the hells. Only darkness waited for them all in the end, only emptiness after a lifetime of suffering.

For three days and nights, he'd lingered in his quarters, haunted by the voices of the dead. Only Edd and Ser Davos were given leave to see him, but he kept their words brief. Sometimes, he thought he could hear Melisandre and Thoros talking in the halls, or maybe in the walls, their Valyrian tongues spinning intricate sentences. They spoke of him, he knew, and sometimes an anger would build in him. He wanted to scream at them, drive a sword through them both. How dare they allow him to return. This was not meant to be. No man should know and feel what he did.

Ghost remained at his side all the while, lying with him when the panic proved too much, waking him when his dreams became a dark abyss he thought to never escape. Every now and again, his chest would constrict, body spasming as if he was still being stabbed. The wounds would not bleed, but they would not heal either.

On the fourth day, he sat before the hearth watching the flames curl and sputter. The Lady Melisandre claimed to see the future in them; all he saw was fire. But he heard everything, every voice that would haunt him in the coming days.

You know nothing, Jon Snow.

For the Watch.

Save them, Jon.

His mind wandered into that darkness, to the land beyond the Wall where only the dead wandered now. He heard the screams of those he could not help, saw the blue eyes of those already turned, women and children and animals. Every creature that once drew breath unwittingly united in destroying them. He was like them now, a corpse amongst the living, but they would all be corpses soon enough.

Save them, Jon.

He stood and walked toward the desk. Longclaw rested across the surface, still in its scabbard. They'd placed it with him on the pyre, the only thing that would have remained had they burned his body. Valyrian steel was not destroyed so easily, only the men who held it.