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13. The Rescue
🕑 Added 2025-02-12 18:22:45 +0000 UTC*Jon Snow POV*
The Godswood of Winterfell was silent, save for the whispering wind rustling through the ancient weirwood’s crimson leaves. I stood among the gathered lords of the North, the cold seeping into my bones, though I hardly noticed. The air was thick with anticipation as we awaited the arrival of the condemned. Sansa stood beside me, her expression composed yet betrayed by the flicker of disappointment in her eyes—she had hoped to feed her former husband to his own dogs. Yet, even she understood that Ramsay Bolton deserved a fate befitting the old ways.
The wait was not long. Two men entered the clearing, dragging a chained and gagged Ramsay Snow between them. A fresh bruise marred his face—a gift from my fist when I struck him earlier. He stumbled slightly as he was forced forward, but his gaze, filled with defiance and thinly veiled terror, never left me.
From the shadows of the trees, Ghost emerged, his white fur ghostly against the snow, his red eyes gleaming like embers in the dim light. His gaze locked onto Ramsay, a deep growl rumbling from his throat before he came to my side. I reached down, scratching behind his ears, feeling the tension in his body ease as he leaned into my touch. A small moment of warmth amidst the cold justice that was about to unfold.
Ramsay’s stare darted between Ghost and me, fear flickering behind his usual arrogance. He understood. This was the end.
"Ramsay Snow," I began, my voice carrying through the stillness of the Godswood, "you stand before the Old Gods accused of unspeakable crimes—murder, torture, rape, kinslaying, and betrayal. You have brought nothing but suffering to the North. As King in the North, I, Jon Snow, pass judgment upon you. The sentence is death. Do you have any last words?"
His lips curled into a smirk, though I could see the cracks in his bravado. "You won’t believe me, but I’m truly at peace," he said, his voice hoarse yet mocking. "A bastard sits the throne of Winterfell instead of a trueborn son. Knowing that the lords of the North still bow to a bastard even after my death—" He laughed, though there was no humor in it. "That is enough for me."
I held his gaze for a moment before stepping forward. "Then die with that thought in your heart."
With a swift, decisive motion, I thrust my hand through his ribs. The sound of flesh tearing was drowned out by Ramsay’s choked gasp of shock and agony. His eyes widened, horror replacing all traces of smugness as he looked down to see my arm buried deep in his chest. His body trembled violently as my fingers closed around his still-beating heart.
In one smooth motion, I pulled it free. A wet, sickening sound accompanied the sight of blood gushing from the gaping wound. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his body swaying as if his mind refused to accept what had happened.
"Here, boy," I said, tossing the still-pulsing organ to Ghost. The dire wolf caught it effortlessly, his powerful jaws snapping shut as he devoured it with relish. Ramsay, still conscious, watched in abject horror as his heart was consumed before his very eyes. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto the snow, his lips parting in a final, soundless gasp of defeat.
I unsheathed Longclaw. In one clean stroke, I severed his head from his body. The snow beneath him darkened, the crimson spreading outward like spilled ink on parchment.
I turned to the men standing nearby, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Tossing Ramsay’s head toward them, I gave my command. "Mount it on a pike outside the gates. Let all who see it know the fate of the last Bolton."
One of the men caught the head, nodding hastily before hurrying off to carry out my order. The gathered lords exchanged glances, some with quiet approval, others with uncertainty. Even those who had heard tales of my strength now bore witness to the truth.
Sansa stepped forward, her eyes fixed on Ramsay’s lifeless corpse. She exhaled slowly, relief evident in her posture. "His blood will feed the heart tree," I said. "When the last drop leaves his body, throw what remains to his own hounds."
She nodded in agreement, though I could see the flicker of grim satisfaction in her gaze. Some of the lords looked uneasy at my words, but none spoke against me.
With the judgment carried out, the gathering began to disperse. The lords departed with nods and short bows, leaving me alone beneath the weirwood. I sat down at its base, pulling a cloth from my belt to clean Longclaw. My thoughts drifted as I watched Ramsay’s blood seeping into the roots of the ancient tree. The punishment I had chosen was neither simple nor excessively cruel—it was justice, as the North had always known it. Had I given him to the Thenns, they would have made his death an agonizing lesson in pain, but their skills were better suited for those south of the Neck.
I sheathed Longclaw and fastened it to my belt before standing. One last glance at Ramsay’s body, and I turned away.
Justice had been served. The North would remember.
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*Third person POV*
The wind howled through the Godswood of Winterfell as Jon knelt before the ancient heart tree, its red eyes staring deep into his soul. In his hands, he held a pouch filled with obsidian stones, each imbued with the power of fire sacrifices offered by Melisandre in the name of her Lord. But tonight, they would serve another purpose. Alongside them lay fragments of weirwood bark, roots, and leaves—conduits of the Old Gods, linking the past, present, and future through the vast network of trees stretching beyond the Wall.
With deliberate precision, Jon arranged the stones in a circular pattern before the heart tree. Then came the time to draw runes in that circle, a painstaking process demanding perfection. Aether accepted nothing less. A single mistake could send him to an unintended location, or worse, scatter him across the void.
The icy air crackled with energy as he pressed his palm to the trunk, closing his eyes. A deep hum resonated within his bones, a whisper of countless voices lost to time. His blood sang in response, the song of Winter Kings and Dragonlords intertwining, guided by something primal—something ancient.
[Speak up.] Aether's voice rang sharply in his mind.
Jon frowned, confusion flickering through him. Then, like an ember catching fire, knowledge unfurled in his mind. Words not given by Aether, but drawn from something deeper, something older.
The words came unbidden, instinctual, whispered in the tongue of magic long forgotten.
"By fire and blood, by root and stone, From where I stand to where I’ve known, Let the path through time be shown, Weirwood’s will, take me home."
Flames erupted from the stones, burning bright and cold, their light flickering in unnatural hues. The world tilted. Jon felt his body wrenched from Winterfell and flung through an abyss of crimson leaves and whispering shadows. The weight of the Old Gods bore down upon him as his vision blurred into endless red and white.
Millions of eyes opened around him—no, not millions. There was no end to them. And they were all looking at him with emotions beyond mortal comprehension.
[Close your eyes before you lose them, you idiot Master. You're not powerful enough to gaze back at them.] Aether’s words snapped him from his trance, and Jon squeezed his eyes shut.
Then, with a sudden lurch, he was there.
The cave beneath the great weirwood tree.
He staggered forward, boots crunching on frost-laden dirt. The air was thick with magic, heavy with the scent of age and decay. Bran sat there in the center of the cavern, eyes unfocused, lost in a vision. Hodor loomed protectively over him, hands trembling. Meera Reed gripped her spear tightly, her eyes darting toward the passage leading outside. Summer growled low, ears flattened against his skull.
And then there was him—Brynden Rivers, the last greenseer, seated upon his throne of roots and decay. The ghost of a man, his milky red eye fixed upon Jon.
A warmth spread around Jon’s eyes and nose. He reached up and felt liquid—thick, warm, and unmistakably blood. He brought his hand forward, staring at the crimson staining his fingers. He wiped his face, shaking his head with a helpless smile.
"Not even a second, and my eyes are bleeding. And here I thought only the Others were strong in this world."
[Another second, and you might have lost your sight permanently. Not even rituals would have been able to restore your eyes.] Aether's words only deepened Jon’s sense of insignificance. [You have the potential to rise above all, but power like this is not gained in months or years. Be patient. Work hard.]
Jon clenched his fists, determination burning in him.
"You came sooner than I expected," Bloodraven murmured, his voice like rustling leaves.
"And you’re leaving later than you should," Jon shot back. "The Others are coming. It’s time to go."
Bloodraven studied him for a long moment. "You have touched the Weirwood’s power in a way few ever have. Do you understand what you have done? You could have died and with you the last hope of living. And here I thought coming back from the dead made you a little less reckless."
"I did what I needed to. We don't have time for lectures on what could have been. I can take them all south of the Wall, but we have to leave now."
A rustling came from the shadows. Leaf, the leader of the Children of the Forest, stepped forward, her ancient face unreadable. "The trees whisper your name, Jon Snow. They call you something else… something old, something not entirely man."
Jon clenched his jaw. "They do more than whisper. But that conversation can wait. The dead are coming. Will you follow, or will you fall here?"
Leaf exchanged a glance with Bloodraven. "My time is at an end, but not my kin. They will join you if you will take them. But the boy… he must live. He carries the future of the greensight. We have lost some of our gifts over time. He is the only one who still possesses it."
Bran stirred then, his eyes refocusing. "Jon? You’re really here?"
Jon nodded. "Aye, and I’m getting you out." But his gaze lingered on Leaf, her words answering doubts that had lingered in the depths of his mind.
The ground trembled. A distant, inhuman shriek echoed through the cave. Ice and death were near.
Jon turned to Bloodraven. "I don’t think we'll ever meet again, old man. If you have any last words, now’s the time."
Bloodraven gave him a slow, knowing smirk. "I have done my duty, nephew. Now it’s your turn. Winter is almost upon us. A Targaryen is needed to unite the realm against the threat that is coming."
Jon pulled a final stone from his belt, its surface carved with ancient runes. He crushed it between his palms, feeling the magic pulse through his veins. He reached out, grabbing Bran's wrist, motioning for Meera, Hodor, and the remaining Children to do the same. Summer whined, pressing close.
"Close your eyes. Do not open them under any condition until we reach Winterfell."
The heart tree's roots pulsed with energy, the very air twisting around them as Jon whispered the words once more.
"By fire and blood, by root and stone—"
A blinding light consumed them, and the cave beneath the weirwood was left to the silence of the dead.
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*Jon Snow POV*
I stood amidst the Godswood of Winterfell. Around me, Bran, Meera, Hodor, Summer, and nearly fifty of the Children of the Forest stood in silence, their golden, cat-like eyes reflecting the pale moonlight. We had arrived in an instant, torn from the frozen depths of the cave beyond the Wall and delivered into the sacred heart of my ancestors.
I was the first to open my eyes, steadying myself as the residual magic thrummed through my veins. One by one, the others followed, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief.
A sense of relief settled over me, but it was fleeting. I turned to the Children, their small, lithe forms blending with the trees as if they had always belonged there.
"I would have offered you shelter in the halls of Winterfell," I said, my voice carrying in the stillness, "but I imagine you'd rather dwell among the trees than within walls of stone."
One of them stepped forward—a female, judging by her delicate features same as Leaf and the sharp intelligence in her golden eyes. "I am River," she said, her voice like the rustling of leaves. "You have given us safe passage when all seemed lost. In return, we offer you our aid should you ever need it. Call upon us, and we shall answer." She paused, glancing toward the towering weirwood. "You are right—we will make our home in the forests beyond your great stone keep. May the Old Gods watch over you and keep you from harm."
Without another word, they melted into the darkness, moving with the silent grace of spirits.
"Don’t need their eyes on me," I muttered under my breath, watching them disappear into the treeline.
That left just the four of us—Bran, Meera, Hodor, and Summer—standing in the Godswood, the sacred space now eerily quiet.
Before I could speak, Bran did. His eyes, dark and endless, peered into me as if he saw something beyond the here and now. "Jon… or do you prefer Daeron?" His voice was calm, detached, yet heavy with meaning. "You should go to Moat Cailin. Caraxes waits for you there."
I stiffened. "Caraxes?" The name alone sent a thrill through my veins.
Bran nodded, his gaze unfaltering. "He is waiting for you to come to him. Just as you were brought back, so too was he."
My breath hitched. Caraxes—the Blood Wyrm. The fearsome red dragon of Daemon Targaryen. A beast long thought lost to time, is alive now.
[The gift that was promised to you,] Aether’s voice echoed in my mind, the weight of its words settling over me like a shroud. [If you are strong enough to claim it.]
