"Back then, you said Stannis was the reincarnation of Azor Ahai, the prophesied child born amidst smoke and salt.
Now you claim Jon Snow is the savior. Just how many saviors are there in the Asshai prophecy?" Daenerys looked at the solemn red priestess with a teasing smile.
"Prophecies are never wrong. Only those who interpret them are," Melisandre replied coolly, her expression faintly displeased.
"Then who exactly is the prophesied one?" Daenerys asked.
"The prophesied one stands before you."
Melisandre's red robes fluttered as she stepped aside, revealing the corpse of Jon Snow lying upon a massive block of ice.
"I really wish Stannis could hear you say that." Daenerys cast her a meaningful glance before stepping forward, carefully studying Jon's bare body on the ice.
Well, a strip of white cloth covered his loins, but the rest of his body was completely exposed—like a freshly slaughtered and cleaned pig.
Daenerys could clearly see most of the wounds that marred him.
How to describe it?Tragic.Utterly tragic.
His pale skin was covered with twenty or thirty dark, bruised, blood-crusted wounds of varying shapes and sizes, all deep and penetrating.
It wasn't hard to imagine the scene—Jon surrounded by dozens of men striking him down together.
Daenerys couldn't even tell which blow had been fatal. His chest, abdomen, and neck had all been pierced through.
Around his neck was a line of black stitches.
The mortician's work was crude; the stitching uneven, with skin turned outward and pink blood vessels and bluish membranes faintly visible.
Jon Snow was dead.
Completely, unmistakably dead.
"Caw!" A large raven flew in from outside, swooping over everyone's heads before landing on Jon's chest. It stared at Daenerys and cried again.
"That's Lord Commander Mormont's raven. It's clever—knows how to mimic speech," said Donal the blacksmith, glancing at the great bird. "Later, it followed Commander Snow. Some say it became his animal companion.
There are even rumors that the Commander lives on inside it."
"Has it ever spoken to you? Said it was Jon Snow?" Daenerys asked curiously, looking at the raven's sorrowful eyes.
"No. After the Commander died, it never spoke to any of us again," Donal replied, his gaze heavy as he looked at the bird.
Melisandre glanced at the raven, then turned to Daenerys. "Since you are here, may I return the savior to the world of the living?"
"Caw!" The raven flapped its wings and let out a loud cry.
Pycell suddenly said, "I heard the High Sparrow was also beheaded in his trial by combat. Yet the Mother showed mercy and resurrected him.
Your Grace, could you not ask the Mother to bring him back?If Commander Snow truly is the savior, surely the Mother would not refuse?"
If the Mother did refuse, wouldn't that prove Jon wasn't the savior?
This red-nosed old man—truly devious.
"High Priestess, what do you think of the High Septon's resurrection?" Daenerys asked with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"I was about to ask you the same thing. How, exactly, did the Mother accomplish it?"
Melisandre's eyes glowed faintly red, and the large ruby at her throat pulsed with the same eerie light.
She stared intently at Daenerys, as though trying to see straight through her.
Daenerys suddenly understood. Like the Three-Eyed Raven, the Red Woman knew she had usurped the Seven's divine seat—and that it was she who had resurrected the High Sparrow.
"Ahem. Jon Snow doesn't believe in the Seven. Whether he's the savior or not, the Mother wouldn't pay him any mind," Daenerys said awkwardly, steering the conversation away.
"High Priestess, why don't you tell us how you plan to bring Jon back?"
Melisandre gave her a deep look, then turned to the raven. "Will it work?"
"Caw!" cried the raven again.
The others were puzzled, but the Red Woman seemed to have received her answer. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and turned gracefully to leave.
"Take Jon Snow's body to the courtyard."
The brothers of the Night's Watch exchanged bewildered looks. Before they could react, two knights bearing the fiery heart sigil entered, wordlessly lifting Jon's body.
"You—" Donal began, his single arm outstretched to stop them.
Melisandre's calm voice halted him. "Jon Snow is dead. He no longer belongs to the Night's Watch."
Then she softly recited the opening line of their oath: "Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death."
Until my death—that was the key.
"Sigh…" Donal exhaled deeply and stepped aside.
When Jon's body was placed on a stretcher and carried out, Daenerys and the others followed.
As they walked through the tunnel toward the courtyard, Daenerys murmured, "Perhaps the oath should be rewritten—'In life, a brother of the Watch. In death, a ghost of the Watch. Forever and ever, until the end of time.'"
"That's far too cruel. I've only been here six months, and I've already sworn to myself that if I ever live again, I'll be a good maester—and never come back to the Wall," said Maester Pycell with a twitch of his lips.
"With that attitude, you're almost guaranteed to return in your next life," Daenerys replied with a cold smirk.
Tormund hadn't taken all his men south. After all, his wife and daughter were still at the Wall and needed protection.
The followers of the Lord of Light moved swiftly. They quickly built a funeral pyre and an altar of wooden planks.
Jon's body was laid upon the altar, while nine wooden stakes were erected behind the pyre—each one tied with a filthy, disheveled wildling.
It was clear Melisandre intended to sacrifice the nine of them.
What surprised Daenerys, however, was that none of the Night's Watch stopped her, nor did any wildling protest or curse her name.
When Daenerys voiced her confusion, Mance's expression darkened. "They're followers of the 'Weeper.'
After I gave the order, nearly all the free folk surrendered to the Wall of their own accord.
But the Weeper and his men refused.
Not only that, they forbade others from surrendering as well.
They ambushed tribes heading south through the Haunted Forest every day, spilling the blood of countless innocents.
Just three months ago, he even disguised his men as surrendering free folk and tried to seize Eastwatch by surprise."
That battle cost nearly half the Watchers at East Seaview their lives.
The nine free folk captured afterward were the most radical among them.
Watching those men burned alive brought an indescribable satisfaction to the others.
"What about Jon's girlfriend?" Dany asked when she saw Mance's wife and sister-in-law but not the red-haired girl.
"Ygritte?" Mance paused before realizing whom she meant.
"When Jon Snow died, she lost her mind. She didn't know who killed him, so she attacked anyone wearing black like a madwoman.
We had no choice but to lock her in the dungeon."
Before long, the courtyard was crowded. Even Stannis's wife brought their daughter to stand on the steps of the King's Tower and look down at Dany.
And Dany looked back at her.
They studied each other for a moment. The air turned awkward; neither made any move to greet the other.
The Dragon Queen waited for Lady Stannis to come forward and pay her respects, while Queen Selyse Florent had no intention of "lowering herself."
After meeting Selyse Florent, Dany finally understood why Stannis always wore that stoic, ascetic expression.
His wife truly looked the part.
Tall and thin, with a face sharp as a snake's, large ears flaring like fans—typical of House Florent—an impossibly pointy nose like the heel of a stiletto, and a faint layer of hair above her upper lip that somehow made her look more masculine than her beardless husband.
Beside her stood Princess Shireen, curiously studying both the Dragon Queen and the black dragon sprawled across the outer walls of the Black Castle—the same walls Dany had designed herself, not the Wall of ice to the north.
When Dany saw Shireen, she once again thought, all beings suffer; no one has the right to call themselves the most miserable.
The twelve-year-old girl had inherited her father's square jaw and her mother's large Florent ears.
Not a single good trait from either parent—only their flaws combined.
Worse still, she had once suffered from greyscale, leaving the skin on her left cheek and much of her neck covered in dead, gray-black patches.
"Caw—!" The cry of a raven snapped Dany from her thoughts.
She closed her eyes, and a fragment of her second soul split off, quietly merging into the great raven's body.
She saw Jon.
"Didn't expect our next meeting to be like this," Jon said with a bitter smile.
Like the Children of the Forest, the raven's spiritual space contained not a half-human, half-beast soul but a complete and conscious human one.
He was only eighteen, yet he looked thirty-eight—worn, pale, his shoulder-length black hair hanging loose, and his face hidden beneath an overgrown beard. He looked like a patch of weeds overfed on fertilizer.
Half his face was buried under the tangle of hair and beard.
"Is this your second life?" Dany asked curiously.
"No. I'm only temporarily dwelling here," Jon replied. "And it's all thanks to the Shadowbinder Meditation Your Majesty taught me. It keeps my soul from dispersing, allowing my true spirit to remain intact for a long time."
"The meditation did that?" Dany was genuinely surprised.
Could a mere third-level meditation truly keep a soul from perishing?
"Are you sure it wasn't a greenseer helping you?" she asked doubtfully.
"Greenseer? Who's that?" Jon asked in confusion.
"You don't even know about the Three-Eyed Raven? Then how did you manage to contact me?" Dany said in disbelief.
"It was Bran."
Jon thought for a moment, then continued, "Before I died, my meditation had advanced beyond the first level. I could already move my soul between Ghost and the old bear.
When the moment of crisis came, I naturally became what I am now.
A day after my death, Melisandre was preparing to resurrect me. That's when Bran found me—like you, he entered a raven's body and told me you could help me deal with the side effects of resurrection. That's why I sought you out."
Jon's words contained a lot of information. Dany thought for a while before frowning. "What do you mean, advanced beyond the first level?"
"You don't know? Meditation arts are ranked. Mine was originally third-level."
"I know that," Dany interrupted, "but where did you hear about such rankings?"
Jon replied matter-of-factly, "The Legendary Demigod's Journal of Tam. There's a lot of information about the transcendental world in there. Some of the blood rituals are questionable, but overall, that book has helped me immensely."
Dany almost laughed. So she really had become that old master who randomly gives out cultivation manuals—Jon had basically picked up a treasure for free.
"You're telling me you advanced from third-level to above first-level in half a year?" Dany asked skeptically.
"Not just to first-level, but beyond it. My meditative core was once a vague shadow. After three evolutions, it became a solid black sphere."
Looking into Jon's gray eyes, Dany could see a tiny black point at the center, dense as a singularity. She stared, speechless.
After a long moment, she sighed. "Jon, I must admit—you're the most extraordinary young man in the West."
"Your Majesty flatters me," Jon said with a weary smile. "Better tell me how you're going to help me survive this."
The bonfire roared to life, thick smoke billowing into the air, red flames churning. Wildlings screamed within the fire.
Melisandre stood at the front, joined by Lady Stannis and a group of knights and wildlings who worshipped the Red God, all chanting R'hllor's prayer:
"The night is dark and full of terrors; the day is bright and full of life. Black and white, ice and fire, hate and love, sorrow and joy, winter and summer, evil and justice."
A mysterious power descended from the void, beginning to draw Jon's soul.
"Open your mouth," Dany said with a smile. "Let's thread the sun through the fish's gut."
(End of chapter)
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