A sharp wind than any he had ever known at Castle Black cut through him. He'd thought he'd grown accustomed to the bite of winter during his years as Lord Commander, but freedom beyond the Wall brought a new kind of cold—one that pressed into his bones, unrelenting. He tugged his furs closer, trudging through the drifts beside Tormund while the wildlings trailed ahead in a ragged line. Children laughed, their voices bright against the vast whiteness, chasing one another, and somewhere to his right, a group of men argued about where to settle before the next storm.
Jon let them talk. He had little interest in shaping the wildlings' future. His own was a spent thing; his life had been taken once already, and everything since felt like a borrowed candle, one the gods had forgotten to blow off. He'd left the Wall because he was told to leave. He'd walked beyond it because there was nowhere else for him to go.
"Ye brooding again?" Tormund's voice cut through the silence, a note of humor in it. "Careful. That scowl of yours might freeze in place."
Jon managed a thin smile. "Better a scowl than your grin."
The wildling chieftain laughed, a deep, booming sound, and trudged on ahead. Jon lingered, letting his boots sink into the snow, his gaze wandering northward where endless pine and frost stretched beyond sight. Ghost padded silently at his side, the great white direwolf's ears twitching, crimson eyes alert. Jon placed a hand in Ghost's thick fur, grateful for his warmth.
He thought of Winterfell. He thought of Sansa. Of Bran, now king, perched on that strange wheeled throne, his gaze unreadable, last knelt to him. He thought of Arya, gone to chase the edge of the world, and of the Northmen who had once called him their king. He was no king now. No brother of the Watch, not truly. Just Jon Snow. Or perhaps, not even that.
The stillness broke with the snap of a branch. Ghost stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Jon's hand went instinctively to Longclaw's hilt. The wildlings ahead were too far to notice, their laughter carried off by the wind. Jon turned, his eyes narrowing.
Figures emerged from the trees—men cloaked in salted northern furs, their breath steaming in the chill. Norhtern men, he realized at once. His heart lurched. The one at their head pulled back his hood, revealing a lined face and grey-streaked beard. A man of the North, sworn once to his family's banner.
"Jon Snow," the man said. His voice was flat, carrying neither warmth nor honor.
Jon's hand stayed on Longclaw. "What are you doing here?"
The man's eyes flicked toward the direwolf and back again. "The North remembers."
The words struck memories of man he once called Lord Stark, but there was no loyalty in them—not then, not today. More men stepped from the shadows, steel glinting in their hands. Ghost snarled, his body lowering to spring. Jon's throat tightened. "Whose orders?" he asked, though part of him already knew.
The bearded man did not flinch. "From Winterfell. From your kin."
Sansa. Bran. His blood turned cold.
"Why?" The word tore from him, harsher than the wind. "Why now? It's done. I bent the knee. I left the realm."
"Because you still live," the man said simply. "And while you live, the North and 6 kingdoms will whisper. A son with Stark's blood and also a Targaryen heir. Whispers are dangerous things."
Jon shook his head, disbelief wrestling with sorrow. "I never wanted thrones. Never wanted crowns."
"Aye. And yet men would die for you, Snow. Men would always follow someone like you."
The first sword came free of its scabbard with a hiss. Ghost leapt forward, a flash of white, tearing into the nearest man. Snow exploded red beneath them. Steel clashed, shouts rang out. Jon drew Longclaw, its Valyrian steel singing as it cut through the frozen air. He fought like the wolf he was, every strike a memory of battles past. Of Hardhome. Of the Battle of the Bastards. Of the Long Night. But these were his own folk—his men once—and each stroke of his blade weighed heavier than the last.
Ghost howled, blood staining his white fur, as more men swarmed him. Jon turned to strike again—and the bearded man drove a dagger up beneath his ribs.
The breath left him in a rush. The world tilted. Snowflakes spun lazily as though time itself slowed. His knees buckled, Longclaw slipping from numb fingers. The weight of his body pressed into the snow, red spilling fast and hot into the white. Ghost's howl became a hurtful cry.
His vision blurred. Faces bent above him, faceless now in the storm. His heart hammered once, twice—then faltered. He thought of his father, who was not his father. Of Robb. Of Ygritte. Of Daenerys. Of the promises he had broken, the love he had lost, the truth he had carried like a curse.
He thought, last, of Winterfell's halls, of a hearth's warm fire, of the laughter of a boy who once dreamed of honor.
"I am the sword in the darkness…" he whispered, though the words did not carry.
The snow drank him in, and Jon Snow—last of the wolves, last of the dragons—was gone.