Darkness had a weight to it and Jon sank into it, deeper than the sea, deeper than felt in his last death. The cold that had gnawed at him beyond the Wall was nothing compared to this void. No breath filled his chest. No heartbeat stirred his blood.
And yet, he was not gone. He woke up in a hall where candles light one by one until there were dozens of them there, flickering even with no wind.
A whisper stirred, deep as roots beneath the earth. Another followed, bright as a hymn in a sept. A low roar like fire on the wind. A crash of waves against stone. And then, a soft murmur, like the flowing of a river older than time.
He knew he was not alone.
They sat in a circle, each figure distinct yet terrible, radiating a presence that made Jon's soul shrink. An old, bark-skinned figure whose face was a weirwood's, red sap tears running from its eyes—the Old Gods of the North. A seven-faced shape, shifting constantly—man and woman, warrior and maiden, crone and smith and stranger—the Seven of the Faith. A figure wreathed in fire, its body coals and flame, eyes burning with a cruel light—R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A dripping, salt-soaked man with a beard of kelp and a crown of shells, his voice like a storm tide—the Drowned God. And a woman formed of flowing water, her hair the silver stream of an endless river.
Jon's throat was dry, but words broke from him. "Where am I?"
"You stand before us, Jon Snow," said the many-voiced chorus. It was all of them, and each of them, speaking as one. "Son of ice and fire. The blood of wolf and dragon. The boy who lived when he should have perished."
"You stand before us, Jon Snow," the Seven intoned, their voices layering one over another, "because your tale is not yet ended."
Jon's lips parted, dry. "I died again?"
A smile curved across the weirwood's carved face, and the leaves shivered as though laughing. "You are beyond. Dead, yet not gone. Called here, for judgment."
His heart pounded. He had faced White Walkers, dragons, kings, and queens—but before these powers, he was powerless.
"I have nothing to say," Jon whispered. "If I've been judged, then let it be done."
"No," said the flame, voice searing, commanding. "Not yet. First you will understand."
Visions poured into him—battlefields drenched in blood, the bodies of men who had fallen at the Wall, at Winterfell, at King's Landing. He saw Ygritte's face as the arrow pierced her, saw Daenerys walking through fire, saw Theon, Jorah, Barristan, all who had given their lives in wars that bent toward him, whether he wished it or not.
"All of this," said the Seven, their voices together like tolling bells. "Every death, every war, every sacrifice was coin spent for you."
Jon's hands trembled at his sides. "I've failed. I've always failed. The wars, the people I couldn't save..."
"You failed not for lack of heart," the fire roared, "but for wasting what was given. Do you know the price that was paid for you?"
Jon lifted his eyes, meeting the flame's blaze. "Thousands burned at Kings Landing. Thousands froze at the Wall. Brothers of your Watch gave their lives. Wildlings died to follow you. A silver-haired queen tore the world open to bring dragons to life. And all of it—all of it—was so the Prince That Was Promised could stand at the end and end this cycle."
The words struck him harder than any blade. "No. You're wrong. Daenerys… she brought dragons back. She was the Prince tha—"
"Power does not make one worthy," the river-woman interrupted, her voice soft yet endless. "How many kings sat the throne with power? How many squandered it? Daenerys was fire, but fire unbridled consumes all. Her gift was to light the path—but you were meant to walk it. To be chosen is not to be strong—it is to be right."
Jon's throat tightened. "I failed. I bent the knee when I should not have. I trusted when I should not have. I killed the woman I loved. I betrayed every oath."
The drowned god's laugh was harsh as crashing surf. "Aye. You failed. You trusted too easily. You gave secrets to those who would wield them like knives. You feared the crown more than the ruin it would prevent. You were a coward when the realm needed a king. And you, Jon Snow—son of ice and fire—were the right man. Not for your sword. Not for your blood. For your heart. But you wasted it."
The words pierced him deeper than any sword ever had. Jon fell to his knees, hands clenched. "Then why me? Why keep choosing me if I am so unworthy?"
The flame roared higher, engulfing half the hall, yet not burning him. "Because even in your failure, you were better. You were no tyrant, no usurper. You did not seek crown and power, yet you bore the responsibility of everyone in your own way. You chose mercy when others chose cruelty. You were the only one who could rule and still remain a man."
The weirwood's carved eyes seemed to open, watching him with sorrow. "But mercy without steel is weakness, and weakness costs lives. You spared when you should have struck. You yielded when you should have stood tall. All that blood bought you the chance to end the game—to end the wheel. And you threw it away. You knew men would follow you, yet you bent the knee when your heart knew better. You trusted secrets to those who had already shown their hunger. You knew Daenerys burned, and still you hesitated, hoping mercy would tame fire. You feared the weight of a crown, and so you laid it down when it was needed most."
"Cowardice," R'hllor hissed, flames leaping higher. "You call it honor. You call it mercy. We call it what it was. Cowardice."
Jon's fists clenched. "I killed her! I killed Daenerys when no one else would. If that is cowardice—"
The Seven's Mother-face leaned forward, gentle but unyielding. "It was justice. Necessary, yes. But you did not step forward after. You hid in the shadows. You let others decide your fate when you knew their hands were unsteady. That is where you faltered."
His chest felt tight, as if the air itself judged him. "I never wanted it. Any of it."
"And yet," the Old Gods whispered, branches creaking, "you were born of it. Ice and fire. Wolf and dragon. The blood of two houses at odds since the world was young, bound in you. Do you think that was accident? Do you think so many died, so many sacrificed, for a man who would only run from himself?"
Jon's voice broke. "I'm no king. I never was."
The circle of gods loomed closer, their voices rising, overlapping, a tide of judgment.
"No king is born ready."
"No throne is won without blood."
"No ruler is unscarred."
"You are no king," the fire god R'hllor thundered, "because you chose not to be. But you were the best the realm had. And you squandered it."
The words echoed in the hall, each syllable heavier than stone. Jon bowed his head, the weight of his failures pressing down until he thought he might crumble.
Then, the Old Gods spoke again, softer now, like wind through leaves. "But even squandered chances may be reclaimed. The realm will get no peace. The game will begin again. Do you understand your worth now, Jon Snow?"
Jon raised his head, meeting the weirwood's red eyes. His voice trembled. "If I was meant to be their king… if I was meant to end it… why bring me here now? I am dead."
The fire flared, the sea roared, the seven faces shifted, and the old tree groaned.
"Because your tale is not suppose to end like this."
His eyes burned like they were poured with salt. "And if I cannot be what you want? If I am not the prince you thought?"
"Then Westeros dies," the voices said as one, ringing like doom.
Jon's chest tightened. The weight of it pressed on him like mountains. He was only a man—bastard, oathbreaker, exile. And yet every god in heaven and earth was telling him he was more.
Ghost's cry echoed faintly in the distance of his mind, dragging him back to the world he had left.
"Rise, Aemon Targaryen," the voices commanded, vast and final. "You are not done."
And with that, the hall of gods shattered into light.