Finally, Jon picked up an axe and, beneath the eyes of countless soldiers and smallfolk of the North, hacked the demon into pieces.
When it was over, all the strength seemed to drain from him.
He sank to his knees in the courtyard of Winterfell, staring at everything that had once been so familiar, and at last his tears spilled freely.
Revenge brought a brief rush of satisfaction, but what followed was an endless hollow ache and deep sorrow.
Waymar Royce walked up and gently patted his shoulder. "Jon, take heart. His Grace Lo Quen's army will arrive soon. The North's suffering is nearly over."
Jon looked up, momentarily taken aback, before realizing that the "His Grace" Waymar spoke of was the Dragonlord of the East, Sansa's husband.
He shook his head, his voice rough. "Thank you, Ser Waymar, but I'm afraid I can't stay to welcome him."
Ever since his resurrection, he had felt incomplete, as if something inside him were missing, replaced by an inexplicable pull that filled his heart.
Just then, Thorsos approached, his expression unreadable and strange. "Lord, there is a vision in the flames. You should see it."
Almost without thinking, Jon followed him to the hearth in the castle hall.
Thorsos murmured a low prayer.
The fire suddenly leapt high, and twisted images formed within the flames.
Endless ice and bitter cold. A silent march. A terrifying army made up of the dead.
The Others!
Their numbers stretched beyond sight.
Jon's heart lurched.
But what shocked him even more was the sight of a figure among them, one he could never forget, painfully familiar.
Ygritte.
Her hair had turned a blue-white like ancient, eternal ice.
Her skin was pale like the rest of the Others, her eyes glowing with an icy blue light.
But it was her. There was no doubt.
"No… Ygritte…"
The pain in Jon's chest was so sharp he could barely breathe.
She had become… this?
The vision vanished.
Jon stood there, unmoving, unable to come back to himself for a long time.
In the end, he made his choice.
He found Marlon Manderly and Waymar Royce. "I'm going beyond the Wall."
Ser Marlon was stunned. "What? Jon, you've only just taken back Winterfell. The North needs you!"
"The North has you, Ser Waymar, and the Dragonlord who is on his way."
Jon's eyes were unshakably firm. "But I have reasons I must go. The Long Night is coming. The Others are the real threat. I've seen them with my own eyes. And I have to find her. Even if she already… I still have to find her."
No matter how Marlon tried to dissuade him, Jon would not be moved.
The next morning.
He left the newly reclaimed Winterfell in silence, riding north with Thoros and only a handful of volunteers from the Brotherhood Without Banners, heading for the Wall.
Ten days later, atop Winterfell's walls, Waymar Royce scanned the distance with mounting unease.
At last, a familiar crimson dragon silhouette appeared on the horizon, growing larger and larger…
Lo Quen had finally arrived.
...
The Riverlands, the open countryside.
Kevan kept the young King Tommen tucked tightly against him. The two rode a sturdy warhorse seized during their escape from Duskendale, leading more than a hundred equally battered Westerlands cavalrymen in a headlong flight west.
Behind them, the thunder of hooves from the Golden Company and the Dothraki pursuers beat like a death drum, closing in with every moment.
Each time Kevan looked back, the dust rising on the horizon had grown thicker and higher.
"Faster! Faster!"
He rasped the command at his mount.
He had weathered countless storms in his life, but never had he felt so wretched or so utterly desperate.
Duskendale had fallen. Cersei's fate was unknown. Jaime was missing.
Now, carrying House Lannister's last hope, Tommen, he was being hunted without respite.
"Lord Kevan… I'm scared…"
Tommen's voice, thick with tears, was torn apart by the wind. His small body trembled uncontrollably in Kevan's arms.
"Hold on, Tommen. You are the King."
Kevan forced the words out through clenched teeth, his voice betraying him with its shake.
He knew all too well that if Jon Connington's sellswords caught up, there would be no mercy waiting for them.
Just as man and horse alike were near exhaustion, on the verge of being overtaken, a familiar fork in the road appeared ahead, along with the outline of a small town.
"Stoney Sept!" a Westerlands knight shouted between gasps.
"My lord! Let's hide inside! The streets are twisting here, we might be able to shake them!"
Kevan barely hesitated.
In such dire straits, even the flimsiest chance had to be grasped.
"Into the town! Scatter and find places to hide!"
More than a hundred riders surged into Stoney Sept, immediately breaking apart and vanishing into the narrow alleys.
Kevan dismounted beside what looked like an abandoned courtyard, clutching Tommen close. He slashed the horse hard across the flank, sending the startled animal galloping forward to draw attention away. Then he dragged Tommen with him, stumbling into the shadows.
The town erupted into chaos as terrified residents stared at the sudden flood of soldiers.
Kevan's heart sank. He knew this confusion would not last long. The pursuers would be there any moment.
Just then, an old man dressed in plain priest's robes quietly opened an unremarkable wooden door and beckoned urgently.
"My lord, this way! Quickly!"
A single ray of light in the darkness.
Kevan did not stop to think. He pulled Tommen inside at once.
The old man shut the door swiftly, leading them through a cluttered back courtyard and into an ancient stone tower.
Inside, the tower was narrow and dim, heavy with the smell of mold and dust.
"Up to the top," the old man said, pointing breathlessly at the steep spiral staircase. "There's a storage loft up there. You can't see it from outside."
"This is as far as I can take you. May the Seven Gods watch over you."
With that, he hurried off, vanishing as if he had never been there at all.
Kevan dared not linger. Half carrying, half dragging the utterly spent Tommen, he struggled up the creaking stairs.
At the top, just as promised, he pushed aside a heavy bookcase disguised as part of the wall, revealing a low, hidden entrance.
Beyond it lay a cramped space filled with tattered scrolls and assorted junk. Only a narrow stone window let in a thin strip of light and air.
"Hide here. Don't make a sound, no matter what you hear."
Kevan tucked Tommen into the deepest corner, covering him with rags. He stationed himself near the entrance, heart hammering, ears straining to catch any sound from outside.
Before long, louder noise rolled in from beyond the town.
Jon Connington's pursuers had arrived.
Kevan's heart leapt into his throat. He could hear the Golden Company soldiers searching house by house, the sounds creeping ever closer…
He could even make out a Golden Company sergeant shouting orders in the street below.
Elsewhere, Jon Connington sat astride his horse, studying the town with a complicated expression.
He led the elite of the Golden Company, relentlessly following the trail of Kevan Lannister and the false king, Tommen.
Their pursuit had finally brought them to a place burned deep into Jon Connington's memory.
Stoney Sept.