Falling Like || Jon Snow

34| 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩 𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔬𝔱 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔥

castle black, the wall

— JON WAS BURNING ALIVE. At least that's what it felt like. The last thing he could remember was the look in Olly's eyes as he drove his blade through Jon's heart – Olly and the officers had killed him. But now he was burning alive. The fire had burnt the darkness away painfully, scorching his eyes, ripping at his skin. It shouldn't be here. He found himself knowing although he wasn't really sure why. And then the burning disappeared, a chill settling over his skin and he woke with a gasp.

For a second, the world was nothing more than a blur before his eyes and he wondered briefly if he was a dead man walking now, if this was the curse of being revived by the Night King; conscious of your body without any control. Then he felt Ghost sniffing at his hand, and the room around him started becoming clearer. His study, at Castle Black. He could feel the faint heat of a fire crackling nearby and the chill of the wind. He could move his own hands. He was in control. Slowly, he forced himself to sit up, hardly aware of the door bursting open, the figure standing shell-shocked in the doorway.

Ser Davos looked Jon up and down, eyes wide, feet stuck in place. It worked. He couldn't believe it. Slowly, Jon looked up from observing the sealed stab wounds on his chest, turning to the Onion Knight with horrified eyes.

"What is it? What's happened??" Suddenly, the cold terror in Jon's chest melted away, warm relief blooming instead at the familiar voice. Then she appeared in the doorway, and her entire body froze. Her lips were parted, trembling slightly, her eyes blown wide. Then in the blink of an eye, she'd surged forward across the room, throwing her arms around his shoulders fiercely but gently all the same. "Seven hells," she breathed, voice wobbly, and Jon thought that even all seven hells and every deity known to man couldn't have torn him away from her now.

Despite the remaining soreness in his chest, he returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing his eyes shut as he buried his face in her hair. She smelled like pine and fur and firewood, fresh snow and perhaps a hint of pipeweed. She smelled alive, and she was so, so warm, chasing away every ounce of cold, every last touch of death he'd felt clinging to him, prickling over his skin. When she withdrew, there was something akin to wonder in her glistening eyes as she held his face between her hands.

It was then that Jon became very aware of the fact that he was naked but for a thin cloth thankfully covering below his hips. "I- uh-" he rasped.

She gave a quiet, wobbly laugh. "Oh. Here." She unclasped her own cloak to wrap it around his shoulders. It carried some of her body heat with it, and her comforting scent as well, grounding him. Hands still on his shoulders, another laugh escaped her. Her eyes, though, looked like she was replaying some kind of twisted, horrible memory, over and over again in her head.

Just then, Lady Melisandre entered the room, looking as shocked as the others, and Nymeria moved to lean against the table next to Jon, though she still kept one hand on his shoulder, for which he was grateful.

"What do you remember?" Ser Davos asked.

"They stabbed me." He breathed, feeling sick at the memory. Next to him, Nymeria's eyes squeezed shut for a second as he said it. "Olly..." his breath shook. "He put a knife in my heart." he shook his head. "I shouldn't be here."

"Don't say that." Nymeria's voice was quiet, but sharp, almost angry.

"The lady brought you back." Davos explained.

The Red Woman studied him with intensity. "Afterwards," she spoke urgently. "After they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?"