Chapter Text
Jon stares blankly at his reflection in the polished silver mirror. In his mind the words You know nothing, Jon Snow circle like a minstrel’s refrain—whisper-soft, like a ballad to the new gods.
Ygritte’s mocking-affectionate words have never resonated more in him than now—they shake him to his bones. Literally.
He clenches his fingers into a fist, breathless by their small size, a children’s hand, soft and unmarked. It’s wrong, wrong, wrong…
It does nothing to the soul-shaking tremor, wracking through him.
His lungs burn. It feels like he has been stabbed again.
He can live with magic.
He can live with ancient, fantastical childhood tales about winter and death—horror unimaginable come to walk the earth.
He can even live with the bitter knowledge what it means to be a death-abandoned corpse hungering for the slightest flicker of life.
But this is a thousand times more cruel. Gods-forsaken, thrice-damned.
In the mirror, his father’s face stares back. A distorted mirror image of his own.