She slowly bent down, her lips lightly pressing against Jon's cold, rigid mouth.
In that instant, it was as if something intangible drained from her body, passing through that icy contact and flowing into Jon's corpse.
The faint glimmer in her eyes dimmed rapidly. The swelling of her body seemed to worsen, her form growing even more lifeless and ashen.
When the kiss ended, she jerked her head up, as though she had exhausted the very last of her strength.
She did not look at anyone, not even at Jon.
She stiffly straightened, turned around, and began to stagger step by step toward the sound of the waves, toward the bleak, gray shoreline.
Her pace was slow but unwavering, her retreating figure filled with boundless sorrow and a sense of release.
When she reached the sea, the icy water washed over her ankles, then her knees…
She did not stop. She kept walking into the depths until a wave surged up, and that body, burdened with too much pain and hatred, slowly sank beneath the freezing water, never to rise again.
She exchanged her second death for the rebirth of another child.
The valley fell into absolute silence.
Everyone stood frozen, stunned by the harrowing, tragic sight, unable to speak for a long while.
All eyes turned to Jon's body, waiting.
Time passed little by little, from afternoon into dusk. The last glow of the setting sun stained the thin plumes of smoke rising from the ruins of White Harbor a deep blood-red. Sea winds swept through the valley, carrying a salty tang.
Just as Ser Marlon was on the brink of despair, convinced that the ritual had failed…
Jon's body suddenly twitched!
Then his chest began to heave violently. Like a fish hauled from the water, he gasped for air in great gulps, his throat letting out harsh, rasping sounds.
His eyes flew open!
They were still that familiar gray, yet no longer weighed down by past gloom. Instead, they carried a cold, alien sharpness, as if he had clawed his way back from a frozen hell.
"Gods above!"
Ser Maron stumbled back in shock, collapsing onto the ground. Pointing at the revived Jon, he babbled incoherently, "A-alive… he's alive! He's really alive!"
Thoros, by contrast, seemed far calmer. He only let out a long, slow breath.
Jon struggled to sit up, coughing violently as he looked around in confusion.
He touched his chest. The fatal arrow wounds were gone, leaving behind only faint traces of newly healed flesh. Yet an indescribable emptiness filled his heart, as though something immensely important had been lost.
"What… happened to me?"
His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable.
"I remember the arrow… Arya…"
Suppressing his own turmoil, Ser Maron stepped forward and briefly explained what had happened afterward, including Lady Stoneheart's appearance and her sacrifice.
Jon listened in silence.
He lowered his gaze to his hands, his expression tangled and unreadable.
Lady Catelyn…
The woman who had resented him throughout her life had, in the end, used what remained of her existence to bring him back.
A crushing sense of responsibility settled heavily on his heart.
He felt as though a thin, icy veil now separated him from the world, dulling his emotions.
Only the fire of vengeance burned hotter than ever before.
"Bolton…"
He lifted his head, cold light flashing in his eyes.
"All traitors… must die."
Jon's return was like a shot of strength injected into the shattered remnants of the army.
He quickly took command and immediately dispatched his sharpest scouts.
Before long, the scouts returned with news.
An enemy force of roughly five thousand was tracking them along the coastline near White Harbor.
Their banners marked them as a joint force from House Tallhart, House Karstark, and House Flint.
Leading them were Helman Tallhart, Arnolf Karstark, and Robin Flint.
They clearly believed Jon was dead and that Ser Marlon's remaining troops were at their limit. Eager to finish them off and claim credit with House Bolton, they pressed forward without hesitation.
Jon's voice was devoid of warmth.
"Good. They couldn't have come at a better time."
He carefully surveyed the surrounding terrain and quickly formed a plan.
He chose a narrow coastal gorge as the ambush site. One side rose into sheer cliffs, while the other opened onto a beach littered with jagged rocks.
The passage was tight, making it impossible for a large force to deploy properly.
"Ser Marlon," Jon ordered, "you'll take most of the men. Deliberately expose your movements. Make it look like a panicked retreat and draw them into the gorge."
He then turned to Thoros.
"Thoros, you, your people, and the remaining elites will lie in wait among the rocks and brush along the cliffs. Once they've all entered the gorge, attack at my signal. No mercy."
The plan was set.
Ser Marlon followed the orders, leading the bulk of the troops in a chaotic "retreat" toward the gorge, throwing aside armor and weapons as if fleeing in desperation.
Soon enough, the pursuers appeared.
Helman Tallhart burst into loud laughter, pointing at the "fleeing" soldiers ahead.
"Look at them! The fat fish of House Manderly can't even run anymore! Catch them! Lord Roose will reward us well!"
Arnolf Karstark sneered viciously.
"I hear Jon Snow is dead. Perfect. We'll take these traitors' heads to Winterfell and claim our reward."
Robin Flint, younger and somewhat more cautious, was still swept up by visions of victory. He urged the troops onward.
Five thousand pursuers surged unguarded into the narrow gorge.
The column stretched long, formations breaking apart as the terrain grew rough and uneven.
Just as they fully entered the killing ground, with the vanguard nearly catching Ser Marlon's men…
A cold, clear command rang out from above.
"Loose!"
In an instant, members of the Brotherhood Without Banners and the remaining Northmen revealed themselves. Arrows of vengeance poured down like rain.
Logs and boulders were shoved from the cliffs, crashing thunderously into the gorge.
"Ambush!"
"Fall back!"
The enemy ranks erupted into chaos.
Arrows fell from above with nowhere to hide. Screams echoed without end.
The rolling logs and stones smashed men and horses alike, completely cutting the force in two.
Those who tried to retreat found their escape blocked by scattered ambushers and falling rock.
"For the North! For Stark!"
Seeing the moment, Ser Marlon immediately wheeled his men around and charged back into the fight.
The battle became a one-sided slaughter.
With the terrain against them and morale collapsing, the Bolton lackeys could not mount any meaningful resistance.
Jon Snow personally led the assault down from the cliffs. Longsword in hand, his movements were even sharper than in life. Every strike went straight for a vital point, clean and efficient, without a single wasted motion.
Wherever he passed, enemies fell.
Helman Tallhart tried to rally his men but was cut down in a storm of blades by several members of the Brotherhood Without Banners.
Arnolf Karstark froze when he saw Jon's face, shock draining the color from him. After only a heartbeat's hesitation, he roared and charged, but Jon easily knocked his weapon aside and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Robin Flint, seeing the battle was lost, dismounted and dropped to his knees to beg for mercy. He was quickly bound by soldiers.
The fighting ended swiftly.
Nearly the entire force of five thousand was wiped out. Corpses carpeted the gorge, blood soaking into the broken stones.
Jon Snow stood among the dead, expressionless.
The surviving Arnolf Karstark and Robin Flint were dragged before him.
When the tightly bound Robin Flint saw Jon standing there, his eyes nearly bulged from his skull, disbelief written across his face.
"You… you're not dead?! That's impossible!" Arnolf Karstark rasped, coughing up blood.
Jon Snow looked down at them coldly, his gray eyes utterly calm.
"House Stark gave you honor and protection. You repaid it with betrayal and slaughter. For power, you murdered His Grace Robb, Lady Catelyn, and countless soldiers of the North."
His gaze swept over the terrified captives and the bodies strewn across the ground.
"The North remembers."
Slowly, he raised his longsword, his voice ice-cold.
"In the name of Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell, I, Jon Snow, sentence you to death."
There were no further words. No delay.
Amid the traitors' desperate cries and pleas, the blade flashed.
Arnolf Karstark and Robin Flint were executed one after the other.
Three traitors' heads were mounted on spears and raised at the entrance to the gorge, a warning to all who dared betray the North.
Cold moonlight washed over the blood-soaked valley. Jon stood alone among the corpses, his figure solitary and still.
His gaze was fixed on one place only.
Winterfell, in the far North.
...
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