Castle Black. The Wall. 300 AC

"Ghost"

The blood had pooled in the dirtied snow, trampled over and turned to mud. The perpretrators of the crime stood still, frozen after carrying the deed, some were even looking at their hands, covered with blood. One of them was complaining because during the frenzied attack he had been stabbed by his partner-in-crime in the left arm. Lord Snow laid like a broken doll, his left arm under the body in a weird position, the right one still trying to reach the sword on its scabbard, the fingers stiff and twisted. The eyes now looked empty, like beads staring into nothingness, blood had abandoned the Lord Commander's face. Somewhere close something was banging furiously against an oaken door.

"It was me who killed the bastard!"

"What have you done, you traitors?"

Said the black brother who had been with the bastard of Winterfell, pressed against the wall by one of those involved. Horse laid unconscious on the snowy floor, bleeding profusely through the broken nose and lip.

"Shut the fuck up, Rory, or ya wanna be next?"

"That wound in the neck is mine!"

"I stabbed him in tha hear' you idiots, it was'a me who killed da bastard"

"I should be Lord Commander now"

"Aye, ya should, lord Marsh"

The door to the armory was banging, the bolt dangerously dangling in place. But the murderers were far too busy in the heat of the moment. Faces started to populate the courtyard, including queensmen from the tower Lady Selyse lived in.

"Over my dead cold body!"

"Oh, you're gonna be so dead'ed boy!"

In their frenzy they had forgotten about the literal giant, who was now standing in the midst of a carnage. A disembodied arm flew through the air, the one who he had recently torn from the corpse, hitting Whittlestick right on the head.

"Oh, what the actual fu...?"

What came next was hard to describe. A mutilated corpse, used like an improvised flail, sent Marsh tumbling into the floor like a fallen doll. Then, the bolt keeping the armory close jumped from its place, weakened by rust and broken by the sheer force of the thing throwing itself against it: half of the conspirators, those closer to the building jumped back, wide-eyed, when a pale silent shadow leaped from the darkness, two eyes like two braziers burning in the darkness. A sworn brother of the Night's Watch fell on his knees with the neck ripped, covering the nearest wall with a sprout of blood. Everyone started yelling in confusion, some trying to avoid the flailing body that once was sir Patreck while others tried to turn their steel to a blood covered snarling beast of a direwolf. Marsh tried to regain his footing while shouting commands like a demented man. Rory started to struggle, punching the man pinning him in the nose, while more brothers got close. And... the door to the Shield Hall was burst open.

"What is this ruckus about, ye crows?"

"Snow! Snow! Snow!"

A raven flew from the lousy hall and standing on the threshold was a large mass of a man with golden bracelets. The ruddy face turned to the scene: Wun Wun trying to smash a steward with what remained of a body, covering everything in blood, a direwolf ripping a black-clad ranger without making any sound and the Lord Commander's laying dead on the floor, bleeding through several stab wounds, a knife's bone hilt still protruding from his belly. Tormund remained confused for a second, genuinely trying to process what his eyes were seeing. Finally, he reached for the axe dangling from the belt:

"Ya're fucked... I swear ya'all be asking me to eat my cock before I kill ya"

Bowen Marsh, the tears freezing in his emaciated face could only swear:

"Seven Hells... we're fucked"

Scores of sworn brothers of the Night Watch and wildlings poured into scene.

"This is your fault!"

Yelled Whittlestick to the first steward. He then tried to reach Tormund, pleading, pointing back to the leader of the treacherous brothers still sitting on his arse.

"I didn't wanna, he made me I..."

The steward fell when an axe broke his skull behind the eyes, the shaft still held by the wildling's immense hand.

"Grow some fecking balls you cockless basterd. Get them lads!"

A javelin felled another conspirator, while two were promptly killed trying to fight off several wildlings, Wun Wun catched another by the arm, ripping it from the shoulder. Ghost finished off another by tearing off and ankle and then, the neck. Only a few remained now and they threw the knifes and swords to the floor and went on their knees begging for mercy. The direwolf, snout soaked and red, approached fallen body, snarling dangerously. The spilled innards of a man laid all over the floor, clouds of vapor raising from the pools of blood, the heat vanishing in the cold sunset sky; the Wall darkened, covered in shadows by the beginning of a dark and uncertain night...

Devan crossed the threshold panting, the knights that came along had a strange visage, it was hard to ascertain what was happening on their heads, but there was some sense of alarm in the way they moved and behaved, swords loose on the scabbards. Seaworth hesitated slightly before speaking.

"Lady Melisandre! The Lord Commander has been murdered! By his own men.... I've seen the body myself"

His flyaway hair, thin like straw, fell on his face, messy, snowflakes turning to water running through his face like tears. He wore the squire's raiment of Lord Stannis, with the flaming heart, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak lined with soft fox fur. There was more to be said, but he couldn't find words. Still, when he looked back at the priestess' face he found some confidence, new resolve.

"And... they say the king is dead and Bolton has his sword and... that they're coming for us all! Lord Snow had declared he would ride to Winterfell, I heard him myself, but... I've seen the knives, my lady and..."

Like an afterthought he added:

"And Ser Patrek has been killed by the giant... I almost tripped on his left arm trying to warn you, my Lady"

"It's... it was... on a letter, th-e-e Lord Commander read it aloud, my queen. I thought Mance Rayder was dead, but apparently not and he has like a cloak made of six wildlings or something like that and... He sought something called Reek and his wife"

Daven stood his ground, not letting himself be frightened by the Florent's outburst, even if he hesitated a little. Words were elusive.

"I'm pretty certain, Lady Melisandre, the wounds... no-one could survive that. And... the knives..."

He hadn't seen much, but enough. The Seaworth was slightly scared, but he tried not to look like it.

"I can protect the princess, if you so want... if you allow me. Unless... my lady wants me by her side"

Said the squire, Devan was looking at Melisandre, though, not Selyse. Everyone knew who truly had power there. He was sure Shireen would prefer his company to one of the queen's men. Or her uncle, the callous Hand of the Queen.

Devan simply nodded and hurried himself to the princess' chambers, he checked his belt, were his weapon laid on the scabbard: he would protect Shireen no matter the cost, that was his duty. His king had taken him as a squire and he had to be sure not to disappoint Lord Stannis. The Lord of Light be praised, he would guard them from evil. Seaworth removed his hair from the face, it was getting on his eyes, all wet, when entered the princess' chambers, making sure the bolt closed and that no-one could pass behind him. He removed the cloak, putting it on a chair in front of the fireplace.

"Shireen! You there?"

On the meanwhile, the scene at the courtyard had winded down. Blood and entrails covered the ground, which was turned into a disgusting mud, made up of dirty snow, dirt and the remnants of the slaughtered men. Wun Wun was sitting with his back against the tower where Val was kept: the body of Ser Patrek, what was left of it, laid on the ground, close to who once was known as Whittlestick, his skull broken in half, the brains splattered everywhere. Some brothers of the watch were pinned on the ground by wildlings and fellow brothers, while a circle of brothers and wildlings stood around a broken figure on the floor. A direwolf was leaning over the body, snarling to everyone who tried to get close. There were several more bodies, all of them wearing the black.

The first person Devan would see in the Princess' chambers was not Shireen Baratheon herself, but rather the frightful clown Patchface, rocking on his heels with his face split - as usual - by a crazed smile and seemingly completely unaware that Devan had clearly come here in a rush. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to endure the jester's company for more than a few seconds before he could hear: "I'm right here, Devan." Shireen's soft voice was tinged with a note of concern as she moved into the squire's line of sight. Unlike Patchface, she could clearly see that Devan was worked up over something, what with his hair being drenched and all. "Is something the matter?"

-----

"What is this? What is that?!" Selyse Baratheon, now standing at the head of her knights, had shouted. First at everyone and no-one in particular, then at the corpse of Ser Patrek. "Has the whole of the Wall gone mad? First a giant murders my sworn shield, and now I've heard from my husband's squire that some of you lot have gone and also murdered your own Lord Commander! Where is he, and the men who struck at him?! I hope you all have a plan to mete out swift and merciless justice upon them!" With her hands on her hips, her face rendered especially ugly by her sour expression, and two-score knights backing her up, Selyse may have thought of herself striking an intimidating posture. In truth, however, she more-so resembled an extremely irate burgher's wife, berating and making demands of the laborers (who don't even work for her).

Melisandre, for her part, did not bother shouting nonsense into this already-tense situation and trying to boss the Night's Watch brothers around like her liege's wife just did. Instead, she strode directly toward the circle of brethren and Wildlings who'd gathered around one particular corpse and direwolf, completely wordless and with her eyes narrowing to fiery pinpricks. Her hands had balled into fists at her sides, a rare physical show of anger from the normally unflappable Red Priestess.

(I'll address your post later LD - will have to finish the RP around mostly-dead Jon first, since that's certainly going to affect the Baratheon court's and Wall's reactions to the new arrivals)

Melisandre knelt, touching the wolf, her hands on the fur. She looked right into the red eyes that in turn stared into hers, equally fiery. Her necklace pulsated, like a living thing. The priestess wore nothing but her long tunic and light cloak, her hair dry despite it was snowing. Everyone looked at her with reverence, some looked virtually scared, many others like actual worshippers. The wildling called Tormund approached her, golden bracelets covering his thick forearms.

"Ya're the red witch. No matter what the kneeler pretend, ya're their queen, not that woman with a moustache"

He placed his axe on the belt.

"Yar king is dead, or so the bastard of Bolton says. I've never seen a Snow so black"

"The Lord of Light shall cleanse that filth. Where is the letter?"

Tormund hands her a bloodied parchment. She stands on her feet again, taller than the wildling.

"This is a filthy lie. My king will unfurl his banners atop Winterfell towers, the fire showed me! He will not fail. He has not fallen!"

She said, her voice clear and loud like a clarion, like a prophet and a preacher. The queen's men nod and start praying, the wildlings look uneasy, some look to each other or to the floor. The watchmen looked at odds, leaderless. Satin finally arrived and knelt by the Lord Commander's corpse.

"Why did you let him like this?"

He closed his eyes, staring still into nothingness, and tried to dignify the body, eyes teary, his hands shaking, unable to cope with his own emotions.

"We... have to burn him... raise a pyre!"

"Fire..."

Melisandre stared at the wolf and then at the corpse. She understood. There was power in Snow, more than he had ever presumed.

"No! Bring the body to my chambers. I shall prepare it for the funeral, anoint it with oils and clean it myself. Lord Snow diserves as much"

"What do we do with these?"

Bowen Marsh and whoever was still breathing among the conspirators were rudely rounded by loyal watchmen and wildlings, their hands bloodied, sign of their atrocious crime and betrayal. They complained loudly, but they woke no sentiment among their brethren.

"We should put them with Karstark"

"Aye!"

The remaining watchmen clamored and dragged the now pale-faced remaining conspirators to the cellar under the ruined tower, where the would-be castellan of the Karhold rotted, swearing cursing and yelling like a rabid dog. Satin, Tormund, Horse and Rody grabbed the limbs of the late Lord Commander, their heads bare -the folks at the courtyard made way for the improvised comitive, with even the queen's men saving some decorum and looking somber-, and brought him to her chambers, where she promtly cleaned an oaken table, throwing an inkpot and clean parchments to the ground.

"Put him over there"

They placed the body on the table.

"Leave"

"If ya're going to defile the body, woman, I'll cleave yar head in half"

Melisandre's red eyes looked back at the wildling. She remained silent. The steward, Satin, watery eyes, requested to remain, but the priestess silenced him with a mere look and sent him away. Before the door closed she let the direwolf enter. The jewel at her neck pulsated. She had never tried this, but she knew the prayers, she knew that there was nothing imposible for the Lord.

Rh'llor grant me strenght.

She grabs the brazier, her hands unmolested by the heated iron, and places it near the body and the table. Melisandre starts to undress the body as one would do with a lover, or a son, with great care and love. The Red Woman removes the cloak, which was bloodied and shredded by the vicious attacks on the back. With soft hands she unlaces doublet and leathern pants, removing boots and gloves. The priestess gathers all clothes and burned them, a dark smoke arising from the flames, the fire licking them with thirst.

"Hear me, Lord of Light!"

She removes the shirt and the underwear, the long woolen socks, leaving the body naked. She threw it all to the fire.

"Hear me, thou who art Life, Beginning and End"

The chest, thin but muscled, was littered with wounds, some of them had grazed the skin, others had went through it and pierced flesh and muscle. There was one over the heart, terrible to behold, even the nipple was now gone, only a bloody mess remained. The priestess took oils, water and linen cloth.

"Thou Who Create Life, Who Art Eternal, Thou Who Art Life Everlasting. Hear thy servant, thy slave, thy voice"

She starts cleaning the body, with great care, removing blood and dirt, the wounds now like gaping toothless mouths in a pale and clean skin.

"Hear me, Lord of the World. Fill my heart with fire, so I may walk thy shining path. R'hllor, thou art the light in my eyes, the fire in my heart, the heat in my loins. Thine is the sun that warms our days, thine the stars that guard me in the dark of night. Thy Art Heat and Fire, Shadow and Light"

Her hands run and dance through his young flesh, his mutilated but spotless skin. The body of a boy turned a man. She caressed and anointed his limbs and chest with holy oils and perfumes.

"Fiery Heart of the Cosmos, Pulsating Flame of the Universe. Lord of Light, hear thy servant!"

She brings more water to clean his hair, shave his face. The bloodied rags and linen cloths she burns. The fire shines brightly, burning fiercely in the brazier. The shadows are vanquished in the room, leaving it bathed in a warm, red light. The fireplace pulsates, like a living thing. The jewel in her neck shines like a living furnace.

"Hear me, bring him back. Let thy fire enter his heart, awaken him. Bring him back from the Abhorrent Other's abode beyond the veil of Death"

Melisandre's shadow now grows, covering the wall like she was a giant. But the fires weren't dimmed, they rage fiercely after drinking the slayed Lord Commander's blood. The direwolk, who had witnessed everything from a corner, laying on his belly, suddenly stood still, like entranced.

"Come back, to me. Come back to the Light. I call thee, Jon Snow"

She leans and presses her limbs against his, openning his mouth, kissing him like an ardent lover. Suddenly, all the flames in the room go dark, fireplace, brazier and candles all. Outside reigns darkness and only the pulsating gem remains as a source of light. Elsewhere in the castle every fire flickers and dies, leaving everything dark and cold.

Bum.

Bum. Bum.

Bum, Bum, Bum.

Bum,Bum,Bum,Bum.

The skin closes over the wounds, the flesh hissing like burned with a hot iron. Melisandre steps back, silent, removing her hands from the body, panting, like after making love or giving birth. The direwolf opens his eyes, burning red. And the Lord Commander too...

"Tormund. Rory. Horse. Satin? Edd?"

His lips uttered the words, slightly struggling at first, but sure-footed at the end. They four bursted into the room.

"Of course, he had to remember me the last"

"Crow!"

"Lord Commander!"

"My Lord!"

They stood around Jon Snow, who then grabs the table and regains his footing, he stands in there, naked like his day of the name. Everyone could see the grievous scar over the chest, the pale marks of stabs over the abdomen, the grazing wound at the neck. The priestess removes her scarlet cloak and places it around his shoulders. She looks back at Rory and Horse.

"You two, spread word, the Lord has decided to return Jon Snow to us"

They both nod, speechless.

"You, bring clothes for the Lord Co---"

"N-o-o, don't call me that... I'm no longer... Lord Commander. I think"

Melisandre doesn't speak, just puts her arm around him and helps Snow to a chair, where he takes a seat, the cloak wrapped around him like a fiery embrace.

"I don't know what witchery ya did, Crow, but certainly yar dick is a small as it was and ya're still prettier than mah girls"

Tormund placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"We thought you were dead"

"I was"

He answers, his eyes low, looking at some point that he could only see. Ghost sits by his side, placing his paw over his hand. Tormund seemed deep in thought, rather uncharacteristic for him. Dawn crecked outside, the sun raising on the horizon, radiant, like it was before winter arrived to subdue the land under its cold grip. The Wall shone under the first rays and the chants of the Rh'llorites started to raise to the morning sky. Melisandre walks to the door.

"The Lord returned you with a purpose, Jon Snow. You have bussiness unfinished. Don't waste this chance"

She then turns heels, her figure contoured by light, like a halo. Without a word she crossed the threshold, into the open world, never cold, never hesitant. Edd looks at Jon with amazement and a hint of unease.

"What should we do?"

"Aye, Lord Crow, what's the matter?"

"I died. My watch has ended"

Satin arrived with a bunch of clothes, without a word Jon starts dressing himself up, with the help of Satin, who supported Jon's weight, like a disciple with its beloved master.

"I guess... this has never happened before and I... I don't fucking know what should we do"

The steward laced the doublet as Jon looks back at Tollett, his eyes staring at him silently.

"I died for the Watch, it killed me. I can no longer be your Lord Commander, my oaths are now fulfilled. You shall elect another, the 999th Lord Commander of the Watch, let's pray it's not the last"

"Alright"

"I shall gather my lads, ease up their minds and tell them what happened. Oh boy, they say I have the most wondrous tales, but ya let me short, ya Crow!"

The Valesman and the wildling then left the room, together, an uneven match. The next to appear was Rory, a sword in its scabbard, was craddled in his arms.

"Sire"

Jon reached the hilt, grabbed the sword, the leathern grip felt soft and hard under his touch. With a fluid movement he unsheathed the sword, the familiar hiss of steel against the wooden casing. The sun reflected on the wavy ripples of its surface, like smoke made steel. When he raised the sword he felt his strenght regained, the muscles hard and tense under the clothing. He stood like that as Satin placed a heavy fur-lined cloak over his shoulders. The light nimbed Snow's head. That lasted a moment, like a painting, the servant and disciple clothing his master, the spectator with open hands, reacting to the scene, the wolf in the background, a silent participant. And, then, it ended. Jon sheathed the sword, he placed it where it belonged and flexed his arms and back. Satin steps back. A murmur had arisen outside, Wun Wun was seen passing through the window. Jon walks to the door, appearing on the threshold, he then crossed into the covered passageway and looked below to a myriad faces looking up at him. But he only recognized or care to recognize a few, one of them belonged to a fair woman, standing tall and proud in a purely white mantle, walking across the courtyard, her trail followed by Wun Wun.

"Val"

He said to himself, his breath forming clouds in the morning chilling cold. The folks at gathered below started to shout and clamour Jon's name. He looked at them below, his brothers, the one that cheered them, but also the ones that had killed him.

"Snow! Snow! Snow! Snow!"

A crow flied and perched itself at Jon's shoulder. The animal looked at him with its beady but intelligent eyes, as he recognized, as he knew.

"Snow! Snow!"