Kill the boy. Kill the boy, and let the man be born. The voice of Maester Aemon was the only thing in his head, drowning out all the rabble around him. Kill the boy. Kill the boy. Let the man be born.
He didn’t believe it when we woke up on that table, only Ghost by his side. He doesn’t believe it now, as he sits across from Davos, Edd, Tormund, and the Red Woman Melisandre. Every man that had thrust a dagger into his chest is dead now, and him, alive. The Lord of Light wills it – that’s the only explanation he’s given. He doesn’t know what to do with it, but more than that, he doesn’t know what to do next.
He isn’t given much time to think about it.
“Open the gate!” He hears one of his men yell, but Jon is slow to get up and make his way toward the balcony.
For Sansa, the ride to Castle Black had been excruciating. Frigid winds cut and stung against her skin as the five of them raced toward the Wall. If her limbs weren’t numb and weary before, they certainly were by the time the Wall loomed above them.
But more than any pain is her eagerness to see her brother, and the disappointment of knowing that Theon will leave shortly after they settle into Castle Black. It’s foolish – she knows that. Of course Theon wants to see his family just as much as Sansa wants to see hers.
She just wishes that didn’t mean they had to say goodbye.
The thoughts are cast aside when they arrive, and some men of the Night’s Watch open the gates for them. It’s a worn and grim looking place, but anything is better than being under the thumb of Ramsay Bolton.
Once they reach the courtyard, Sansa pulls herself off her horse and onto her feet, feeling stiff and weak. The only thing she can do is look from face to face, hoping to land on the familiarity of Jon.
