The holding cell lay deep within the command tower's cellar, a single narrow air vent letting in only faint starlight. Jon sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cold stone wall, arms wrapped tightly around his knees, his head buried deep within his arms.
After the initial shock, a tidal wave of despair and coldness washed over him. The King wanted him dead. The Night's Watch had betrayed him. His father languished in the dungeons of King's Landing, his fate unknown. His entire life seemed to have plunged into the darkest abyss in an instant.
The vows of the Night's Watch?
The Long Night is coming, and I will keep watch…
That oath now seemed so hollow and laughable. The kingdom he had sworn to protect was eager to send him to the executioner's block.
Time passed in deathly silence and cold. Jon didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, his consciousness growing hazy.
Suddenly, an extremely faint, deliberately hushed voice came from outside the door.
"...Fucking freezing... Piss break... Keep an eye out..."
A guard's grumbling faded into the distance. Then came a faint yet distinct click.
Jon jerked his head up, his heart pounding. In the darkness, the door creaked open a crack. A tall figure cloaked in heavy black robes slipped inside, swiftly closing the door behind him.
The figure removed its hood. By the faint starlight filtering through the air vent, Jon recognized the face. Lean and stern, with piercing black eyes... and an expression of extraordinary complexity he'd never seen before.
Ser Alliser Thorne?
Jon's body instantly tensed, his fists clenching instinctively. Just that morning, they had clashed fiercely, Thorne heaping every possible insult upon him. What was he doing here now? To kick him while he was down? Or had he come on the Commander's orders to "deal with" him?
"Don't make a sound, Jon."
Thorne's voice was hushed, stripped of its usual arrogance. He strode swiftly to Jon's side, crouching low as his gaze locked onto Jon's eyes.
"If you want to live, come with me. Now!"
Jon stared at him in shock, almost convinced he was hallucinating.
"Come with you? Why? Aren't you the one who hates me most?"
A flicker of pain crossed Thorne's face.
"Hate? Yes, I once hated you with a passion—hated you as the bastard son of Eddard Stark, hated you for the man who overthrew my father and the Targaryens. But now everything is different. You are the son of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna, the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms."
Jon was utterly bewildered, his mind in chaos.
Thorne cut off his thoughts abruptly:
"Enough talk! Time is short! I've distracted that dumb ox outside, but he could return any moment. Quick! Put these on!"
He swiftly pulled a neatly folded, thick black sable cloak and a pair of gloves from beneath his own cloak, tossing them to Jon. Then he unfastened the longsword and dagger from his own belt. That was his own sword.
"Where are you taking me...?"
Jon instinctively caught the garments, his mind too muddled to think clearly.
"Away from Castle Black! Away from the Wall!"
Thorne declared with iron resolve, his ears straining for sounds beyond the door.
"To a place they won't find us yet. Get dressed! No time for explanations!"
Jon met Thorne's unwavering resolve in his eyes. The memory of the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing and the cold executioner's block overwhelmed him. Survival instinct took hold. He shed all hesitation, swiftly pulling on the thick mink cloak and gloves.
Thorne thrust the longsword and dagger into his hands.
"Hold tight! You know how to use these? Stay close!"
The two slipped swiftly out of the detention cell. The corridor lay deserted, only the faint whistling of wind and the indistinct footsteps of patrolling guards echoing in the distance.
Thorne clearly knew the layout of Castle Black and its patrol routes like the back of his hand. He guided Jon through the shadows, avoiding light and crowds with agile, silent movements that betrayed the seasoned veteran he was. Jon followed closely, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.
But just as they neared a secluded side entrance of Castle Black, a shrill cry pierced the silent night.
"Escape! The holding cell is empty—it's Snow!"
The guard who had been distracted earlier had detected the anomaly and sounded the alarm.
Instantly, the entire Castle Black stirred like a giant beast awakened. More shouts erupted, torchlight flared from every direction, and the sound of footsteps and cries rapidly converged on their location.
"Damn it! We've been spotted!"
Thorne cursed. "Quick, follow me!"
He yanked Jon forward, abandoning stealth, and sprinted away from the gate. The biting wind lashed their faces like knives as the footsteps and shouts of pursuers grew louder behind them.
"Halt! Alliser, Jon, stop!" It was Lord Commander Mormont's furious roar.
Thorne paid no heed. He dragged Jon to a section of relatively low wooden wall near an abandoned arrow tower. This wasn't an official passage, but a gap left from previous repairs, temporarily blocked by thick wooden planks.
"Climb over! Quick!" Thorne growled, straining against the heavy wooden barrier.
Jon didn't hesitate, sheathing his sword and scrambling up with his hands and knees. Wooden splinters tore into his palms, but he felt nothing. The light of the pursuers' torches illuminated their retreat. The whistling of arrows filled the air, embedding themselves into the stone beside them.
"Ser Thorne, you have betrayed your vows!" Jeor Mormont's voice rang with fury and disappointment, yet he made no move to pursue.
Thorne whipped his head around. In the torchlight, his face bore a look of almost tragic resolve. "Lord Commander, my vows were broken the day King's Landing fell. Today, I redeem them!"
He shoved Jon forcefully over the barrier, sending him crashing heavily into the snow. Thorne himself leapt nimbly over the fence, pulling Jon up.
"Run! We must leave this place!"
Both plunged headlong into the moonlit forest, its pallid glow casting eerie shadows. Behind them, the walls of Castle Black echoed with furious shouts, warning horns blared, and stray arrows whistled wildly through the air. The icy air filled their lungs as they sank knee-deep into the snow. The escape had begun.
After running through the dark woods for an unknown length of time, Thorne finally signaled to stop only when the sounds of pursuers and horns vanished entirely into the howling cold wind. They hid behind a massive tree. Both were panting heavily, their exhaled breath condensing into frosty mist in the frigid air.
Jon leaned against the tree roots, his heart still pounding. Cold sweat soaked through his tunic, and the biting wind made his teeth chatter. Thorne scanned the surroundings warily, confirming temporary safety before approaching Jon. Without looking at him, he slowly unfastened the sword belt at his waist.
Then, under Jon's stunned gaze, Ser Alliser Thorne—the master-at-arms who had once tormented him with relentless harshness and biting words, renowned throughout the Night's Watch for his severity—knelt on one knee in the icy snow. He cradled his own sharp knight's sword in both hands, the hilt facing Jon, the point driven deep into the frozen earth.
He raised his head, and the face that had always worn a sneer was now filled with solemn reverence unlike any Jon had ever seen. His voice was low and clear, echoing through the silent forest:
"Jon Snow, I, Alliser Thorne, was once a knight sworn to the House of Targaryen. At King's Landing, I fought bloody battles until defeat and capture, banished to the edge of the world. Here I have lived, bearing the shame of the vanquished and the hatred for the usurpers."
His voice trembled slightly with emotion, and tears seemed to glisten in his eyes beneath the moonlight:
"At Castle Black, when I first saw you, your face so much like a Stark, I thought you were Eddard Stark's bastard son—born of that usurper! I hated you! I hated the blood of the house that betrayed and destroyed the Targaryens flowing through your veins. I poured all my hatred for the Starks, for the Baratheons, onto you... I humiliated you, tortured you, trying to honor my dead Prince and my shattered loyalty through such cruelty!
But now, by the gods above, fate has granted me a chance at redemption! You are not a Stark bastard—you are the flesh and blood of Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna Stark, the last true heir of the Dragonlords, the rightful and legitimate heir to the Iron Throne!"
Thorne raised his sword higher, bowing his head deeply:
"Forgive my past folly and offenses. From this day forward, my sword, my life, my loyalty shall exist for you alone. I shall warden over you, serve you, until my dying breath, ensuring the true dragon's bloodline never dies. Please... Accept my belated allegiance, my King!"
His words struck Jon's heart like a hammer. Jon looked down at Ser Alliser Thorne kneeling in the snow, at the knight's sword gleaming coldly in the moonlight. An indescribable weight crushed him in that instant. He was merely an exiled Night's Watchman, a "bastard" who had only recently learned his true heritage and was now hunted by the entire realm.
King?
The Iron Throne?
All this felt too distant, too heavy.
Yet here in this forest, a man who had once hated him most had now offered the most solemn knightly oath, calling him "King."
The cold wind whipped up snowflakes, ruffling Thorne's silver-streaked temples and Jon's heavy mink cloak. Massive tree trunks stood silent witnesses beneath the crisp moonlight. From deep within the forest, a distant, lonely wolf howl seemed to echo in response.
Jon hesitated for a long moment, then finally reached out, his hand trembling. He did not touch the sword, but instead placed his hand gently upon Ser Alliser Thorne's lowered shoulder.
"Ser, I... I accept your allegiance!"
...
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