Dondarrion, who had already died once, spoke with a strange calm. Perhaps death itself had freed him from fear; he conversed with Jon as if with an equal, open and unguarded.
Jon gave Martin a look — a silent signal. Martin nodded, stepping outside the tent to keep watch. The flap fell shut. The room's air shifted, heavy and private. Even Thoros, standing off to the side, slowed his breath, sensing the weight of what was to come.
Jon's effort to prevent Robb from declaring himself king had not merely been a matter of principle; it was the groundwork for his future defection — though, ironically, it had also been the most rational choice for the North. Few had understood that. But perhaps Beric Dondarrion might. Jon could see that this man possessed a rare clarity — political foresight, and the courage to match it.
"Jon," Dondarrion said, voice steady, "Stannis will soon take Storm's End. After that, he'll unify the Stormlands and sail with the strongest fleet in Westeros. Taking King's Landing will be within his reach. What I want to know is—what's your next move?"
His gaze was sharp and probing, as if to measure Jon's very soul.
Jon met that gaze squarely. He could sense the test and decided to answer plainly. "Renly is dead," he began, "but his ally, House Tyrell, still holds a massive army. With the Seven Kingdoms in chaos, Highgarden won't sit idle. I believe they'll ally with the Lannisters next."
Thoros lifted his head slightly, surprise flickering through his weary eyes. That was precisely the same conclusion he and Beric had reached in private.
"That's what worries me most," Dondarrion said, exhaling. His voice carried the weary relief of hearing his own fears echoed back.
Jon continued, "If Stannis fails at King's Landing and the Lannisters unite with the Tyrells, everything changes. The balance of power will tilt — and we'll be left with chaos."
"Exactly!" Dondarrion nodded. "Once Stannis fails, not even our so-called allies can be trusted. Some will turn. Some will betray."
Their eyes met, and at the same moment, all three men spoke the same name:
"Roose Bolton."
For an instant, silence followed — not fear, but understanding. They were wolves recognizing each other by scent.
Bolton wasn't evil in the way the Mountain had been. He was worse: cautious, calculating, patient. If House Stark's rule in the North ever faltered, Bolton's would rise in its place. The other great houses — Karstark, Umber, Manderly — were too loyal, too tied by blood. Only Bolton had both ambition and the temperament of a usurper.
The talk narrowed into one question, sharp as a blade's edge.
"Jon," Dondarrion asked, "what will you do?"
Jon weighed the Brotherhood. They were ragged, hungry men, yet their spirit was steel. They had fought Tywin's legions with nothing but conviction. He respected that. He also knew he had little time — Stannis had already taken Storm's End and consolidated the Stormlands. Jon had to move soon, or lose the chance entirely.
After a long pause, he said quietly, "I plan to stage a mutiny — seize Roose Bolton's command, take control of the army, and march on King's Landing."
Both Dondarrion and Thoros stiffened, taken aback. For a heartbeat, the tent was utterly silent. Then both men exhaled, almost laughing in disbelief.
They had assumed Jon would simply lead his own contingent south, not attempt to claim the entire army. But the more they thought about it, the more sense it made. Five thousand men alone would be a whisper against King's Landing's half-million souls. To change history, Jon would need to command the storm itself.
"Jon," Dondarrion said, lowering his voice, "mutiny is a hanging offense. If Robb punishes you—"
Jon interrupted with quiet finality. "I am already a deserter from the Wall. I fight for my father's vengeance. Whether I live or die after that doesn't matter."
His tone held no bravado — only calm conviction. It silenced them both.
Dondarrion's expression softened into respect. He no longer saw a boy but a commander. "Then tell us," he said. "What do you need from us?"
Thoros stepped forward as well, curiosity glinting in his eyes.
Jon turned toward him. "Ser Thoros," he said, "you follow the Lord of Light, don't you?"
Thoros straightened, his weathered face brightening. "Indeed. The night is long and the path dark, but only by the Lord's flame do we find the dawn. Tell me, Jon Snow — do you seek His light as well?"
A missionary's eagerness glowed in his tone.
Jon managed a small smile. "Perhaps. On the Wall, I heard that followers of the Lord of Light wield strange magic. I've already thought of ways to deal with Bolton — but if you have… stronger methods, I'm willing to hear them."
He couldn't ask outright about shadow assassins, so he chose his words carefully.
Thoros chuckled, but it was Beric who spoke first. "Thoros can read omens in fire. And…" He hesitated. "He brought me back. From death."
Jon's expression shifted. "Resurrection?" he repeated, eyes widening with practiced astonishment.
Thoros nodded solemnly. "But not everyone can return. I believe it is only by the Lord's will. Lord Beric was meant for something — others I could not revive."
Jon thought briefly, then asked, his voice steady but laced with an undertone of hope, "If someone were… beheaded, could they still be brought back?"
Thoros looked pained. "No, Jon. I'm sorry. That I cannot do. The soul must still be anchored to the body. When the head is gone…" He spread his hands helplessly. "The light has nowhere to return."
Jon nodded slowly, feigning disappointment. "I see."
The two men exchanged glances, their respect for Jon deepening. They thought they understood his question — a son still mourning his father, searching for impossible miracles.
To them, Jon was a grieving child grown into a man of purpose. To Jon, Thoros was now measured and weighed — his "magic" was real but limited. There would be no shadow assassins here.
Then Dondarrion frowned, as if recalling something. "Oh — there's one more thing. We met a boy recently who asked the same question. Wanted someone resurrected who'd been beheaded."
He reached to his belt and drew a small sword, laying it on the table. "He said that if we found you, this would tell you who he was."
Jon looked down. The blade was slender, almost delicate — shorter than an arm, barely two fingers wide.
His breath caught. His pupils tightened to pinpoints.
It was a sword he had seen a hundred times in his memory — the one he'd ordered forged for a girl who wouldn't stop training with wooden sticks.
Needle.
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