The Ghost - GoT
"Who's he? Is he alright?" Fox asked Tormund. It was his first time at the Giantsbane's fire, still more boy than man, where most at the fire were concerned. Tormund looked in the direction the boy had indicated.
An old man sat staring into the fire, a cup of hot mead in his hands. His long hair was grey with age, the lines on his face speaking of battles of the body and battles of the soul, of long days and restless nights, of countless worries and wars lost and won. His eyes spoke of grief beyond ken.
"Aye, he's no worse than any other day" Tormund didn't say more on it. His hand brushed through his own tresses. The fiery red had faded to an almost snow pale colour with the years since he had returned from the South.
What an adventure it had been! The Long Night.
When he had been a boy he had thought it a myth, a tale to scare children. When he had grown into a man, he had hoped it would not come in his lifetime. When he had joined Mance Rayder he had dreaded it. It had been Jon who had given him hope. Jon who had tirelessly worked to save as many as he could, prepare the realms of men, against almost constant opposition. And he had earned little thanks for it, at least in the South he fought so fiercely for.
But the Free Folk did not forget what he had done for them, what he had risked, what he had sacrificed. He had lost his life for helping them, even if that strange fire witch had brought him back. He was one of them, no longer just a Crow they had somehow picked up along the way. And after the Fight for the Dawn, he had gained his own monikers. The White Wolf, Wightslayer, the Dragon Tamer, they called him, the Free Man, Reborn, the Bringer of Dawn. And sometimes, for old times sake, King Crow. And still they sang songs about him at the fires and would for years and years to come. The Free Folk had long memories. Their histories, their culture, their identity, all was passed down by word of mouth. You could not chance short memory when you wrote down nothing.
"What's wrong with him?" Lost in his thoughts, Tormund had almost forgotten Fox was there.
"Nothing, kid", his tone made clear this was all he would say, "he's had a hard life, is all. Life's not been kind to him."
The old man sat staring into the fire with sad, tired eyes. In his dark, dark eyes swam a hundred memories, a thousand regrets. How long had it been since he had last smiled? He could not recall. It mattered little. He heard Tormund talk to someone, close by, but he paid it no mind. What did it matter? What did anything matter anymore? So many years had passed. The world had turned around him, had turned without him. He gave it no care.
He could hear the flames whisper to him, could see the wildness of her hair in their dance. He took a sip of his mead. No-one had come to ask him anything tonight. It was just as well. When they came to him for advice, he answered as best he could, but he took no joy in it. He took little joy in anything anymore.
His mind drifted to a past long gone, to a cave filled with hot steam, to a dream and a passion he had never known again and her . He remembered how it all had gone so terribly wrong. The piercing of arrows he knew should not have missed his heart. The wet heat of blood. Red, red, red, redder than her flame-kissed hair. Nothing good had ever come of the South for him. Coming North with Tormund after everything, he had decided long ago, was likely the best decision he'd ever made. He had been happy here before, but the South had only ever taken from him, taken his happiness, his life, his principles, his identity, his devotion. Here he was home. As at home as he could be anywhere, at least.
And in his dreams, there was fire, there was love, there was she . Oh how he missed her. After all these years, the pain of losing her still cut into his very soul.
The night's gathering was drawing to a close. Not looking up, he raised his voice and he sang.
Fox was moved to tears by the song the sad old man sang. Something about a fire-kissed woman and a dying dream and a promise and living before dying. He didn't understand it all but the melancholy, the sheer bone-aching sadness in the man's soft voice struck a chord in him. When the song had ended, the man, who had not moved at all during his song, returned to his silence. Fox looked at Tormund but before he could voice his question, the older man said
"He sings one song each night. Just the one. Never more. Not in years. But he also never misses a night." A sadness had slipped into Tormund's voice, Fox noticed. But he did not question him more.
After his song ended, the people began to leave the fire to return to their beds and their loved ones, until only the old man remained, staring into the fire. Tormund clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, he showed no sign it even registered with him. He just stared into the fire. The flames were singing now, calling out his name. And in the flames, there she was. He reached out for her as she reached out for him. Her name fell from his lips like a prayer as he touched her fiery hand. And the world around him went dark and he was surrounded by blessed nothingness, her name still on his lips. "Ygritte"
When Tormund returned to the fire in the morning, he found the old man still sitting in his place, staring into the now dead flames. In his hand still the cup of mead. But his eyes were closed and on his lips there was a smile. "Goodbye, my old friend."
That evening, the Free Folk gathered around a funeral pyre, as one of their own was given to the flames. And so it was surrounded by people who loved and cherished him for nothing more or less than who he was that Jon Snow burned.