Jon Snow

Jon's nightmares were constant, as they had been since his resurrection. Each night, no matter how much he stoked the fires, he would awaken as cold as the dead, with the terror of the Night gripping his heart. Jon suspected it was a reminder, from whatever had dragged him from the darkness. A reminder of what it had given to Jon. A reminder not to waste his second chance.

So it was with great surprise that when Jon drifted off to sleep that night, finally back home in Winterfell, reunited with some of the only family he had left, he found himself not in the icy depths of the True North, staring into the dead eyes of a million soldiers, but instead standing in the Red Keep, staring at the Iron Throne. He had never seen it with his own eyes, but it was unmistakable. The thousand blades of Aegon's enemies, forged by dragon breath into the most recognised symbol of power in the world. It exuded power and menace, and Jon could see how so many could be drawn in by its allure.

The throne room itself was gaudy, ostentatious. Typical of Southerners. Everything here was made to impress, to create an illusion of civility. Jon much preferred Winterfell, where power was shown not through disguised insults and clever lies, but through the strength of one's sword, and the loyalty one commanded.

Approaching closer to the throne, Jon considered his surroundings. He wasn't much one for prophecy or the gods, but his dreams had remained the same for quite some time now. This shift was unusual. He wondered if someone was trying to tell him something. Was this some sort of sign from the 'lord of light'? Perhaps Jon's banishment of his priestess had angered him? Was this a warning?

"Nothing of the sort." A voice came from behind Jon. He spun around, his hand reaching for a sword that was not there. There was no one behind him.

"Relax, my king." The voice came again, this time from above. Looking upwards, Jon could see nothing.

"Who are you?" he demanded, still trying to see any sign of this voice's owner.

"Just a traveller, passing through. I noticed your plight, King in the North, and have come to help. I come bearing gifts." The voice reminded Jon of the honeyed tones of Southerners, sweet and caring, but sharpening a dagger for your back.

"I will accept no gifts from a man who refuses to show his face!" Jon shouted into the air. A chuckle was his response.

"My gift cannot be refused, young king."

"And yet, I refuse it anyway!" Jon replied, backing himself closer to the wall, to the Iron Throne.

Suddenly, the voice spoke as though the man it belonged to was standing right next to Jon, whispering in his ear.

"This power shall be yours, Jon Snow, whether you wish to accept it or not." A gust of wind quickly blew through the Keep, pushing Jon backwards. He fell into the Iron Throne, and was unable to rise out of it. It was as though invisible shackled kept him down, forcing him to remain in the position of power he distrusted so.

Another gust of wind came through the keep, and another. The noise of it pushing its way across the stone and brick of the Red Keep grew louder and louder, until Jon could barely hear himself think. It grew painful, and Jon could feel the sound imprinting itself on his mind, forcing its way into his very soul. With a scream, Jon's vision faded into darkness.