The sound of blades piercing flesh and bone echoed through the dark, snow-covered castle. The once-pristine white snow was now tainted with streaks of crimson, a stark contrast to its former purity. Blood pooled beneath the body of a young man, its warmth quickly stolen by the icy ground.

He lay still, his long dark hair—black as a raven's feather—sprawled around his pale face. A short stubble lined his jaw, a subtle testament to his youth. Yet despite his age, his body bore the hardened build of a warrior, not a man of leisure. His dark eyes, now distant, stared into the abyss as his life bled away with each passing moment.

A figure in a black coat approached, the crunch of snow under his boots the only sound in the deathly silence. He knelt beside the fallen warrior and sighed. "I'm sorry, Lord Commander. I hold no grudge against you, but I had no choice. It was either your life or the lives of my family." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "You were a good man, a better leader than most. But in the end, I chose my blood over my honor. You would understand, wouldn't you...?"

The man reached forward, closing the young warrior's lifeless eyes.

"Jon Snow."