SPOILER ALERT!: GAME OF THRONES REFERENCES ARE DRAWN MOSTLY FROM THE BOOKS, SINCE I'VE ONLY SEEN THE FIRST SEASON OF THE SERIES. MORE SPECIFICALLY, I WILL BE LEADING OFF FROM THE LAST APPEARANCE OF JON SNOW IN A DANCE WITH DRAGONSSO IF YOU HAVEN'T READ THAT BOOK YET, YOU MAY NOT WANT TO READ THIS FIC. ALL I WILL SAY HERE IS THAT CERTAIN THINGS WERE LEFT VERY OPEN AND FRUSTRATINGLY AMBIGUOUS, AND, SINCE THE NEXT BOOK IS NOT YET OUT, I WILL BE TAKING LENIENCIES AND CLAIMING THESE FANDOMS AS MY PERSONAL PLAYGROUND.

Title: Winter Is Coming

Rating: T, may increase to M for bloodshed and general GoT-style awesomeness

Genre: Drama/Hurt/Comfort/Betrayal/Adventure/Action…basic ally a bit of everything

Category A: Rise of the Guardians

Category B: A Song of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones

Characters: Jon Snow, Jack Frost, Ghost, Daenerys, probably heavy mentions of Arya because she's fabulous, appearances by assorted other characters from both fandoms.

Summary: The Stark words: "Winter is coming". But Jon wasn't a Stark. He was a Snow. A bastard. A brother to the heirs of Winterfell and a Brother of the Watch. He was a warg and a Wildling. And, unknown, but most important, he was Winter's champion.

Disclaimer: Sadly, I am not the genius behind A Song of Ice & Fire, nor one of the ones behind Rise of the Guardians. All I own is my own insanity, which I claim proudly and fully blame for this convoluted mess.

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Chapter One: JON

For the first time since arriving at the Wall – the first time in his life, in all honestly – Jon Snow felt truly warm. Even at Winterfell, when summer was strong, there had always been that slight chill in the air, that lingering reminder of what loomed to the north, pacing beyond the great icy barrier that protected the Seven Kingdoms from ghost stories and fairy tales and things so much more sinister. It was ironic that he was filled with this life-giving warmth now, when he was also filled with cold steel and bitter betrayal. His world shrank to swirling black and seeping red, but suddenly widened again at a flash of white. Weakly, his mind linked the white to the red. "Ghost?"

No, not Ghost. The direwolf was locked away to maintain the fragile peace; the peace that was now as broken as his skin. Locked away despite Melisandre's warnings. Another hot shot of pain raced through his blood as another knife sank into his flesh. As it dulled to a comfortable warmth, it settled in his fingers, loosening his grasp on Longclaw, sending the blade pinging against the ice and stone. Jon sank to his knees, reaching for that warm embrace, wondering who waited to greet him. Would it be Ygritte? The stern face of his father? Would he see the Old Bear? Would he be disappointed in him? All the faces he had lost flashed by his eyes, wearing different expressions, but each one welcoming him home. Home. The word rang sweetly in his buzzing ears. He finally had a home.

And then the wonderful warmth turned into a biting cold that shocked him back into his bleeding body. The flapping of crow wings surrounded him…no, not wings. Cloaks. Black cloaks, whipping in a fierce wind.

His brothers.

His betrayers.

They stood around him in a wide circle, not as close as they had been; did they think him dead? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flutter of motion, vaguely wondering who was coming to finish the job. Then there was a sizzling crackle, the sound of something burning cold, and an unfamiliar voice spoke out, breaking the eerie quiet and silencing the wailing wind.

"Come no closer."

Jon struggled to move, to bring this unknown speaker into his vision, finally succeeding as a form appeared in his periphery. The figure was stick thin and corpse pale, draped in a light cloak that was crusted with frost. The face was turned away from him, watching the dark circle warily, but the white hair and crooked staff hinted at age and an odd power. Was this a ghost? Where was Ghost? "Ghost?" he whispered again, mind reaching for his one true friend; the last brother he had. The figure glanced down at him and he saw a pair of bright blue eyes that glowed with magic. Before he could feel afraid, fur found his searching fingers and he gripped it desperately, sinking into blackness.

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Consciousness proved to be elusive, repeatedly rejecting Jon's presence and pushing him back into the empty abyss. His sleep was dreamless and fevered, but his waking moments, brief though they were, were haunted with glowing blue eyes and a bone-deep cold. Finally, after what seemed like years, but could have been only hours, he managed to push the darkness back long enough to blink his surrounding into existence.

The first thing he saw was the bright dance of flames, their vibrant orange and red costumes out of place in the colorless darkness that pressed in on them. Beyond that, a white silhouette blended into an equally white backdrop, distinguishable only by the hell-red eyes that turned to look at him in silent greeting before roving back to stare out at the snow, ever alert for danger. Once again, Ghost was his faithful guardian.

Despite the fire, there was a noticeable chill in the air, filling whatever hollow housed him. It seeped through his skin, making his hair rise, as much from apprehension as cold. Old Nan's words came back to him, coupled with the glowing irises that had plagued his near-conscious moments; they come with the cold. His hand searched for a weapon while his grey eyes scanned the gloom for any hint of danger. The latter was successful, while the former came up woefully short.

Above him, perched on a thin ledge that was all but lost in the hazy blackness, a figure crouched, staring down at him with eyes that gleamed with a light all their own. The firelight illuminated ice-white skin, while veiling the looming face in shadow. Something long and thin rested across the figure's lap. Jon couldn't tell if it was a weapon; he didn't care. Armed or not, he was trapped with a white-walker.

The figure blinked, cocking its head. "You need not fear me, Jon Snow. Ghost would not tolerate me if I meant you harm."

Despite himself, Jon let his gaze leave the enemy and glanced at the direwolf. He was still calmly watching the snow outside. Quickly, he turned back to the specter, still leery, but also slightly awed. He'd never known they were capable of speech. "Are you not a white-walker?"

"Not." The figure uncoiled, leaping from its ledge. To Jon, it almost seemed to float. He scrambled backwards as it stepped fully into the firelight, revealing a young man. He appeared to be of an age with him, yet younger and infinitely older at the same time. The long object proved to be a tall staff, similar to those used by shepherds in the Kingdoms. He laughed at Jon's wariness, bending at the waist in a sloppy bow. His hand – white as the rest of him, not black – settled over his heart. "I am Jack Frost."