Hello there! It's Paradigm of Writing here with something that has gotten me beyond excited. After watching the Season 7 ending, I scourged for the past week to read all the fanfictions detailing how people presume the story will end. I read many after finishing Season 6 on what Season 7 would entail, as those predictions are downright enjoyable to read and create, so thus I decided my own tale, all thought up on one YouTube comment detailing a poetic justice and somewhat bittersweet ending that I hadn't ever thought of before.
So here it is! Since the actual book series is called A Song of Ice and Fire, I thought it'd be a nice homage to have the title include Ice and Fire. Thus, to make it ghastly and ominous, I've come up with a title, Phantoms of Ice and Fire. I never realized exactly how hard it is to keep track of every character regardless that they are all in the same place, and so it looks like my learning of lore and the map and all of that is to skyrocket and grow.
There is a total of 48 chapters, and nearly all of the main characters from the TV show has a point of view, because narrowing how many favorites there are to just four in this summary list is quite hard, given my propensity towards the characters I like on the show, which are Sansa, Theon, Yara, Bronn, Jaime, Bran, and Arya. *le gasp* While I do not dislike Jon nor Daenerys, they were never my favorite characters and the seasons haven't been kind to them. But I digress.
Here we are with Chapter #1: Three Horns in the Night, the beginning to Phantoms of Ice and Fire, how I presume the great Game of Thrones Season 8 shall begin. Enjoy.
Tormund Giantsbane
Black clouds mix in with the stalwart gray from above. Ravens caw, the winter winds blow, and the Wall stands tall. Torches lined on both sides give the illuminating diamond surface a sheen glow of amber. The Wall is kissed by fire. Shouts of men, wilding and crow, fill the air in distorted roars that blur against the gelid breeze. Above one of the Eastwatch lookouts, a burly man, kissed by fire in the literal state of the phrase, keeps his gaze steady on the frozen woods laid outwards before him.
Tormund Giantsbane has seen much in his time beyond the wall. He's seen much in his time behind it, with the Northern lords and their hearths. The ginger has seen the face of evil clawing at him, destined to bring him down, and the thunderous growl of a beast flying above. Fire, the kind of volcanoes, slash the ground and melt the villains where they lay, and Tormund sees a dragon up close.
A snap of a finger, a lock of ash white hair, a blue spear, and the eyes of a king who Tormund Giantsbane fears.
It's been a week since Daenerys Targaryen, a foreigner in all but last name, sailed off. A week since Tormund watches what seems like Westeros's last resort crumble beneath the frozen lake of ice. A week since the wight's howls no longer fill his ears, seven days of silence and a strange, eerie peace. The man with the eye patch - Beric Dondarrion, if Tormund recalls correctly, as he isn't the greatest with names - stays behind and Tormund is partly glad, as there's a flaming sword for warmth, and Eastwatch could use a little bit of warmth.
He's unable to always know what presences stir behind him as Tormund gives watch, but he feels the heat, the surreal feel of warmth under the man's skin. "Beric," Tormund grumbles.
"Tormund," Beric says at length. Not cold, but not with the fire that burns in the Red Priestess' eyes. Tormund's skin grows cold at the thought of the Lady Melisandre, with her witch spells and her pasty skin that stays burnt despite the chills that have taken even the strongest men.
"You should go down and eat," the wildling dismisses any idea of company. He wishes to be alone.
"As should you. You've been up here too long. How many watches have you done?"
"Too many."
"Then even Giantsbane needs his food," Beric says, with a quip of a smile playing on his lips. The warrior has dealt with the likes of the Hound. He has not traded the Hound for Tormund to be met with the same gruffness and a lack of companionship. However, Beric stills his tongue, seeing that Tormund is adamant on keeping his eyes glued to the trees out beyond, where the emerald frosted pines blend together, and the gray and white amass day and night. "We would see them coming, Tormund."
"And that is why I am not moving," the wildling murmurs back. Tormund remembers the slight look of terror on Jon's face - dare he call the bastard boy a friend - as the two wights barrel into him, the body disappearing underneath the ice. He stands away from the Dragon Queen and the Mormont man, as there's a slight feeling of distrust still in his heart, but all because Daenerys insists that Jon Snow, the King in the North, yet lives. Damned Tormund is to know that the boy who seems to never die comes crawling back.
A rider appears on the foreground of the tree line. Beric watches as Tormund leans in against the side of his railing. The warrior tenses, stepping up with the ginger to examine what is being seen. Down below, against the wall of trees, Tormund's eyes never leave the singular rider that appears, until a second meshes out of the flora, then a third... and soon the footmen. His heart lumps in his throat.
The horn wails into the night. A caw filled with desperate noise blasts through the sky. More undead begin to appear, as if out of thin air. Tormund has heard among the Northmen of the idea to pinch yourself awake if you find yourself to be dreaming. He must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, he must be-
A second horn blast follows the second, and now Tormund counts six horses, with evident blue figures on them, where even their sheen can be seen eight hundred feet in the air. One for a man of the Night's Watch. Two for wildings. Three for-
A third rings out, and the sky seems to darken underneath the glare of a White Walker threat. Tormund closes his eyes, muttering an obscenity under his breath. Three horn blasts. White Walkers. The wildling thinks he may need new clothes when this night is over, if the night ever ends that is. He and Beric stay still, unmoving, as nothing is happening. The forces of the undead stay among the trees, and the Walkers all are frozen statues that do not move, they do not change pace.
His ears pick up a sound, carried among the wind. Dark wings breed dark words, foul carrion fly fouler messages. Beric's head snaps to the sound, this time repeating against the shrill blare of the gusts blowing about. Something blurs by, a flash of light in the darkness, a strange warmth, and Tormund's ears hear the discordance before he sees it. His blood runs cold.
Tormund registers the name.
Viserion.
A peal of thunder follows the dragon as it roars by. A stream of near blinding fire courses from its mouth, but the sight nearly makes Tormund pause in awe, a stupefied and horrified awe. The fire is a dazzling night blue, almost the color of Tears of Lys, and he picks up on the sound of crackling. Beric is pulling at his arm, the warrior of light is pulling at it quite fast, and then Tormund runs away from his Eastwatch spot behind Beric.
"Run!" Tormund screams, his words being carried by the sky. Ginger wildlings shout dark words against the sky. The Night King zooms along the top of the wall, Viserion's screech haunting, a chill going into Tormund's bones. He's been cold, he's grown up in the cold all his life, but this frigid feel is not one done by freezing temperatures, but of a maliciousness that knows no bounds and does not rest. An evil that does not sleep.
Other wildlings begin to follow Tormund as he runs, and then the godawful crunch freezes everyone in their path. Viserion, with the Night King perched up near the dragon's mid back, has stilled the dragon to unleash his rage at one particular section of the Wall. Tormund witnesses with his own eyes as the entire world around him begins to fall. The screams of the dying below fill his ears, blood roars against his skull, and the wildling is dizzy.
A bowman is racing towards them, terror placed on his face, and then everything underneath him drops. The frightened wildling screams, a yell filled to the brim with terror being the last impression the man shall leave on this world, before his body along with many others plummets down to their doom. Tormund and Beric are blown back to their bottoms by a strong gust of wind, Viserion beginning to fly back.
Tormund watches as a good half of the wall that Eastwatch contains crumbles away, a crash, the loudest crash ever perceived by mortal's ears till the ice sloshes into the sea. The wildling, though distanced from the Night King, sees the wisps of fire illuminate his face, where all he sees is something that'll plague his dreams. A cruel smile, but not one full of teeth. Lips closed, but the eyes radiate enough emotion, an emotion full of victory and evil, an evil that cannot be quelled.
The final chunk of the Wall that had been burned collapses into the sea, and Tormund rushes to another look out post, Beric's presence not far behind. What he sees makes Tormund wish he nearly had died all those days ago on that frozen lake, so he does not have to witness the impending doom take their first steps to a world that is unsuspecting... the Night King flying back over his ranks. One of the White Walker lieutenants points their wicked icicle spear forward, unleashes a cry fouler than the dark wings of an undead dragon, and the masses of the dead begin to move forward.
Beric pulls Tormund away from the ledge, facial expression grim and serious.
"What do you see?"
"The dead have moved!" Tormund cries, a sound unbefitting of a man, but in times like these, one is stupid to not feel a morsel of fear.
The undead begin to make their way, slowly, but not slow enough towards the gap created by the Night King. Beric grabs Tormund along the Wall, most of the Wildlings and new men of the Watch still shell shocked by the travesty they've witnessed. He leans in, his face so close to the wildling that the eye patch could rub against his beard.
"Ride for Winterfell. I do not know if Jon Snow will be there with the Dragon Queen yet, but someone must warn them. You on horseback will get there faster than any raven. Our access to that is limited. There are other ways down."
"And what about you?" Tormund asks, feet still firmly planted against the ground.
"Castle Black must be warned. All of the other castles must be warned," Beric intones darkly. "A routed diverted attack, perhaps. Enough men of the Night's Watch and North hit the Walker forces from behind... a easily needed distraction. Ride as fast as you can, and do not stop. We have weeks, we may have days... but the North must be warned. All of it."
"Don't fail," Tormund says.
"Don't die."
Tormund nods, and the forces atop the Wall begin to run.
The wilding kissed by fire looks up at the night sky, and if he strains hard enough, Viserion's cry, the real dragon and not whatever is stuck inside that monster's mind, can be heard warped with the cries of the North winds.
And far from it, a tide of an ever growing darkness that steps forward, lacing slowly onto a frozen wasteland, now touching solid dirt. A Night King dropping off of his undead mount, another surge of blue fire lacing the clouds in the sky. The White Walker steps forward, the army of the dead silent as usual behind him.
The Night King lowers himself to the ground, a single blade of grass standing tall in the blowing winds and freezing cold. He cranes his head at it, almost smirking in absolute amusement. He lowers his hand towards the ground, pressing firm fingers up against the dirt, just like he did all the way back by the Three Eyed Raven cave, and the cracks rush forth.
It is time to invade.
And there we are ladies and gents! That was Chapter #1: Three Horns in the Night. I decided to start the story off with the collapse of the Wall to make it easier to lead into everything else that'll follow. I jump around a lot with these first ten to fifteen chapters or so, but everything comes together in the end.
I am beyond excited for Season 8, no matter whether if comes late next year, or early the year after that as long as we eventually get it, right? While I do not expect this story to take up until that long to write, it'll definitely be a slow journey to completion, if I may so myself. The Night King is going to definitely pull no punches, and our protagonists have a lot to scramble around if they wish to survive. I have a toll on how many characters I will be killing, and there may be some surprises among those in the list.
So, do you have any predictions for what may be the next step in this possible Season 8 fanfic? Death predictions? Who will sit on the Iron Throne, mayhaps be the greatest one. Thank you all so much for tuning in. A review would be lovely, or even a follow or favorite as there will be much more to come.
Chapter 2 will be sometime next week given how busy my writing and school schedule is, so be patient with me is all that I ask. Instead of saying the point of views directly stated in the Author Notes, or what my chapter titles are like I usually do, it'll be a hint.
Next Chapter P.O.V: A Second Son.
I hope you all have an amazing day! Love you all! Bye!
~ Paradigm